The Wayward Heir Read online

  The Wayward Heir

  The Repington Chronicles

  Kelly Anne Bruce

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Preview of A Hero Returns

  About Kelly Anne Bruce

  Join Kelly Anne Bruce’s Readers Group

  Also By Kelly Anne Bruce

  Sweet River Publishing

  Copyright

  Copyright 2017, Kelly Anne Bruce

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, electronic or mechanical, without written approval by the author, except for short excerpts used in a book review.

  All characters, places, events, businesses, or references to historical facts are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any references to actual people, places, or events are purely incidental.

  http://www.KellyAnneBruce.com

  Chapter One

  “I did not think I would ever say this but I am quite sad to say farewell to France.”

  Philip grimaced. “I was only too glad to leave Calais far behind.”

  “That does not surprise me.” His friend Christopher Boswell, better known as Lord Fallbrooke, narrowed his eyes at him from across the coach. “You have been in a foul mood for the past week. I cannot think that you have missed England that much.”

  There had been a moment when Philip had first seen the white cliffs of Dover that he had felt a sudden and deep pang of homesickness. He had not expected it and had immediately pushed the feelings aside as he had so many times before.

  He shifted in his seat in an attempt to shake off the heaviness that seemed to settle around him.

  “Of course, not. Although I have missed our usual table at White's.”

  “Quite understandable. The gambling clubs in Paris are just not the same,” Fallbrooke lamented. “Although their theater is much more enjoyable, not quite so stiff and compromising.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly. However, I feel I must point out that I doubt theater patrons in England would consider the performances we viewed in Paris as theater.”

  Fallbrooke let out a bawdy laugh. “You are quite right, but it does explain why it was so enjoyable for us.”

  Philip smiled back at his friend, it was more out of habit than any sense of happiness. Fallbrooke had not been exaggerating, Philip had been in a foul mood as of late.

  Their visit to France was to be a carefree adventure for them. As they had passed through London, Fallbrooke had had the foresight to stop so that Philip could procure more funds from the Duke of Castborough’s solicitor. They were more than a day ahead of Philip's father and they knew there would be no way for him to have notified the solicitor that Philip had been cut off financially.

  They had lived extravagantly eating well during the day, drinking and gambling through the night. Often those nights would start out at the theater. That first fortnight in Paris the nights had ended with them getting back as the sun rose over the houses on the banks of the Seine.

  Philip had grown tired of it quickly though he had gone along with Fallbrooke's ideas simply because he always had. It was disconcerting enough that he was not enjoying the same activities and lifestyle that he had fought so hard to protect only months before.

  His brother's words to him ringing in his ears. “You are a disgrace to the Castborough title! I hate who you have become.”

  Philip had done his best to forget the argument. James had confronted him in the stable before he and the others had fled his father's house party to run off to Paris. He had not even told Fallbrooke about the argument.

  “And really anything was better than that sedate house party with your father and Southwick setting the ever high in the instep, Lady Elizabeth in front of you at every moment.”

  “Yes, that was most annoying,” Philip said dryly and then turned toward the window.

  Lady Elizabeth Comerford, the only daughter of the Earl of Southwick. She was a beautiful young lady and quite well-versed in the social graces.

  Philip had known that marrying her would not have been so horrible. He had resigned himself to the fate. That was until he had found her talking to his brother. The way she had looked up at James was not something Philip would soon forget. Her green eyes had widened and her smile was as sincere as he had seen since his return to Surrey. Lady Elizabeth had clearly fallen in love with his brother, although Philip had wondered if the girl even realized it.

  At the time, Philip had been upset and then later furious. He was the firstborn, the heir of the Duke of Castborough. James was the spare, the unlucky second born son and yet he was always the favorite, always getting what Philip wanted.

  In his anger, at James, he had continued to pursue Lady Elizabeth, only to turn his frustrations toward her when he noticed that James had arrived or his father would make another comment. As a result of his anger, Philip had been openly rude to Lady Elizabeth on several occasions and yet she had remained gracious and polite, which had only served to anger him further.

  Had she yelled at him, called him a name or slapped him he could have dealt with that but she simply nodded, squared her shoulders and excused herself politely. He felt like the lowest person and he could not help but think that she and James were well suited for each other. They could get married and simply be perfect for the rest of their lives.

  Of course, there had been the argument with James. Philip had been aghast when James had landed a facer, that had sent him reeling. He had responded in kind, which had been a stupid mistake. While Philip had been living it up in London, James had been riding horses and tending to the tenants. He was stronger and it had taken almost no effort for him to overpower Philip.

  He had expected James to land more blows but instead, he had only held Philip on the ground while he yelled.

  “Now that you are free of the chit, you can return to London to finish out the Season.” Philip heard Fallbrooke say.

