The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn
He’s seeking vengeance...
But might find something else entirely
Knowing his best friend, Marianne Treleven, awaits his presence in a Mayfair ballroom, Vennor, the Duke of Newlyn, must hide his secret—he moonlights as a vigilante in pursuit of his parents’ murderer! But when Marianne’s journalistic ambition draws her into the vigilante’s dangerous world, Vennor realizes his closest friend is no longer the innocent miss from Cornwall. She’s a brave, daring, sensual woman he’s desperate to protect at all costs...
The Cornish Dukes
Born to inherit, destined for love!
Vennor, Eaton, Cassian and Inigo grew up together on the coasts of Cornwall, knowing that one day they would inherit their fathers’ weighty titles and the responsibility that comes with being a duke.
When Vennor’s father is shockingly murdered, that day comes sooner than expected. All four heirs are forced to acknowledge that their lives are changing. But the one change these powerful men might not be expecting? Love!
Enjoy this tension-filled new quartet
by Bronwyn Scott
Read Eaton’s story in
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
Read Cassian’s story in
The Passions of Lord Trevethow
Read Inigo’s story in
The Temptations of Lord Tintagel
Read Vennor’s story in
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn
Author Note
Readers, it was so much fun bringing you Vennor’s story. His story deals with the masks people wear, both metaphorically and literally, as well as the things we use the masks to hide. I think his story has special relevance in the age of social media, where platforms show an outer glimpse of people’s lives but not necessarily the interior. In this book, it’s not only Vennor who wears a mask but Marianne and the villain as well. Both Marianne and Vennor struggle with the costs of keeping the mask on as well as the costs of taking the mask off. Will people still accept them if they aren’t who people thought they were? Certainly, a timeless issue for us all.
I hope you’ve enjoyed the Cornish Dukes and each of their journeys to find love.
BRONWYN SCOTT
The Confessions of
the Duke of Newlyn
Bronwyn Scott is a communications instructor at Pierce College and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, traveling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch via Facebook at Facebook.com/bronwynwrites, or on her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.
Books by Bronwyn Scott
Harlequin Historical
Scandal at the Midsummer Ball
“The Debutante’s Awakening”
Scandal at the Christmas Ball
“Dancing with the Duke’s Heir”
The Cornish Dukes
The Secrets of Lord Lynford
The Passions of Lord Trevethow
The Temptations of Lord Tintagel
The Confessions of the Duke of Newlyn
Allied at the Altar
A Marriage Deal with the Viscount
One Night with the Major
Tempted by His Secret Cinderella
Captivated by Her Convenient Husband
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
For B, who says I never dedicate any books to her. This one is for you. Just you. And here’s your mom’s best advice: always be you. Being you is enough. Thanks for helping me get through this book. You were there to do everything I needed when the going got tough on this one and I thought it would break me. I won’t forget it. You are incredible. —Love, Mom.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Excerpt from Wedded for His Secret Child by Helen Dickson
Chapter One
London—May 1826
The Vigilante’s work was done for the night. Vennor Penlerick tucked the black silk mask inside his coat pocket the moment he stepped foot into Mayfair. In these environs he wore a different identity—the Duke of Newlyn. It was only out there, in the bustle of common London amid the masses, that he was the Vigilante: a fighter of crime and vice who stood against the evil that roamed dark London streets, preying on the unsuspecting and undeserving. It was out there where he could be a man who stood for those who could not stand for themselves, where he had a calling, something that offered direction for his life.
Perhaps it was for those reasons that it had begun to feel as if the mask was more often wearing him than that he was wearing the mask. These days, he was more Vigilante than he was Newlyn, admittedly by choice, although it came with consequences. The chasm between the two was widening: the Vigilante had a purpose of his own while the Duke had only the inherited purposes left over from his father’s life, but none that were completely his own. When he was the Vigilante, he knew what he was about. He could not say the same for being the Duke. Although, he supposed in reality there was little difference between the two despite the chasm. Titles. Masks. Both were designed to obscure the man who bore them. But not the cause. They had that in common.
Vennor turned up the street towards Portland Square and the Newlyn town house, doing his best to hide a slight limp as his leg began to ache from an earlier scuffle, his eyes and ears habitually on alert for potential trouble, but the Mayfair evening was uneventful. It was early yet, by society’s standards. Give it a few hours, he thought grimly, and that tone might change. Over the past three years as the Vigilante, he’d learned no place was immune to crime. Originally, when he’d donned the Vigilante’s mask it had been to further his efforts to find his parents’ killers. In the early days following their deaths, the Duke he had become could order investigations and could throw the weight of his title behind those commands. When those investigations failed, Bow Street and the Watch deciding there was nothing more they could do, it had become clear even a duke’s reach had its limitations. But a masked man with no identity did not. The Vigilante could go where dukes dared not tread.
