Page 43 of One Day for a Valet

“You’re a drunk and you cannot steal from His Grace.”

“Technically, I did not steal because I came into this world as the legitimate heir seventeen months prior to that uptight bastard. I cannot steal what rightfully belongs to me.”

“Oh, and you want to be the Duke of Northam, do you?”

“No, of course not,” he scoffed, “but that’s entirely beside the point. What I want is enough money to buy the same calibre whisky as that usurper has collecting dust in his cellar, and to make sure my sister never goes hungry again.”

Her arms thrown akimbo, Sofia glared. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not starving. And it’s entirely due to the Ansons.”

Oliver made a disgusted face.

“This is all about you, Oliver. You’re angry at Papa for keeping secrets. You would rather fill your gut with liquor than take a good look at the man you have become. Well, I don’t blame you. I too have the overwhelming urge to drink when I look at you.”

Oliver threw his head back into the pillow, staring silently at the ceiling, then sighed. “I don’t want to fight with you, Sofi. Now that I’m in Northam Hall, I don’t need your help. You can keep your hands and your conscience clean … which is just as well because you’re rot at blackmail. You’re meant to be searching for paperwork, not frolicking with your valet.” His voice had gone soft and teasing but Sofia refused to be moved by the familiar sound. “All I need is a few uninterrupted hours in His Grace the Usurper’s study to compare my bigamist father’s signature, and then we can leave.”

Sofia had the sensation of scrambling for solid ground, like the ocean’s waves were leaching away the sand beneath her feet. The only hope she had of protecting the Ansons with Oliver here on the estate was to remain involved and buy time, however reprehensible the behaviour felt. She walked to the edge of his bed and sat down.

“It won’t be that easy for you. Northam’s study is a hive of activity, and finding you in there will garner more than a little suspicion. The duke is a smart man, and he already senses that you’re trouble. However much I disagree with you, I don’t want to see you transported for theft.” She laced her fingers with his, a plan taking shape in her head.

“I’ll help you. My presence in Gabriel’s study won’t be questioned. I’ll search every drawer until I find what you want, but before I do”—she swallowed hard, her muscles tensing in preparation for the fight she knew was coming—“I want something in return. I want you to stop drinking entirely for a month.”

Oliver jerked his hand away, his mouth already opening to respond as the dark slashes of his eyebrows drew downward. Sofia continued before he had a chance to speak.

“One month, and then I will search his study. You have my word. But you cannot have a drop of alcohol, Oli.” She wanted to demand six weeks, but that left too many opportunities for the situation to go more pear-shaped than it already had. Too many opportunities for someone to notice that, beyond his dark skin and extra weight, Oliver was a mirror image of Gabriel Anson and the duke before him.

The only physical trait Oliver seemed to have inherited from his mother, Sarah’s, side of the family was the pigment of his maternal grandmother’s skin … an aspect of her family tree Sarah had neglected to mention to her husband, the previous Duke of Northam, prior to the birth of their son. Oliver had his grandmother’s beautiful tone, the colour of warm umber.

So unjust that the colour of one’s skin had the power to dictate the choices and paths one had available. From the moment he had come into the world with packaging several shades darker than that of his mother and father, the entire course of Oliver’s life had changed.

According to the letter Oliver and Sofia had found tucked away in one of Sarah’s old books, the letter that had begun the slow unravelling of their lives, Henry, the old duke, had become enraged in the weeks after Oliver’s birth, insistent that Sarah had cuckolded him. Only then had the truth of her lineage been tearfully admitted. Her father was just as she had said, an Italian nobleman with an unremarkable title and no money to speak of, but her mother had been a brown-skinned cobbler’s daughter.

Henry had been willing to condescend to the prospect of raising a half-Italian heir to a dukedom, although he had clearly been in no rush to bring his new bride home, but for his heir to be of mixed African lineage was one step too far. An impulsive marriage, motivated by lust, was difficult enough to sustain, but for their fragile new union to be tested so unexpectedly proved too much trouble for a man who was supposed to be enjoying a grand tour of the Continent. To protect herself and her child, Sarah fled north from Naples to Pisa.

Settled in a new place with no family and an infant to care for, she tried to put that ill-conceived season of matrimony behind her and married Sofia’s papa. Papa was a widower of primarily Sicilian descent who had no children of his own, and he did not care whether the baby in her arms was the son of a duke or his legally begotten son. Oliver was a boy capable of soaking in all the knowledge Papa longed to share, and that was enough.

But safety for Sarah had been brief. She had contracted a fever and passed away shortly after her second marriage. Years passed between Sarah’s death and her papa’s marriage to Sofia’s mother.

Fuelled by the shock of Sarah’s letter, Oliver had researched. And with that research, he’d discovered Henry had declared him and his mother dead at sea from a boating accident. As Henry Anson’s wedding to Sarah, and the entirety of their brief marriage, had taken place on the Peninsula, the few English aristocrats aware of its existence had been happy to ignore his suspicious lack of grief. Instead, they’d celebrated the return of an eligible duke to the British marriage mart. He wed his second wife with the same alacrity as the first. This time, however, he wed a proper English rose—Gabriel’s mother. Gabriel was born before Oliver, the legitimate heir, was even out of nappies.

Four weeks would have to be sufficient time for Oliver to get sober and gain enough clarity to choose a less destructive path. As it was, she was putting too much stock in people’s inability to notice details when the face before them was not white. And as much as she did not wish to acknowledge the evidence that was obvious to anyone who cared to notice, she had no doubt that Oliver Lioni was the “rightful” Duke of Northam. Aside from the colour of his skin, he was a dead ringer for his father, whose massive, life-sized portrait hung in the gallery.

“I mean it, Oliver. Not a glass of wine with dinner, nothing.”

A clash of wills commenced in a minutes-long staring match, wherein neither Lioni was prepared to budge from their stubborn claim to higher ground. Finally, Oliver’s gaze dropped to the counterpane and Sofi nearly crowed her victory. She kissed his cheek instead. “Four weeks isn’t so very long, Oli.” She stroked his stubbled jaw.

“Fine,” he grumbled, wrapping his arms around his sister and pulling her off balance into a hug. “For you, I will do it, little flea. One month.”

Sofia knew Oliver was not doing this for anyone other than himself, but, in that moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care. This was her chance to find her brother again. And with any luck, once he was clear-headed, he would come to care too much for this place and its people to see it harmed, just as she had. He wasn’t a monster, just a man who couldn’t see past his own feelings of betrayal. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him yet that Gabriel was just as much a victim of their sire’s misdeeds as he was.

Oliver reclined into his down pillow. “I suppose I can’t ask for better accommodations. This bed alone is enough of a reason to stay put for four weeks.”

“Don’t get too comfortable.” She mussed his hair. “There is too much temptation here, and I cannot ask the duke to lock away all his liquor to make the time pass easier for you. There is a hunting cabin just past the carriage house. It’s stocked with everything that you need and nothing that you do not.”

His eyes narrowed, both hands tunnelling into his hair. “Is that to be my jail cell?”

“No, of course not. Christopher and some of the servants will make themselves available to you. Company for walks, companionship to pass the time, help with keeping house. And I will visit often to slaughter you at checkers.”

“Watchdogs.” He spat the word, colour rising in his cheeks.