The Secrets Of Lord Lynford

He’s destined never to marry

She might change his mind...

Part of The Cornish Dukes. Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, is an expert at distracting himself from the painful truth that means he’ll never wed. Seducing mining widow Eliza Blaxland seems the perfect diversion. Until he learns Eliza guards her heart as fiercely as her hard-won independence. He longs for more, but that would mean confessing his secret...and risking losing her forever!

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch via Facebook, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Also by Bronwyn Scott

Allied at the Altar miniseries

A Marriage Deal with the Viscount

One Night with the Major

Tempted by His Secret Cinderella

Captivated by Her Convenient Husband

The Cornish Dukes miniseries

The Secrets of Lord Lynford

And look out for the next book coming soon!

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Secrets of Lord Lynford

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90119-6

THE SECRETS OF LORD LYNFORD

© 2019 Nikki Poppen

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For Jeff, who is very much the embodiment of

the legacy of Richard Penlerick in this story and

this series. Throughout his life Jeff loved others

unconditionally and gave generously of himself for the

betterment of this world. He left this earth the week

I finished this story, and it is safe to say,

our world is vastly improved because of him

and the lives he touched.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

London —June 18th, 1823

Death had officially come to Mayfair. Richard Penlerick, Duke of Newlyn, and his Duchess were buried, and the funeral witnessed by the ton’s finest that morning in the hopes of bringing closure to the tragedy that had stunned their exalted world a week earlier: a peer—a duke, no less—and his wife, stabbed to death in an alley after an evening theatre performance.

Eaton Falmage, Marquess of Lynford, closed the front door behind the last of the funeral guests, wishing he could just as easily shut the door on the week’s horror for the sake of those who remained within the Newlyn town house on Portland Square. But for them the journey into grief was only just beginning. Now that the pageantry of death was over, the real mourning could commence, as he and those closest to the Penlericks could give free rein to their emotions.

Eaton found that inner circle, a collection of friends he’d known and loved since childhood, gathered in the library, a male conclave of power and strength, both of which had been lent unreservedly this week to Vennor Penlerick, the heir.

Vennor stood by the sideboard, pouring brandies, a rare blond in a room full of dark-haired men. He glanced in Eaton’s direction, his eyes asking the question.

‘Yes, they are all gone,’ Eaton offered in low tones. ‘I had the servants sweep the halls for stragglers.’ He gripped Vennor’s arm in a gesture of assurance. ‘We are entirely alone. At last.’

The week had been nightmarish for all of them, but none so much as Vennor, and it showed. Despite his immaculate grooming, Vennor bore the unmistakable signs of strain and grief. To lose one’s parents without warning, even at twenty-eight, was devastating. Vennor had been strong all week, the ideal heir, the consummate host to those who’d imposed their company and their own grief. Eaton took both the glasses. ‘Come, sit, you needn’t be on display with us.’

The group had gathered around the cold hearth. Someone, Inigo perhaps, had culled chairs from about the room and arranged them in one central place to accommodate the group known throughout the ton as ‘the Cornish Dukes’: heirs from four long-standing ducal families whose patriarchs had grown up together in the wilds of Cornwall and in turn so had their four sons. The bond between those fathers and their sons was legendary, as was their loyalty to one another.

That impressive connection had been on view throughout the week for all of London to see, as if to say ‘let no one doubt there are no lengths to which we would not go for one another’. The fathers had taken their leave discreetly a half an hour ago to give the four friends privacy to grieve together, as they would no doubt be doing themselves at another undisclosed location. They had lost their dear friend just as Eaton and the others had lost a man they’d looked upon as an uncle and mentor but Vennor had lost a father and a mother all in one blow.

‘Thank you, Eaton. I’m glad the guests are gone.’ Vennor took the brandy and slumped into the chair beside Inigo. He favoured them with a tired smile. ‘I had no idea my father’s friends possessed so many daughters of a certain age. I knew it would happen, of course. I just thought people might have the decency to queue up after a period of mourning. I don’t think I can tolerate one more offer of marriage wrapped in a condolence. I can’t bear to hear one more time that my father was a good man who’d want me to look to the future as soon as possible. Dear lord, some of them weren’t even subtle about the fact that I’m an only child and the Penlerick nursery is a veritable ghost town in immediate want of infants.’ There was none of the usual humour underlying Vennor’s words. There was only anger today, as well there should be. The deaths of Richard Penlerick and his wife were violent, senseless crimes.

