Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  Iris let her sisters chatter, which they did prodigiously well, and she let the earl deal with their anxiety rather than intervene. As the oldest of his lordship’s unmarried daughters—a venerable twenty-six years—Iris usually played the role of peacemaker.

  Not this time. Papa had gone too far, dragooning a duke to the altar, and Papa could deal with the consequences.

  “Clonmere is a man of considerable self-possession,” Papa replied, holding his plate out to the footman. “Also a fellow with great sense. He expressed delight at the prospect of meeting you all, and said he looked forward to standing up with each of you over the next few weeks.”

  Papa produced his signature beaming patriarchal smile, and Iris worried for her sisters. They’d each had at least three Seasons, Lily had had four, missing a year because of her mother’s death. In the parlance of polite society, Falmouth’s daughters were approaching spinsterdom rather than the altar.

  The footman set a plate heaped with a steaming, fluffy omelet before Papa, and the benign smile disappeared.

  “Where is my bacon? How am I supposed to choke down these boring, half-cold eggs without bacon? What do I pay you for, Thomas?”

  Thomas, whose name was Dickon Miller, embarked on the requisite groveling as he added thick slices of crispy bacon to his lordship’s plate.

  “Clonmere sounds very formidable,” Lily said, helping herself to another cinnamon bun. “Very ducal.”

  “Of course he’s ducal,” Holly retorted, snatching the teapot from under Hyacinth’s hand. “He’s been a duke since he came down from university. Why is there never any sugar on this table?”

  Iris passed her the sugar bowl, which had been sitting six inches from Holly’s elbow.

  “What was he wearing?” Hyacinth asked. She was the sister with the most shrewdness. As the youngest—by six minutes—the smallest, and the one with merely brown hair, she’d had to be. Lily and Holly were blessed with flaxen tresses, and all three had lovely blue eyes, a gift from their dear, departed mama.

  Iris’s hair was nearly black, a legacy from her own late mother, as were her green eyes.

  “Clonmere was wearing clothes,” the earl replied. “Good God, have I raised a trio of imbeciles?”

  Iris passed Hyacinth the tea pot. “Hyacinth is asking, Papa, in case the duke has a favorite color that was reflected in his choice of waistcoat, in case he favored a particular jewel in his cravat pin, even for daytime wear. She wanted to know if the knot in His Grace’s neckcloth gave a clue to whether the duke prefers simplicity, elegance, fussiness, or some other fashion.”

  The earl picked up the newspaper neatly folded by his saucer. “He wore appropriate attire for a morning call. His father was a dandy, always wearing the latest styles, never hiding his wealth if he could flash it about.”

  He disappeared behind The Times, while Lily, Hyacinth, and Holly exchanged a horrified glance.

  “My ballgowns barely have any lace,” Lily said.

  “Mine haven’t any embroidery,” Holly added.

  “My slippers are the plainest dancing slippers ever to qualify for the name,” Hyacinth wailed.

  From behind the newspaper came a pained sigh. Iris could have distracted her sisters from the scheme they were hatching, but they were the victims of Papa’s ridiculous venture. Let them wreak what vengeance they could.

  “I’ll have the carriage brought ’round,” Iris said. “If you’re to plunder the shops of Mayfair, you’d best get an early start.”

  “Will you come with us?” Hyacinth asked. “The clerks and shop girls are always so much more attentive when you come along.”

  “Please do,” Lily said. “Then we can fortify ourselves with a stop at Gunter’s at mid-day.”

  “I won’t fit into my ballgowns if we patronize Gunter’s so frequently,” Holly said, “but I do enjoy a jasmine ice in the middle of a hard day’s shopping.”

  The earl lowered the paper enough to send Iris a pleading look. Iris not only prevented the more outlandish purchases, she prevented the proprietresses from gouging the earl’s younger daughters.

  “I’ll stay home,” she said. “I can take a look at your ballgowns and plan embroidery and trim that might freshen them up a bit.”

  “You are so clever with a needle,” Holly said. “We’ll bring home some lemon cakes, and you can show us your ideas over tea this afternoon.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  The earl glowered at her. Iris smiled back, and Lily, Holly, and Hyacinth left the breakfast parlor discussing an itinerary that could bankrupt a nabob.

  “You don’t do yourself any favors by antagonizing me, Iris,” the earl said. “It’s not my fault your mother left you only a modest inheritance. I have other children and must look after them as best I can.”

  Oh, this again. Iris had arrived in the world thirty-six weeks after her mother had married the earl. He’d never come out and accused Iris of having a different father, but he’d never acted as a father should, either.

  Or perhaps, her sin was not being a son. Falmouth had two sons still at public school, else he’d likely have married yet again.

