The duchess chuckled. “She’ll be furious that we got to meet you first. Our Rachel is very possessive when it comes to family. You will have a fierce ally in her.” She smiled at Laurel. “In all of us. Jeremy is right. Since you are alone now, we want to be your family and help you in any way we can.”

  Laurel burst out into tears. She had never cried so long or hard as guilt washed over her. She’d come to blackmail the duke and instead, he and his family had welcomed her with open arms. Various St. Clairs took turns embracing her. Stroking her hair. Patting her back. Murmuring words she didn’t even understand but somehow they soothed her. Finally, she composed herself and straightened her spine.

  “You’ve all been lovely,” she declared. “I came here today because I was desperate. I have lost my position in the chandler’s shop where I was employed. My mother died. We can’t pay the rent. I was hoping . . . somehow . . . to . . .”

  She couldn’t finish the words. Couldn’t tell them she was going to try and force their hand to give her money.

  Her grandmother wrapped an arm about Laurel. “You have a home now, Miss Wright. You are a St. Clair. You will never lack for anything ever again. You will live with us and come to know everyone.” The old woman stroked her cheek. “What is your Christian name, Child?”

  “Laurel,” she said shakily.

  “Oh, that’s a lovely name.”

  “But I’m not a true St. Clair,” she protested. “Not a real brother and sister. Only a half-sister, I suppose.”

  The earl roared with laughter. “We’re all halves around here, Laurel.”

  His words confused her.

  “My mother was the first duchess,” the duke explained. “When she died in childbirth, Father wed again.”

  “That would be my mother, the old sod’s second wife,” the earl continued. “When my mother died in childbirth, Father married again, Rachel’s mother. She, too, died in childbirth. So you see, Laurel, we’re all half-brothers and half-sisters.” He looked to the duke. “Long ago, though, when our Father died, Jeremy became as a father to Rachel and me. He decided that it was ridiculous to think in halves. We became full brothers and a sister at that point.”

  “And we have remained that way ever since,” the duke proclaimed, “adding more to the fold with our two wives and Rachel’s husband. They are also siblings to us, as is Catherine’s sister, Leah, and her husband, Alex.” He beamed at her. “Today, we add another St. Clair to our family. I feel I should call for champagne.”

  “I’ve never had champagne,” she blurted out. “I didn’t come here today to ask you to take me in, Your Grace.”

  “You need a place to live,” the duchess said, clasping Laurel’s hand gently. “We want you here. Not only for you to get to know your brothers and sister, but you also have nieces and nephews, as well. Please say you’ll come live with us, Laurel. You are wanted—and loved.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks again. “That would be lovely. But . . . I haven’t told you everything, Your Grace,” she protested.

  “We have the rest of our lives to hear everything,” the duke proclaimed. “Besides, enough of this Your Gracing. I am Jeremy.”

  “I still have to tell you something,” Laurel said. “It’s not only me.”

  The room fell silent as everyone stared at her.

  “I have a twin brother. Hudson.” The rest came out in a rush. “We’re eighteen. Nineteen come October. Hudson is very, very smart. So smart that we’ve hoped he could win a place at university. On scholarship.”

  “Where is Hudson now?” her grandmother asked, her eyes bright with interest.

  “At work. Days he’s a coal porter and nights he’s a waterman. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I didn’t tell him about finding the duke’s note to Mama.”

  The duke—Jeremy—took Laurel’s hands and brought her to her feet.

  “Hudson will be as welcomed as you are, Laurel. I’ll send for him now. Is he at the docks?”

  She nodded.

  “He’ll be here in an hour’s time,” the duke promised. “Excuse me.” He signaled his brother and the two men left the room.

  Everton returned a few minutes later. “Don’t despair, Laurel. All will be well.”

  They talked for half an hour, Laurel learning small things about this new family of hers, glad they didn’t press her for more details of her life. Then the door flew open and a woman with raven hair and St. Clair eyes burst into the room, followed by a quiet blond and two other men. Luke St. Clair trailed behind them and she decided the duke must have sent his brother to retrieve the rest of the family and explain the situation to them.

  The woman dashed across the room and pulled Laurel to her feet and then hugged her so tightly Laurel feared she might never let go. Finally, she released Laurel.

  Smiling, the woman said, “I am Rachel, your sister.” She gestured for the others to join them. “My husband, Evan. My best friend and Catherine’s sister, Leah. And this is Alex, Leah’s husband.” Rachel beamed. “Oh, we have so much to talk about!”

  Suddenly, a familiar voice said, “What in the bloody hell is going on?”

  She turned and saw Hudson standing in the doorway. He looked very out of place in such an elegant room, his face and hands smudged with coal, his workingman’s clothes rumpled and stained. She also knew he was angry and bewildered at being summoned to an elegant Mayfair townhouse and finding her there.

  Laurel went to him and sensed others following at a distance. She reached her twin but his eyes looked past her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the three St. Clair siblings had joined her in a show of support.

  Looking back at her brother, she saw his jaw had dropped. No words emerged until he finally said, “They look like us, Laurel. They all have our eyes. It’s . . . like looking in a mirror.”