Eaton’s chest tightened at the thought. Thank God it hadn’t been his own father in that alley. The guilt of such a sentiment gripped him, as did the reality. It hadn’t been his father yet. One day, though, it would be; an accident, old age, God willing not a crime, but the terrible moment would come. Not just for him, but for all of them. Eaton looked about his circle of friends: dark-haired, strong-jawed Cassian, heir to the Duke of Hayle, enigmatic Inigo, Boscastle’s scion with the pale blue Boscastle eyes handed down from generations of Boscastle Dukes. Were they thinking the same? That this scene would be re-enacted in variation three more times as each of them assumed the titles to which they’d been raised? They would all lose their fathers. It was an inherently deadly business being a duke’s son.

The morbid aspect of that ‘business’ had Eaton staggering emotionally as much as the visceral quality of the murder had him reeling, along with the rest of the haut ton. If a duke could be murdered in cold blood at the theatre, no one was safe. People did not like reminders of their mortality. Rich people especially. It was a brutal prompt that not even piles of money could stop death. It was never a question of ‘if’, but merely ‘when’. Just as long as it was not yet. He wasn’t ready to lose his father. But this week had proven age was no barrier to death, to the ending of an existence. Life was finite.

Penlerick’s death had been a wake-up call to the difficult knowledge that a man’s legacies were all that would remain of him to remind others he’d been here on this earth. Eaton recognised that perhaps he felt the hard truth more keenly than the others. With the smallest amount of luck, his friends would eventually leave behind children, heirs to their legacies, while he would not. Ever. No amount of luck, large or small, would change that for him. His legacies would be of the inanimate sort: schools, hospitals, places that would continue to do good long after he’d left this life. But there would be no sons or daughters to tend them. It was a truth Eaton didn’t enjoy facing. There’d always been time to delay facing it, but Richard Penlerick’s death proved his logic had been faulty. Not even time was on his side.

Vennor raised his glass. ‘A toast, to all of you and your support this week. I could not have borne up without it.’ He nodded to each of his friends. ‘Here’s to friendship in good times and bad.’

They all drank and Eaton fetched the decanter to refill glasses. He poured another brandy for Vennor. It was better to stay busy in order to keep his thoughts from straying too darkly. This was what he did best—taking care of the others. It was what he’d always done. How ironic that that particular talent would not be lavished on a family of his own. ‘You’ve done your duty splendidly this week, Ven. You can get tap-hackled to the gills now if you want. There’s no one to see, no one to judge.’ It would do Vennor good to get shamelessly drunk and let loose the emotions he’d kept on a tight rein since the news had come, but Eaton feared Vennor had other ideas.

Vennor shook his head. ‘There’s too much to do. Father had important legislation in the House of Lords. It would be a shame to see it falter now. I will take up his seat as soon as it’s allowed. Until then, I mean to direct things from here so we don’t miss a step. It will be my tribute to him.’

Eaton exchanged a worried look with Cassian. Going to work would only suppress the grief, ignoring it instead of dealing with it. Cassian leaned forward. ‘Why don’t you come to Cornwall with me and rusticate a bit in Truro? It’s what everyone expects and it will get those matchmaking mamas off your back for a while. As you said, there is a period of mourning to observe—it would be entirely natural if you didn’t take up the seat until next year.’

‘I expect it of me,’ Vennor cut in sharply. ‘Besides, there’s more than legislation to look after. If I am here, I can see justice done.’

‘Justice or revenge?’ Eaton questioned. In his opinion, Vennor needed distance from the crime if he was going to come to terms with his loss, not to immerse himself in it. ‘You needn’t interfere. The Watch will handle everything.’

‘And I will handle the Watch,’ Vennor answered firmly. ‘I will find my parents’ killers and bring them to justice.’