  “If the purchases they make are too extravagant, I will send the articles back,” Iris said. “I can find fault with a seam, a shade of silk, something credible, and your exchequer will be unscathed by anything so inconvenient as generosity toward your offspring. They are good girls, my lord, and if you’d host a few entertainments for them, buy them a barouche for parading at the fashionable hour, or even let us attend a few house parties…”

  Falmouth put the paper aside and waved a hand at the footman. The servant withdrew, not daring to even flick Iris a glance of sympathy.

  “Here is where your importuning would land me, miss: Hosting a few entertainments would require dipping into my investments, or perhaps even the settlements set aside for Lily, Holly, and Hyacinth. What I do for one of them, I must do for all three, lest my peers think one daughter more marriageable than another.

  “That’s not one ball,” he went on, “but at least two, possibly three if Holly snares a husband and Hyacinth does not. House parties have been the ruin of many a proper maiden, and if I send the girls to house parties, I will be expected to host a house party. Have you any idea what that would cost?”

  Well, yes, Iris had an exact idea. She had become the de facto unpaid housekeeper managing the earl’s various domiciles. She planned his rare dinner parties down to the farthing, knew exactly when the candles in the formal parlor were changed, and watched the coal man unload his goods lest he think to deliver a short weight.

  “If you had any sympathy for me at all,” the earl went on, “you’d find some vicar to wed or a younger son with a career in foreign service. For all of society to know that I already have one daughter on the shelf only damages the prospects for the other three.”

  This was a new weapon in the earl’s arsenal of insults: According to the earl, Iris was to blame for her silly, shallow, sisters remaining unwed. In fact, if Falmouth had shown his younger daughters any real fatherly regard, if he’d bothered to learn that Lily had nightmares about spilling punch, and Holly and Hyacinth were worried about having to live apart, then perhaps all three might present as other than anxious and vapid.

  “If one of my sisters hopes to snabble a duke,” Iris said, rising, “then I’d best make myself useful. I’ll be in the sewing room, should anybody have need of me.”

  The earl snorted and went back to his paper. He was no longer young, and he no longer frightened Iris. Mama’s will left Iris’s money to her and to her alone. She’d come into possession of the funds the previous year, and they were accumulating interest at a tidy rate.

  “What is that vulgar sound supposed to mean?” Iris asked, taking a currant bun from the sideboard.

  “Nobody needs four daughters,” the earl said, “much less three marriageable daughters and a crabby old maid. You will be agreeable to Clonmere, you will praise your sisters to him at
every turn, and you will make it very clear to him that you will never be a burden on the ducal purse. You will even go so far as to ingratiate yourself with the duke to learn what his favorite color is and whether he favors emeralds or sapphires. You will share that intelligence with your sisters and ensure one of them marries him, or I will have to find a cottage for you in rural Devonshire.”

  All of Devonshire was rural—also beautiful. Iris would never abandon her sisters but the notion of a peaceful life far from London….

  “I’m responsible for ensuring a duke I’ve never met falls head over coronet in love with one of my sisters?”

  “Of course not. You’re responsible for seeing that he marries one of them. If you have to compromise somebody to see that happen, then do what you must. Once I have a daughter wearing a tiara, the other two will soon find husbands. If you thought for a moment, you’d appreciate the genius of my strategy.”

  Or he’d have one daughter married to His Grace of Stick-in-the-Mud and forced to bear his heirs, while the other two spent their lives consumed with jealousy.

  Brilliant as usual, Papa. “You have four daughters, my lord. Not ‘the other two,’ but, ‘the other three.’”

  He snapped the paper open and raised it before his face. “If you can tear yourself away from your stitching long enough, you might consider writing to Peter. Damned boy is about to get sent down again, and I can assure you there’s no refund of tuition in that case. I can’t afford to purchase yards of lace and also deal with my heir’s various mis-steps.”

  Peter was eighteen, too handsome for his own good, and not inclined toward academics.

  “I’ll write to Peter, then see about altering some ballgowns.” Iris mentally added a third, more pressing item to her list: She’d make the acquaintance of a certain duke, and decide for herself if he was worthy of any of her sisters.

  Chapter 2

  “The youngest has brown hair, that’s Hyacinth,” Annis said. “The other two are blondes.”

  “Lilac and Holly,” Clonmere replied, steering his gelding around the evidence of another horse’s passing. “Or is it Lilac and Hellebore? Hibiscus?” Nobody would name their child Hellebore or Hibiscus, would they? Hydrangea? Something with an H.

  “Lily and Holly. Clonmere, how can you be contemplating marriage to one of these women if you’re not even interested in their names?”

  A gentleman did not explain to his baby sister that women had attributes that could hold his interest far more effectively than a mere name.

  “What are they like?”

