The Lost Duke of Wyndham Read Online Free PDF

just confirmed what they all knew—that Grace had never had a choice in the matter to begin with.
    That had been five years ago. Grace now lived in a castle, ate fine food, and her clothing was, if not the latest stare of fashion, well-made and really quite pretty. (The dowager was, if nothing else, at least not cheap.)
    She lived mere miles from where she had grown up, and as most of her friends still resided in the district, she saw them with some regularity—in the village, at church, on afternoon calls. And if she didn’t have a family of her own, at least she had not been forced to have one with Miles.
    But much as she appreciated all the dowager had done for her, she wanted something more.
    Or maybe not even more. Maybe just something else.
    Unlikely, she thought, falling into bed. The only options for a woman of her birth were employment and marriage. Which, for her, meant employment. The men of Lincolnshire were far too cowed by the dowager to ever make an overture in Grace’s direction. It was well-known that Augusta Cavendish had no desire to train a new companion.
    It was even more well-known that Grace hadn’t a farthing.
    She closed her eyes, trying to remind herself thatthe sheets she’d slid between were of the highest quality, and the candle she’d just snuffed was pure beeswax. She had every physical comfort, truly.
    But what she wanted was…
    It didn’t really matter what she wanted. That was her last thought before she finally fell asleep.
    And dreamed of a highwayman.

Chapter Three
    F ive miles away, in a small posting inn, a man sat in his room, alone, with a bottle of expensive French brandy, an empty glass, a very small case of clothing, and a woman’s ring.
    His name was Jack Audley; formerly Captain John Audley of His Majesty’s army; formerly Jack Audley of Butlersbridge, County Cavan, Ireland; formerly Jack Cavendish-Audley of the same place; and formerly—as formerly as one could get, as it was at the time of his christening—John Augustus Cavendish.
    The miniature had meant nothing to him. He could barely see it in the night, and he’d yet to find a portraitist who could capture a man’s essence on a miniature painting, anyway.
    But the ring…
    With an unsteady hand, he poured himself another drink.
    He hadn’t looked closely at the ring when he took it from the old lady’s hands. But now, in the privacy of his rented room, he’d looked. And what he’d seen had shaken him to his bones.
    He’d seen that ring before. On his own finger.
    His was a masculine version, but the design was identical. A twisted flower, a tiny swirled D. He’d never known what it meant, as he’d been told that his father’s name was John Augustus Cavendish, no capital D’s to be found anywhere.
    He still didn’t know what the D stood for, but he knew that the old lady did. And no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that this was just a coincidence, he knew that this evening, on a deserted Lincolnshire road, he’d met his grandmother.
    Good Lord.
    He looked down at the ring again. He’d propped it up on the table, its face winking up at him in the candlelight. Abruptly, he twisted his own ring and yanked it off. He couldn’t remember the last time his finger had been bare. His aunt had always insisted that he keep it close; it was the only keepsake they had of his father.
    His mother, they told him, had been clutching it in her shivering fingers when she was pulled from the frigid waters of the Irish Sea.
    Slowly, Jack held the ring out, carefully setting it down next to its sister. His lips flattened slightly as he regarded the pair. What had he been thinking? That when he got the two side by side he’d see that they were actually quite different?
    He’d known little of his father. His name, of course,and that he was the younger son of a well-to-do English family. His aunt had met him