Eaton’s gaze slipped unobtrusively around the circle gauging the group’s reaction. He wasn’t the only one concerned about Vennor’s course of action. The thugs who had mindlessly murdered Newlyn and the Duchess had left behind no clue. They might never be caught. He didn’t want Vennor disappointed. At what point did serving justice become an obsession? Would Vennor recognise that point when it arrived? How could he leave his friend alone to manage his grief, knowing that Vennor would obsess? Yet how could he stay away from Cornwall much longer? He had plans, too; his school, the musical conservatory, was set to open this autumn. His legacy was waiting. He’d not intended to stay in London long this year. He’d come up to town with the intention of supporting Marianne Treleven’s debut as a family friend, and then returning to Porth Karrek immediately. But it only took one look at Vennor’s face to make the decision to stay. His friend couldn’t be left on his own or he’d work himself into oblivion.

‘If that’s what you’re going to do, we’ll stay with you.’ Eaton scanned the group to see heads nodding in agreement. They would all put their plans on hold for their friend.

‘No, that’s not necessary,’ Vennor argued. ‘Eaton, your conservatory needs you. You cannot spare any more time away from home. I know what a sacrifice it would be for you, don’t tell me otherwise. My father would not approve. He supported your school and he’d not want it delayed on his account. You’ve devoted the last five months to preparing—you even cancelled your trip to Italy and I know how much that meant to you.’ Vennor shook his head. ‘I won’t have you throw it all over just to play nursemaid.’ He fixed Cassian with a stern look. ‘I won’t have you staying either. You can’t build your Cornish pleasure garden from London. Besides, your fathers will be here. I’ll hardly be alone.’

It wasn’t the same, though, Eaton thought. When grief closed in, Vennor would want a friend his own age, not his father’s compatriots. Yet how like Vennor to think of others first. They all had their gifts and that was Vennor’s. He understood people the way Inigo understood money: intuitively. But Vennor could not be allowed to win this argument.

Eaton was about to launch his rebuttal when Inigo settled it. ‘We’ll be here. Father and I have banking business. We would be staying regardless to see how Parliament handles some new investment legislation.’

‘Inigo can stay. I will allow that. Are you satisfied, Eaton?’ Vennor smiled his gratitude and the knot of worry in Eaton’s gut eased. Inigo would look after their friend with the same dedication with which he did everything else.

In the wake of the decision, silence claimed the group. Brandy glasses were nearly empty again and the business of helping Vennor take on his ducal responsibilities was settled. Eaton was aware of the mantel clock ticking, loud and insistent, a reminder that it was time to move on, that there was nothing more that could be done now. It was time for the four friends to say goodbye and go their separate ways. He and Cassian would leave early tomorrow for their journey home to Cornwall. Inigo would settle back into his London habits. Vennor would establish new routines.

Nothing would be the same.

Vennor would be invested as a duke the next time they met, with the accompanying ducal responsibilities. Vennor would marry soon and that would change the equation entirely. This was a last moment, the ending of a chapter. Part of the adventure of living, Eaton supposed, although it didn’t seem very adventurous at the moment. On the contrary, it seemed sad. Something was being mourned in this very room as they took another step deeper into adulthood, another step further away from their childhood. A piece of Eaton’s soul rebelled at the notion. Hadn’t he lost enough already? Need he lose that, too? But it was inevitable that he would. It was the way of life for dukes. His friends would marry in time, not only Vennor. Would they all still be close even when their affections were shared with another beyond their circle? When a wife and family claimed their attentions? Their fathers had managed it. But perhaps that was because they all had wives and family in common. Eaton would likely never marry. Would that decision make him an outsider? They would never intentionally exclude him, but it might happen accidentally.

Cassian shifted in his chair, casting a quizzing glance at Eaton. What next? They were all looking to him. He would have to be the one to do it. Among the four of them, he was the ringleader, the adventure master. A swift bolt of memory took him, of blue skies and rolling surf, of four boys who’d spent summers combing the Cornish beaches, playing at being smugglers, or pirates, sometimes soldiers fighting the French fleet, or treasure hunting. He remembered the summer he’d found the map, the last great summer before the trajectory and expectations of his life had subtly veered. Of course, the four of them had not known it would be their last, any more than Richard Penlerick had known when he’d sat down for breakfast a week ago that he’d not see his bed that night. It had been a good summer, full of real adventure, even if they’d never found the treasure. He must have led them through every tidal cave along the Porth Karrek beaches. There’d been bonfires and camp outs, nights of star gazing and the whispered secrets of newly minted adolescence. They had all looked to him then and they were looking to him now to take the next step, to help them say goodbye.