  The duke stepped forward and offered Hudson his hand. “That’s because we’re all St. Clairs, Hudson.” With a broad smile, he added, “Welcome to the family.”

  Chapter Four

  “Hit him again, Linfield!”

  “Throw another right, Linfield!”

  “Pummel the bastard, Linfield!”

  Linfield . . .

  Every time Anthony heard the name shouted at him, he smashed his fists into his sparring opponent. The man now wavered, swaying from side to side.

  “Finish him off, Linfield!”

  He threw once last punch, an uppercut to Martin’s jaw, lifting him off his feet. Then his opponent went down with a thud.

  Cheers erupted throughout Gentleman Jack’s. The red field that had blurred Anthony’s vision subsided as his anger cooled. A calm flooded him. He turned to the crowd, his face its usual mask. Someone doused him with water and the liquid spilled down his bare chest. Another man handed him a tin cup and he drank the cold ale, relishing it. He wiped his forearm across his brow, mopping away the sweat, and stepped from the marked-off ring.

  Gentlemen of the ton slapped his back as he walked through the crowd. He heard the name again, over and over. His bloody name.

  Because he was the Duke of Linfield.

  He reached the edge of the crowd and Gentleman Jack himself took Anthony’s elbow, guiding him through a door and down a corridor to an empty room. He collapsed onto a stool. The Gentleman tossed him a towel and he wiped the sweat from his face, arms, and chest before rubbing it through his thick hair and throwing it aside.

  “One of these days you’re going to kill someone, Your Grace.”

  He glared at the former boxer, who shrugged and added, “What drives you?”

  Gentleman Jack had never asked him that question. No one had since his return to London.

  And he would never answer it truthfully. Because the truth hurt too much.

  “I no longer have any French bastards to direct my anger toward,” he said lightly.

  The owner of the boxing club chuckled. “You’re probably the only gent in London who would’ve cared to see the war continue.” He shook his head. “I’ll leave you to clean up and dress.”

  Anthony nodded. Once Gentleman Jack vacated the room, he stood and began pacing, trying to manage the heightened rush of energy. The excitement that boxing brought eventually resulted in complete exhaustion, as if he’d been thrown from a horse and had the wind knocked from him. His racing pulse slowed. The awareness and sensitivity to every detail began to blur. His strength waned as his pounding heart began to return to normal. His dry mouth longed for strong drink.

  He wished he could crawl into a hole and let the earth swallow him whole.

  The Gentleman was wrong. Anthony had never liked war. The things he’d seen and done over the last decade had scarred him emotionally, as much as the physical wounds he’d suffered from a bullet hole and slices from a sword. At least on the battlefield, though, he’d had a place to bring his seething rage. To direct it against an enemy who threatened not only England but all of Europe.

  Bonaparte was in exile once more, however. His escape from Elba Island and the resounding defeat at the Battle of Waterloo last summer had once more seen the dictator locked away, this time on St. Helena. Anthony would have liked to remain as a guard to make sure the Gallic bastard never darkened the shores of Europe again. Fate, though, had led him home. He was no longer one of Wellington’s trusted staff members. He wasn’t even in the army. He’d been forced to sell out.

  Because he was the Duke of Linfield.

  He spat on the ground, disgusted with the moniker that now hung about his neck. Everywhere he went, people addressed him as Your Grace, fawning over him. Or if they imagined themselves friends to him, they called him Linfield. In truth, he was close to no one and pushed the world away.

  Except for Aunt Constance, and even she was wearing on him. She’d come to town late last night. He’d learned of her and Hannah’s arrival once he came home from the latest gaming hell he frequented. He’d left early this morning, first to ride and then come to Bond Street so he could box all his emotions out. It was time to face the music, though. He would return to the Linfield London townhouse. He didn’t think of it as home because it never had been. He and Theodore had been left in the country as children any time the duke traveled to the city. And then Anthony had gone to his aunt’s country estate to live, one left to her by her father. She abhorred town life so he’d never had the opportunity to see London.

  Things were different now. Aunt Constance had brought Hannah with her, according to his valet. He’d never laid eyes on his half-sister. It shocked him when his aunt wrote to him at school when he was ten, telling him of Linfield’s marriage and the subsequent arrival of a baby. Hannah held to family tradition and killed her mother in childbirth—just as he had. He had an inkling why they’d come to town. He was twenty-eight. That made Hannah eighteen—and the perfect age for her come-out.

  Would his aunt expect him to escort them to ton affairs? Without a doubt. That was the last thing Anthony intended to do. War had been brutal—but real. The gaiety of empty society events held no meaning for him. Yet he was now at the top of that society, cream who had risen to the top, thanks to the deaths of his father and brother. Only a handful of dukes existed in England. Dread filled him, knowing every mama would push their daughters at him. He didn’t care to wed. He didn’t care to do anything other than ride. Box. Drink.

  And forget.

  A brief flush of guilt ran through him. As Linfield, he had numerous properties. He’d visited none since his return. Estate managers had sent letters to him without receiving any replies. The same had been true for solicitors. He cursed aloud. He didn’t want to be the bloody Duke of Linfield. He didn’t want the responsibility. The estates.

