Free A Preacher's daughter for the smitten Duke (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 6) by Regina Darcy

heir to my estate; he must be kept safe. I have nowhere else to turn; no one else but you understands the delicacy of our role in India.” He began to cough in earnest now, his body racked by the spasms.
    Bartholomew bent down to support his friend, bracing his back so that he could sustain the cough without collapsing. “Arya  . . . I have tried to be a good husband, and she has tried to be a good wife, but the odds have been against us. She’s half English and half-Indian; both sides regarded her with suspicion. She’s the dearest girl, but when I’m gone she’ll be alone. I need you to give me your word Bart.”
    “Yes, of course. You have my word.”
    The Baron smiled, relief colouring his features.
    “The two of you have always gotten on well; I knew that I could count on you to do right by her. And by my child.”
    “Yes, of course,” the Duke reassured him again.
    The Baron fell back upon the bed, exhausted but relieved.
    “Thank you. There are no words to express my gratitude. You’ve always been there when I needed you.” Danver waved weakly for the glass by his bed; Bartholomew handed it to him. Danver drank deeply then handed it back to his friend.
    “There’s poppy in it; I’ll sleep soon, and very soon, I’ll sleep forever.” He closed his eyes and seemed to drift off. But soon he opened his eyes again.
    “You’ll make sure that my child knows who I was, wont you old chap? If it is a boy, he must follow the family tradition: Eton, then Oxford, then a commission. God knows if the Empire will still be here when he reaches manhood; all these rebellions and rival potentates only harm India. But duty comes before all. You will make sure that my son knows this?” the Baron asked urgently.
    “Yes.”
    “He must do his duty. As I have done mine. As Arya has done hers. You will impress that upon him as he grows to manhood. He must do his duty as a British subject.”
    “Yes.”
    The Baron sighed. “I am counting on you,” he whispered, his voice fading as his eyelids closed.
    Bartholomew remained standing until his friend had fallen asleep. He stood in silent salute to a fallen brother at arms, tears streaming down his cheeks.
    After the Battle of Delhi during the Second Anglo-Maratha War the crown had seen a need to ensure its interest were being represented accurately. It had sent the Bartholomew Granger and Jason Danver to create political alliances and relationships in India. Alliances beyond that of the East India Company. It had been four long years. During that time Bartholomew had inherited the Duchy of Middleton, when his father died. The Duke had been dreaming of England for the last six months. His duty and estate calling to him. Both men’s commissions were coming to the end and they had been in serious talk about leaving the colonies together. That dream was now dead, Jason Danver would not live to see his homeland again. The Duke took a deep breath, clicked his heels together, bowed, turned around and walked out of the room.
    It did not have occurred to him to deny his friend’s dying request to look after his wife and unborn child, but he had no idea of just how he was to do that.
    Surely the Maharajah would want his daughter under his wing so that he would control the inheritance that she would receive on behalf of her child, who would be the heir to the impressive Danver estate and title. The Maharajah was by all accounts a fond father, but he was a ruler first and his children were the armoury with which he built up his power. British intelligence was not certain whether the Maharajah was playing both sides or whether he was unaware of the subversive activities of his eldest son Param. But it was only a matter of time before Param’s political activism on behalf of independence and his father’s strong ties to the British Empire were destined to collide.
    When Bartholomew left the room, the hallway outside the sickroom was thronged with people; friends, fellow officers,