Eaton raised his glass, searching for words against the emotion crowding his throat. They needed hope right now, they needed to know that as much as things were about to change, the things that mattered would stay the same, a piece of constancy they could cling to in a world that only promised uncertainty. He was suddenly hungry to be home at Falmage Hill, home in Porth Karrek surrounded by the familiar: his new school, his orangery, his favourite paths in the Trevaylor Woods, his science experiments, his hound, Baldor. He’d been gone too long. ‘It’s time, gentlemen. A last drink for the road. If there’s one lesson this week has taught us, it’s that life is surprising and short. We are guaranteed nothing. We already drank to the past, let us now drink to the future. Here’s to our pursuits. May all of them be served through the best of our efforts in the time that we have. My friends, here’s to making every minute count.’ Especially when every minute was all one had.

Chapter One

Porth Karrek, Cornwall —September 1823

Every minute mattered now that the school’s opening was upon them. Eaton pushed up his sleeves and gripped the oak table. At the other end, his headmaster, the renowned composer Cador Kitto, gave a nod and, with a mutual grunt, they lifted the heavy table. Around them, workmen painted and swept with feverish urgency. School began in three days and some students would arrive early to be on hand for the open house in two. The past few days it had been all hands on deck, even his—especially his. Eaton didn’t believe in leading idly. He refused to stand back, shouting orders to others, without lending his own efforts to the project. Besides, staying busy made it possible to forget other unpleasant realisations, albeit temporarily; that Richard Penlerick was dead, life was short and there was nothing he could do about either.

They manoeuvred the table into place at the front of the room and set it down with a relieved thud. Damn, but good oak was heavy. Eaton swiped at his brow and Cador laughed. Eaton groaned. ‘Did I just smear dirt across my forehead?’

‘Yes, but no matter. There are no ladies about to see you.’ Cador winked.

‘Just for that, you can unpack the books.’ Eaton chuckled.

‘Oh, no, I’ve got instruments to oversee.’ Cador wiped his hands and nodded towards the door at the arrival of Eaton’s secretary. ‘Looks like you’ve got business to attend to.’

Eaton turned, stifling a sigh. He far preferred physical labour to the never-ending tedium of paperwork, especially when there was so much to get done, so much to forget. It was too easy for his mind to wander into difficult territory when he was doing paperwork. He found a smile; it wasn’t the secretary’s fault. ‘What is it, Johns?’

‘There’s someone asking to see you, my lord.’ Johns was young, hired to help with the record-keeping and correspondence at the school, and today he looked every inch of his mere twenty years. Johns shifted from foot to foot, his cheeks tinged a fading pink which Eaton didn’t think was due to the exertion of the stairs. Whoever was waiting had been quite insistent.

‘Do they have an appointment?’ Eaton looked about for a rag to wipe his hands on. Johns would have to learn how to be a better gatekeeper.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Has one of the boys arrived early?’ Eaton gave up on a rag. His mind was already working through options. There were rooms ready on the third floor if needed and the cook could be called in to prepare food a day earlier than planned, although provisions weren’t expected to arrive until tomorrow...

Johns cleared his throat. ‘It’s one of the patrons, my lord. One of the widows.’ Johns’s tone was urgent now. Some of the insistence that had been pressed upon him by the unexpected visitor was now being relayed.

Eaton relaxed, although he did wonder what had upset his secretary. Two of the school’s patrons were wealthy widows and he couldn’t imagine either of them being the source of such angst. ‘Is it Mrs Penhaligon? Has she come to see that her piano is properly installed?’ Austol Penhaligon’s widow had donated her expensive Sébastien Érard double action keyboard piano, much to Cador’s delight. The other, a Mrs Blaxland, was an extraordinarily rich woman from Truro, whom Eaton had never met. He’d assumed her age, which must be considerable, had brought about an inability to travel. Her husband, Huntingdon Blaxland, had been sixty-five when he died and that had been five years ago. She likely let her money do the travelling for her these days. Thanks to her generous donations, the boys would have the finest music instructors Cador Kitto had been able to find, acquired from the Continent on his summer honeymoon.