Page 51 of The Dueling Duchess

“I left Réunion ages ago—shortly after my father died.”

“You didn’t want to operate the plantation?”

“Oh, that was long gone. He’d frittered it all away, you see, and left me with nothing but debts. And so I made my way to Europe, inflated my age to eighteen, and joined on with the régiment de Châ-teauvieux when I was fifteen.”

Guy’s eyebrows shot up. He’d read about the Swiss mercenaries—who hadn’t?—when they’d made the front pages of English newspapers for their volatile role in the early stages of the French Revolution, a role that had ended in many of them being court-martialed and then executed.

“Were you in—”

“Yes, I was in Nancy during the mutiny,” Barry confirmed, his smarmy smile slipping briefly. “But I was not one of the mutineers, dear Cousin. In any case, I’ve spent the past two decades either chasing after Boney or running from him, so I decided when it was all over—for the second time, when he was safely on his way to St. Helena—that it was time for something new. I sold out and have been meandering my way west. When I got to Dover, I thought, why not stop awhile and take a gander at the family estate, see what I’d been cast out of.” A grin spread slowly across his face. “And that’s when I heard the happy news.” He chuckled again. “Well, happy for me, not so happy for you, I suspect. But never fear, Cousin—I won’t throw you out into the cold, cruel world.”

Guy struggled with disbelief as he glanced around at his familiar library—no, Barry’s library—searching for something—anything—that could wake him from this nightmare.

This simply could not be happening to him.

And yet . . .

The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

For years—ever since his oldest uncle had died, leaving Guy in line to inherit the dukedom—he had hated the responsibility that awaited him.

Last year, after his grandfather had succumbed to a severe influenza and Guy had found himself Duke of Fairhurst, he’d felt as if life as he knew it was over. His future had stretched before him as one distasteful duty linked to another.

And now that was no longer true.

Instead of feeling as if somebody had cracked open his chest and scooped out his organs, he should be embracing Barry and thanking him! Indeed, he should be chuckling and grinning like the annoying bastard sitting across from him.

And yet . . . he was grieving.

He glanced up and the gleeful, almost derisive look on the other man’s face sent a spike of unease through him.

But then Guy blinked, and Barry was grinning again.

So maybe Guy had just imagined the expression?

“Look here, old man,” Barry said, “I know you’re worried that I’ll step in and upend everything—your life, the life of your widowed mother, your unmarried and dependent sisters—”

Why did those words sound like such a threat?

“—but I promise you, Guy—I may call you Guy, mayn’t I?”

“I believe you just did.”

Barry chuckled. “You’re a witty . . . Guy, aren’t you?”

As if he’d not heard some variation of that tired jest several hundred times in his life.

“For your information, Barry, my mother has her jointure and a life estate in the Dower House at Darlington Park; she only lives at Fairhurst because I live here. You needn’t be concerned that she will require your support.

“As for my sisters,” Guy went on, speaking over the other man’s demurrals, “they will live with my mother until they marry.”

Which would likely be never once the ton discovered that Guy was no longer a duke betrothed to the second wealthiest heiress in England.

And his heiress—Miss Helena Carter—would jilt him, of that he was certain.

Not because Helena was cold or callous or because she wanted to jilt him. No, she would do so at the behest of her father. Because it was Mr. Carter—the man responsible for the hundreds of thousands of pounds his daughter would inherit—who’d been the force behind their betrothal. Mr. Carter wanted a duke for his daughter, not the impecunious cousin of a duke.

Barry gave that annoying chuckle again. “Don’t be hasty, Cousin. There’s no need for anyone to be moving anywhere.”