Unforgivable Duke

UNFORGIVABLE DUKE ANNA MARKLAND UNFORGIVABLE DUKE The UnDukes, Book Two By Anna Markland ©Anna Markland 2023 CONTENTS Also by Anna Markland A New Mission Rights For Women Luncheon The Bookshop Caught On The Back Foot Skinner Street Driving A Wedge Eggshells Like-Minded Fellows Controlling The Narrative Dockland Dissidents Sworn To Secrecy White Flag Unease Vital Information Allaying Suspicion Developments Startling Revelations Madcap Scheme Something Has Changed Maelstrom Of Emotions Complications His Royal Highness Come Back To Me They're Off! Finding Refuge Cool Reception The Dragoness Enough Is Enough Jitters An Intimate Wedding A Groom On Tenterhooks Wedding Night Villainy Fire And Brimstone Alive But Not Kicking Aftermath Settling In Investiture Call Me Dot Insatiable Epilogue Footnotes “To err is human, to forgive, divine.” ~Alexander Pope ALSO BY ANNA MARKLAND As a USA Today bestselling author, I have authored more than sixty award-winning and much-loved Medieval, Viking, Highlander, Elizabethan and Regency historical romance novels and novellas. No matter the historical or geographic setting, many of my series recount the adventures of successive generations of one family, with emphasis on the importance of ancestry and honor. A detailed list with links can be found at https://www.annamarkland.com/ I am an independent author, so getting the word out about my book is vital to its success. If you enjoy this story, please consider telling your friends, and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. Reviews help other readers find books. Many thanks to Maria McIntyre, Alison Pridie, Sylvie Grayson, Jacquie Biggar, Reggi Allder and LizAnn Carson for their assistance with polishing this manuscript. A NEW MISSION WHITEHALL, LONDON, 1819 Philip Fortescue cringed when Edgar Fotheringay sucked on the pipe clenched between yellowed teeth and drawled, “My dear Marquess, you’ve always accepted that His Majesty’s government couldn’t claim knowledge of your activities if you were caught.” His florid face turned even redder when a rolling cough rumbled up from deep in his chest as clouds of acrid blue smoke filled the stale air of the cramped office. Philip had often wondered how the plodding Whitehall functionary to whom he reported had obtained a position of importance in the high stakes world of espionage. He blinked away the sting of the smoke, certain the only explanation was that the fellow had connections at the Regent’s court. “I didn’t get caught, Sir,” he replied, struggling not to lose his fraying temper. “Just the opposite. There are malicious rumors circulating that I spied for the French, not the British. They were instigated by Derrick Peploe. He’s long gone but you know how these things take on a life of their own.” “Ah, yes. Peploe. Still in France, as far as we know. But we’ll nab him as soon as he sets foot back in England. He’ll answer to the charges of attempted murder and arson.” Philip shifted his weight in the uncomfortable wooden chair, not the least bit reassured. Drumming pudgy fingers on his desk, Fotheringay assumed an expression of endless patience, as if Philip were the numbskull. “The whole idea is balderdash, of course. However, we won’t get involved in refuting the rumors since we cannot acknowledge that your invaluable clandestine contributions helped bring an end to the Corsican’s ambitions.” Philip was seized by an irrational fear that his superior might actually be contemplating patting him on the head like an obedient puppy. “So, I risked my neck to bring you vital information and now you’ll throw me to the dogs.” “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Fotheringay’s tight little smile was infuriating. “And what does that mean, Sir?” “If you still want to assist in undermining credible threats to your king and country, I have a new mission for you.” Despite his determination to walk away in disgust that nothing was to be done about the rumors, Philip was intrigued. “Napoleon is safely tucked up on St. Helena. What threat does England face now?” “Need I mention Spa Fields, Pentrich and, more recently, the so-called Peterloo Massacre?” “Terrible riots with unfortunate results, but I fail to see…” “Republicans were behind every one of them,” Fotheringay exclaimed. Philip bristled when his superior gave up on the pipe, took out a snuff box and loudly inhaled a pinch. He loathed the stuff his pompous father habitually snorted up his nose. “I understood the rioters were mostly textile workers protesting the lack of work.” Fotheringay’s three chins metamorphosed into one as he looked to the paneled ceiling. “You aristocrats are sadly out of touch,” he sighed. “The anti-monarchists are stirring minor social unrest as cover for their activities.” Philip bristled at the insult to the nobility, although the accusation was often sadly true. His father’s ducal seat was in Lincolnshire, but Philip preferred to live in the neighboring county of Yorkshire. His father typified the arrogance of the privileged class and they hadn’t seen eye to eye for years. Hull was where Philip practiced medicine. From rumblings he’d heard, unrest in the more industrialized parts of the country was definitely not minor. “Can you provide more details?” “That’s what we need you for, old boy. You’d be ideally positioned in the north.” “You’re suggesting I infiltrate an anti-monarchist group? I suspect they’re mostly working class. I’d stick out like a sore thumb.” “You managed to convince the Frogs you were one of them. You might be surprised to learn many of the leaders are well-to-do men. The first person I suggest you befriend is William Middleditch.” “The third-rate playwright?” “And a leading proponent of anarchy. He fled to Yorkshire and opened a bookshop and publishing house when the authorities in London began harassing him. His first wife was the late Mary Wallwork, widely acknowledged as a woman of loose morals. Her radical writings about the rights of women stirred up a hornet’s nest. As if women could ever be the equal of men! What’s next, I ask you? Rights for dogs?” Philip deemed it a good thing his best friend’s wife, Eliza, Duchess of Harrowby, wasn’t