  “I am not entirely certain that I will be staying in London long.”

  “Why ever not?” Fallbrooke asked his dark eyebrows raised. “You are the heir. You can do what you want.”

  Philip nodded with a conviction that he did not truly feel. “I plan on it.”

  Chapter Two

  “Welcome back to Fallbrooke Hall, sir.” Jenkins, Fallbrooke's manservant announced as he led them to the drawing room. “How did you enjoy your stay in Paris?”

  “It was very enjoyable. I could have stayed for several more weeks.” Fallbrooke collapsed elegantly into a large upholstered chair. “Lord Holgrave was apparently not as enamored with Paris, as I was.”

  Philip grumbled to himself and moved to the window. He did not know why Fallbrooke was still going on about Paris. And that he would bring his servant into the discussion seem distasteful, even for Fallbrooke. In that moment, Philip suddenly wondered if he had grown weary of Fallbrooke and his antics.

  The two had known each other since their school days but they had only become close the last two Seasons as they had often been the first to leave the most boring balls and the last to leave the most exclusive clubs. For nearly two years, Philip had spent much of his time in London, a great amount of it at Fallbrooke Hall. Up until a month ago, Philip had no desire to l
eave the parties and gambling behind but as of late, he was starting to wonder. It was not as enjoyable as it had been.

  “I assume you will be visiting White’s this evening?” Jenkins surmised.

  “No,” Philip replied. At the same time, Fallbrooke said, “but of course.”

  Stanton smiled. “Very good, sirs.”

  “What is wrong with you, Holgrave?” Fallbrooke asked once Jenkins had left them alone in the drawing room.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” Philip replied.

  “You have been pacing in front of the window since we arrived. What has you so restless?”

  Philip stopped pacing and sat down in a chair, his annoyance with Fallbrooke deepening. Finally, he barked out, “You are talking nonsense.”

  “Perhaps I should add agitated to the list.” Fallbrooke gave him a long look. “Could it be that you are still heartbroken over the fair Juliette?”

  Philip swore under his breath and stood up again. “You are a poor excuse for a friend. I believe it is time for me to return to Castborough House.”

  He was nearly to the door when Fallbrooke said in a sneering voice, “Are you so quick to reconcile with your family? So soon after running off to Paris? My, my, we are suddenly brave.”

  If there had been any question about Philip's opinion of Fallbrooke it was now very clear. His first urge was to slam his fist into Fallbrooke's smug face the only thing that stopped it was the fact that the arrogant bastard was right.

  Having no choice before him, Philip turned slowly with a sheepish look on his face the one he normally reserved for his mother or sister. “Forgive me. I must seem quite ridiculous. I confess that I have not slept well in recent nights.”

  Fallbrooke nodded as he stood. “I suspected something must be amiss.”

  “I knew you would understand,” Philip told him. He shrugged and motioned towards the stairs. “Perhaps I should go lie down.”

  “No, my friend you should go with me to White’s.” Fallbrooke clapped him on the shoulder. “A few games of Whist and a bottle of whiskey will do you some good.”

  Philip closed his eyes, he did not want to go to White’s. His excuse to Fallbrooke held more truth than he had first intended as he realized how tired he really was. In fact, too tired to argue his point. So instead he nodded, saying sagely, “You might have it there. An enjoyable night at our favorite table might be just what I need.”

  “There you go.”

  Philip continued to the stairs his only solace in going to White’s was that there was little chance he would encounter any of his family at the elite gambling club.

  An hour later they were sitting at their familiar table with glasses of whiskey in front of them. Philip was just starting to think that he might finally relax when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Nigel Coombs waving as he worked his way over to their table. Fallbrooke stood up. “I shall see about getting us another drink.”

  Philip raised an eyebrow but said nothing as his friend left the table with much haste.

  “Holgrave! “ Coombs called out once more, a broad smile covering his thin, freckled face. “I did not know that you were back from Paris.”

  “Well, we have only just returned,” Philip began to explain.

  “After all of the trouble at Castborough, I thought for sure you would not return until long after the Season had ended.”

  Philip had hoped to subtly glean some information from other patrons at White’s regarding what had happened after they had fled his father's house party. The night was still young and the drinks had not been flowing long enough for him to have asked any of his questions.

  His only defense was confusion, he furrowed his eyebrows at the younger man. “Trouble?”

  Nigel drew back wearing a similar look of confusion upon his face. “Then you have not heard?”

  “I am not sure what you are speaking of so I cannot say whether I have heard or not,” Philip said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Coombs replied and swallowed. “Your father and Lord Southwick seemed quite put out that you and the others had left.”

  Philip shrugged, already turning back to his game of whist. “That was to be expected.”