Dukes could certainly not go barging around the stews and expect to get answers. What they could expect was to be a target. While he doubted anyone would risk killing a peer, a duke in the stews stood out. He was deprived of stealth and concealment. If he stepped a foot into the slums, the criminal underground would know. Anyone he might want to find would flee. But the Vigilante might be discreetly approached, a hint dropped here and there. The Vigilante might even uncover clues of his own overlooked by Bow Street.
Vennor winced as he took the steps leading up to Newlyn House, a shooting pain running up his thigh. The Vigil
ante had paid for that identity tonight. The Covent Garden bullies who’d been harassing the flower girl must have done more than nick him, after all. Still, it was far better that the bullies turn their attentions on him, a man who could stand up to blades, than a defenceless flower girl who would have no choice but to submit.
His front door opened on cue and Vennor stepped into the well-appointed but austere hall with a grin to the butler. ‘Honeycutt, I’m home.’
‘I can see that, Your Grace,’ Honeycutt’s tones were clipped with exacting precision and disapproval. ‘You’re hurt. Again.’ His sharp eyes missed nothing despite his age. Honeycutt had served three generations of Newlyn Dukes and had known him since birth. Vennor had long since stopped trying to hide anything from him.
‘’Tis nothing but a scratch,’ Vennor assured him, but the injury was beyond disguising as he ascended the steps. ‘Nothing a hot bath can’t fix.’
Honeycutt followed behind, concern smoothed away by years of practised aplomb as if dukes came home limping every day of the week. ‘Very good, Your Grace. Your bath is waiting for you and I’ve laid out your evening clothes. I’ll send for some whisky and bandages, none the less. One can’t be too careful with ruffians’ blades.’
The whisky Vennor agreed with. ‘I don’t need bandages.’
Honeycutt would wrap him in cotton wool if left to his own devices.
‘Scratches can fester as easily as deep wounds. We can’t risk it,’ Honeycutt argued with a sternness that bordered on censorious. If the man hadn’t served the family for generations, his behaviour would be considered insubordinate. As it was, Vennor knew exactly the risk Honeycutt referred to—the risk of the dukedom expiring before he did. No butler worth his salt wanted to outlive his childless employer.
Honeycutt’s concern was not the idle worry of an old man. As long as Vennor remained unmarried and insistent on playing the Vigilante, there was a real possibility he could die without issue. Vennor’s grandfather had died at sixty-one and Vennor’s father in his fifties, both deaths unanticipated, and neither of them had possessed the luck of siring a bounty of sons. The threat to the succession was legitimate, but it would have to wait until the larger threat was dealt with.
Vennor had no time for romance at present, which was both a blessing and a curse. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a family. He did. But how could he take on the responsibility of a wife and children while this task weighed on him? There was always next year. Things might be different then. Anything was possible. He’d promised himself he would marry, just as soon as the killers were caught. He knew his duty and he would do it. At least in this way he would not fail his parents, even if he’d failed them in others. ‘It is just a scratch,’ Vennor said again, offering assurance for them both that he was young, invincible and had time.
Vennor reached his room, a haven of warmth and privacy. The tub was set before the fire, steaming in welcome. Ah, this was pure bliss. For a few moments he could be a man, not a mask, not a title. He didn’t have to worry about purposes and progeny, matchmaking mamas and elusive murderers. He stripped out of his clothes, already eyeing the evening attire on the bed with distaste. He gingerly lowered himself into the tub, hissing when the hot water met his scratch. He felt like staying in with his bath and his whisky and playing the recluse. He could get away with it. He had made a habit of limiting his social obligations since coming out of mourning. Everyone knew he kept his appearances to a minimum these days. Deciding not to show up would surprise no one.
‘Miss Marianne is expecting you at the Fordhams’.’ Honeycutt divined the direction of his thoughts. ‘Shall I send word you’ll have to cancel?’ It only sounded like a question. Honeycutt’s disapproval of such tactics was evident in his tone and Honeycutt was right. Staying in was the coward’s way and, whatever else he was, Vennor Penlerick did not consider himself a coward.
Vennor leaned his head back against the copper rim of the tub as Honeycutt put a glass in his hand. He’d have to rejoin society in full force at some point. He couldn’t hide behind the excuse of mourning for ever. Best to attend on a night when he had Marianne’s company to help him through. ‘No, don’t cancel. I just need a few minutes.’ He closed his eyes. The evening wouldn’t be an entire waste if he got to see Marianne.
The Trelevens were old friends from home, near Porth Karrek in Cornwall. Marianne had made her come out the year his parents had been killed and Vennor had always felt illogically guilty for their deaths having put a blight on her first Season. He’d made up for it during her second Season, though, as soon as he’d been decently able to set aside mourning. He’d squired her whenever he went out—not that she’d needed it. While he’d been in mourning, she’d become the toast of that Season and the next. She claimed being on the arm of a duke made her more interesting. He thought she’d demonstrated rather aptly that she was interesting enough on her own.