  He sure as hell didn’t want to be known by a name that he’d loathed from the time he was young.

  Anthony slipped his shirt over his head and then dressed as best as he could without the help of a valet. He supposed he should start bringing Monkton with him to Gentleman Jack’s establishment. His valet tried to hide his look of horror every time his master returned from a bout of boxing. Bloody hell. How was he supposed to know how to tie a cravat? He was a soldier. His talent was for strategizing—and killing Frenchmen.

  He claimed Bucephalus from a stable hand and rode to his Mayfair townhouse. It was one of the largest in London, or so he was told by his valet, who seemed to know everything about the ton. He left his horse with a groom, wishing he could rub Bucephalus down himself but dukes weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing. Wanting to avoid his aunt for as long as he could, he entered through the kitchen, causing the scullery maids to titter, and made it to his rooms safely. Monkton awaited him. The valet quickly hid his disappointment and said he would see to a bath.

  An hour later, Anthony was bathed and dressed to perfection. He’d told Monkton to let his aunt know he would receive her in the library and made his way there now. Entering, he saw her seated in a large chair, a glass of sherry next to her as she read. She had always been a great reader and anytime he thought of her, it was with a book in her hand. She looked up and smiled.

  The invisible wall he surrounded himself with, keeping out others, began to crumble. This woman had been a mother to him. Confidant. Godsend. He went to her, kneeling and kissing her hand.

  “Aunt Constance. It’s so good to see you.”

  Her mouth twisted wryly. “If it is so good, then why did it take until almost three in the afternoon before you greeted me?”

  “I had things to attend to,” Anthony said, rising and taking a seat in a nearby chair.

  “I know what you’ve been up to,” she said knowingly. “Servants talk. Especially when someone my age demands answers.” Her brow creased. She reached and took his hand. “Oh, Anthony. I know how hard this has been for you. Why didn’t you come to me when you returned to England?”

  He smiled evenly and withdrew his hand. No show of weakness. Not even before her.

  “You say it’s been hard. It hasn’t. After all, who doesn’t want to be a duke?”

  Yet even he heard the bitterness in his words.

  “I am one of the wealthiest men in England now. I own multiple estates. Everyone wants to be my friend. Ask my advice. Hear of my exploits on the battlefield. I am sought after because of my title. A title I never wanted. I would renounce it if I could.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve gotten here just in time, it seems.” She stood, leaned over, and slapped him.

  He looked up at her, stunned.

  “You will stop acting like a petulant child who hasn’t gotten his way. You are Linfield now, whether you like it or not.” She softened her tone. “I know you associate the title with your father and brother. It’s just a name, Anthony. You will bring yourself to it. You will be the duke neither of them could ever be.” She seated herself.

  “I hate it,” he admitted. “Every time someone calls me Linfield. It’s as if bugs are crawling along my flesh.”

  “You’ll get used to it. The day will come when it won’t matter anymore. Then another day will arrive and you won’t associate it with anyone but yourself.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I would ask that you always call me Anthony, Aunt.” He knew once a man inherited a title, especially a duke, that even his close family members referred to him by it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her using the name Linfield when she spoke to him.

  “Of course.” She paused. “I assume you know why I came to town.”

  “Because my half-sister needs a come-out, I’ll daresay. I suppose she’s of that age.”

  “Correct. And you need a wife.”

  He shot to his feet. “What? No, Aunt Constance.”

  She rose and clasped his shoulders. “What better way of starting a new life than with a bride, Anthony? You realize you will need an heir?”

  “I don’t want children,” he said. “I certainly don’t want sons. Pitting them against each other.” He shuddered.

  She squeezed him gently. “You would never be like that. You are not the man your father was. You will be a good father. You will love your children. Spend time with them.” She smiled gently. “I think having a family is what might save you.”

  He’d never thought of taking a wife. He’d assumed his entire adult life would belong to the army. It rankled him that the very thing he loved had been taken from him. But marriage? He didn’t know the first thing about it. Or women.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t even know how to dance. I’ve arranged for a dancing master to come teach Hannah all she needs to know. The two of you can practice together. At least Monkton got you to a tailor. You’re dressed decently enough now but you’ll need much more than what’s in your wardrobe come the Season. All kinds of evening clothes. Clothes to drive through the park in. Ones to attend routs and balls. Garden parties.”

  “I’d rather the enemy have gutted me than attend a garden party, Aunt.”

  She smiled. “You will go. You may even learn to like it. Especially if you find a nice young lady to make an offer to. Somewhere out there is the perfect woman for you, Anthony. We’ll find her for you. It may not be this Season but you’ll be thirty soon. I expect you to wed by then.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “You sound like Wellington, drawing up battle plans. Ready to attack the enemy head on.”

  Aunt Constance smiled. “I always did think women would make better commanders than men.” Taking his arm, she said, “Come to the drawing room. I’ve arranged for us to have tea with Hannah. It’s about time you met your sister.”

  “Half-sister.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Hannah is a sweet girl. A bit naïve but she’ll make a good wife. Of course, she is dying to get to know her mysterious older brother and thrilled to be in London for the first time after a lifetime in the country.”