  “True. Although it was quite unexpected when James’ engagement to Lady Elizabeth was announced.” There was a touch of evil glee in Coombs' voice. Philip kept his gaze on his cards until he had schooled his features. He looked wanly up at Coombs before saying, “Was that unexpected?”

  Coombs paled, his freckles standing out against his even whiter skin. “But you... We all… “ he stammered but then trailed off. “What of…?”

  “What of what?” Philip asked nonchalantly, feeling a little twinge of guilt at pushing Coombs. Only a little, though, as Philip was quite sure that their conversation would be repeated as soon as Coombs walked away from the table.

  “Holgrave, you must be full into your cups to not realize that everyone at your father's house party watched your courtship of Lady Elizabeth Comerford.” This came from Henry Milling, a short man more known for being crass and crude than his true place in society.

  Coombs seemed emboldened by Milling's comment, snorting as he added, “And your summary dismissal of the same.”

  Philip shrugged, a movement nearly imperceptible had Coombs and Millings had not been hovering for gossip tidbits like the gulls on the waterfront.

  “It was simply a ruse,” Philip said pretending to concentrate on the cards before him.

  “A ruse?” Milling repeated, his voice harsh. “What are you talking about? You were to marry Lady Elizabeth and you left her. She had no choice but to marry James.”

  It was not something that Philip wanted to think about but clearly, the gossips had made their usual assumptions. He pushed the feelings of guilt away, like he always did, and turned to Milling.

  “No choice?” He asked in mock dismay. “Have they married?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Have they asked for a special license?”

  “No, but…”

  “So, it seems Lady Elizabeth had some choice in the matter.” He stared at Milling waiting for an answer. When one was not forthcoming, Philip remarked, “It appears that our ruse worked.”

  “What did the ruse entail, pray tell?” Milling asked his black eyes hard.

  “The house party, like all events of the Season, was an opportunity for a young lady to find a suitor. Lady Elizabeth and my brother simply wanted a chance to get to know each other without gossip circling them like vultures.” Coombs had the sense to realize that Philip was talking about people like himself and Milling.

  “You expect us to believe that? Milling asked. “Holgrave, we are all aware of your reputation with the petticoat line.”

  “I care not whether you believe it or not.” Philip pushed his chair back from the table and stood up to tower over the smaller man. “The truth is that my brother, James, is betrothed to Lady Elizabeth Comerford, the only daughter of the Earl of Southwick. They have decided to have a long engagement which could only point to a lasting union.”

  Milling sputtered for a moment but said nothing.

  Philip looked over Milling’s head to peer through the club. “Perhaps we should ask Southwick's opinion?”

  Milling took a startled step back before looking around quickly. “Southwick? He is here?”

  “That is what I heard when we arrived.” Philip leaned a hip against the table. “I am sure we can find him if you would like. What do you think, Coombs?”

  The man swallowed before shaking his head vehemently. “No, I find your explanation perfectly acceptable.”

  Philip turned a hard eye on Milling. “What about you, Henry?” Purposely calling him by his Christian name.

  “Yes, quite right.” Milling gave them both a curt nod before leaving quickly, disappearing into the crowded cardroom.

  It was not much longer before Coombs mumbled an excuse and rushed off as well.


  “What was that all about?” Fallbrooke asked returning to the table, a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

  Philip waited for the other man to be seated. “Coombs and Milling were here to make sure that I knew that my brother James is now betrothed.”

  “How interesting. Did they mention who the unfortunate young lady might be.”

  A strange smile came to Philip’s lips at Fallbrooke's question. “Yes, of course. It is Lady Elizabeth Comerford.”

  “I see.” Fallbrooke nodded, his face serious. “Well, that explains a conversation I just had in the other room.”

  “Oh?”

  “I heard that Lady Elizabeth was betrothed but the gentleman seemed to think I would have known already.” Fallbrooke pursed his lips before saying, “It seems your complacent brother is quite the romantic. He now frequents London often taking in the opera or ballet with his betrothed.”

  Of course, Philip thought. He had been unsure about returning to London and this was a sure sign that he was right.

  “I wonder now if our return from Paris was a bit premature.”

  “Not to worry, my friend. We will be leaving London posthaste.”

  “We are?” Philip asked. “Where might we be going?”

  “Brighton. Lord Stratford is having a house party.”

  Philip groaned. He was not sure another house party was the best idea.

  “Not to worry,” Fallbrooke was already saying. “It is a small party, not the usual crowd at all. What do you think?”

  It seemed his choices were few, he could either stay in London and never leave Fallbrooke Hall or go to another infernal house party. He was trying to reason whether Fallbrooke Hall would be overly horrible when compared to endless garden parties, picnics, and dancing. Although Philip did have good memories visiting Stratford Manor. After a moment, Philip scrubbed his hand across his forehead trying to relieve the throbbing from another blasted headache.