Now, he squired her about because he wanted to. There was enjoyment in the company of someone from home, someone who knew him and had no designs on his title. It was a practical arrangement, too. Her companionship kept the matchmaking mamas at bay. Marianne was his shield, as he suspected he was hers. They both had secrets to protect and neither was in a hurry to marry. Between them, they’d built an effective defence. Few dared to gainsay a duke’s attentions and Marianne could be selective.
Vennor finished off his drink and emerged from the tub with some relief. The heat had made his leg feel better for the time being. Honeycutt stood by with salve and a towel, a huge, swathing, soft luxury of cloth, the last of his peace before he had to face society. He had a valet, but on nights when he was out as the Vigilante, Honeycutt waited on him. The fewer people who knew the better. Secrecy was everything, even at home. It wasn’t only in London stews that dukes couldn’t wander alone, hunting killers. They were subject to scrutiny in their homes as well. Servants talked. Gossip spread everywhere. Who knew what dark corners it might land in, or whose ears it might reach? He didn’t want the Vigilante unmasked—it would be akin to losing part of himself, the only part of himself that seemed to have any meaning.
‘How was the Garden tonight?’ Honeycutt enquired with a brisk professionalism that didn’t fool Vennor. The dear old soul was worried and was masking it for his sake. Honeycutt didn’t want to add to his troubles. Vennor appreciated it as much as he appreciated the very concern it hid.
‘The usual.’ Vennor tossed the towel aside. ‘Pickpockets and whores. It’s not nearly as dangerous as the docks or Seven Dials.’ He gave a confident smile. ‘The Garden is the safest of the rotation.’ He split his efforts between different dark spots in London. At least crime in the Garden was predictable. On the docks and in Seven Dials, the crimes were downright dastardly, things that would curdle a man’s blood.
‘That’s what I am most afraid of, Your Grace. Even on a “safe” night something can go wrong and tonight it did.’ Honeycutt smeared a healthy dollop of salve on his thigh, the single sentence a reminder of several previous conversations. After years of turning up no new clues regarding his parents’ murders, Honeycutt wanted him to give up the Vigilante, wanted him married and living like a duke, safe behind town house walls and phalanxes of servants.
Vennor shook his head, spraying droplets of water from his blond hair with his insistence. ‘I can’t give up. We never know when a clue might come to light.’ Of course, at times, he shared Honeycutt’s frustration. It was like running a race blindfolded and not knowing how close to the finish line he was.
‘I’d hate to stop just steps from completion.’ But there were other reasons he didn’t want to stop. If he stopped being the Vigilante, who would he be? He’d be the very thing his father had despised most in this life: a person of privilege with no purpose. He’d have failed his parents and all that the Cornish Dukes stood for on the grandest scale possible.
‘Very well, Your Grace.’ Honeycutt cleared his throat. ‘Now,
let’s see about turning you back into a duke. We don’t want to keep Miss Marianne waiting.’
Chapter Two
Vennor spied her the moment he stepped foot inside the Fordhams’ ballroom. It was hard not to notice her. Marianne drew the eye naturally with her deep, rich auburn hair. The stark brilliance of her snow-white sequined silk gown merely enhanced her attraction. Vennor was of the opinion that no one in recent years had worn white quite as well as Marianne Treleven and tonight was no exception. She was a brilliant beacon amid the quieter, subtler pastel gowns populating the Fordham ballroom.
Tonight, Marianne held court near a column wrapped in spring greens and white roses, a wide circle of eligible bachelors and smiling debutantes gathered about her. The crowd was a testimony not only to how well liked she was, but also to her kindness. Marianne was gracious with her popularity, using it to include others. Marianne favoured him with a smile as he approached and the circle expanded to incorporate him, albeit somewhat nervously. People weren’t always sure how to be with him now that he’d inherited. Dukes by nature were intimidating. But not to Marianne. To her, he was still just Vennor. ‘Your Grace, you’ve decided to join us at last,’ Marianne teased. ‘It’s eleven and I was beginning to wonder.’
Vennor grinned, falling into the usual routine. They’d grown used to one another during her Seasons in Town, their friendship deepening over the years as three of her sisters finished their Seasons and married, as had his three friends, leaving them both alone and unwed. She’d always been a good friend, but these days he counted her among his closest friends.
He took her hand and lifted her gloved knuckles to his lips for a kiss. ‘I trust I’m not too late to take you in to supper?’ He reached for the little dance card at her wrist and pencilled his name in the usual place. She always saved the dinner dance for him on account of not wanting to risk being stuck with a bore for a whole hour. And, of course, it saved him from the matchmaking mamas as well. It was an arrangement that had suited them both in Seasons past. But tonight, he sensed an undercurrent of discontent in her court at his arrival. Someone wasn’t pleased with his appearance.