  “Lady Holly and Lady Hyacinth are twins, but they don’t look exactly alike. Lady Lily is the oldest, and she has a lovely soprano voice.”

  “I’m tone-deaf, Annis, and I wouldn’t know a Lawrence from a Canaletto. Tell me what they’re like.”

  Clonmere’s sister rode a dainty chestnut mare, doubtless chosen to show off Annis’s red hair. Her riding habit was green, her expression pitying.

  “They are exactly what you’d expect: Pretty, pleasant, and desperate to marry. You deserve better, Clonmere. If you hadn’t put off marriage for so long, Mama might be willing to see reason.”

  He waited, letting Annis ride ahead of him between two closed carriages. “I didn’t put marriage off.”

  “You are two-and-thirty and have no duchess. Perhaps a wicked fairy put you to sleep at age twenty-one. Both of our sisters are married, and our brothers are certainly standing up with their share of debutantes.”

  To be scolded by a mere child of eighteen…. “How old did you say Falmouth’s daughters are?”

  “What difference does it make? They are out, they are eligible, and you need a duchess.”

  No, he did not. He needed a wife. The duchess part couldn’t be helped, but the lady would be marrying a flesh and blood man, not a coronet and a set of presentation robes. Clonmere would have to find his bride more than tolerable if she was to be the mother of his children, and she—poor thing—would have to find him much more than tolerable.

  “Oh, dear,” Annis said, drawing her mare to a halt. “I believe Teddy Amherst and Patrick Dersham are making a disgraceful spectacle of themselves.”

  The two peacocks were on foot, one beside a curricle with a damaged wheel, the other strutting before a high perch phaeton. Both Amherst’s matched blacks and Dersham’s bays were restive, and pedestrians had stopped to gawk at the accident.

  “We can ride back the way we came and dodge down the alley.” Clonmere would rather return home and bury his nose in correspondence, but he’d hidden in his study for two days. The weather was glorious, and the sooner he made the acquaintance of Falmouth’s offspring, the sooner he could be done with the whole farce.

  “Clonmere, this could get interesting.” With three brothers, Annis had seen any number of fistfights, not that a lady should admit as much.

  “Dersham’s bigger, but he’ll be slower too,” Clonmere said. “My money is on Amherst. He’s the wronged party, and they tend to fight harder.”

  “I mostly want to see them take off their coats.”

  Well, that was honest. Would Clonmere’s duchess want to see him unclothed, or would she cower beneath the sheets, staring at the bed hangings while he struggled to consummate the marriage vows? Ghastly thought.

  Dersham was attempting to shrug out of his coat, but Bond Street tailoring did not yield to shrugs. The tiger tried to assist his master while holding onto a bridle, and a ring of spectators assembled right in the street. Money changed hands, as Amherst made loud allusions to calling out the damned fool who couldn’t control his team.

  “I should stop this,” Clonmere said, swinging down from the saddle and passing Annis his reins. “They’ll both get bloody noses, traffic will snarl, somebody will say something they regret, those blacks are about to bolt, and—”

  A woman marched forth from the crowd. She was tall, dark-haired, attired for driving, and wearing the sort of flat, straw skimmer Clonmere associated with boating parties on hot summer days. Her ensemble was years out of date, but the older style suited her height.

  “Gentlemen.” She waited a moment, while the combatants exchanged a puzzled glance. “Surely you don’t intend to engage in fisticuffs over a minor mishap?”

  That was the voice of an older sibling or a mama, though the lady wasn’t matronly. She was, in fact, very nicely put together, and she had the attention of both parties.

  “My dear lady,” Amherst said, drawing himself to his entire five and half feet of height. “Destroying my new phaeton through careless disregard is not a minor mishap. If Mr. Dersham had used an ounce of sense, instead of careening recklessly right down the middle of the street—”

  “You was the one in the middle of the street, Amherst. Tell the lady how you planted your nags so nobody could get past in either direction, because you’re so mad keen to show off that derelict dog cart to anybody who’s never seen a proper conveyance.”

  “Derelict dog cart?” Amherst puffed out his chest. “I’ll tell you who’s derelict— ”

  The tall woman stroked the neck of Amherst’s off-side black. “I truly would not want to see the watch summoned over an accident, but I fear if you gentlemen must debate the origins of your contretemps at any greater length, a bent wheel will be the least of your worries.”

  The horse was settling, and the combatants appeared entranced by the caress of a worn driving glove over a muscular equine neck.

  Clonmere stepped forth, prepared to seize the moment of relative calm and spread ducal fairy dust over a pair of dunderpates. If that required knocking their heads together a time or two, that was the least consolation he was due for his troubles. He’d moved a yard closer to the damaged vehicle when the lady caught his eye and gave a slight shake of her head.

  A warning. Nobody warned Clonmere of anything, firstly, because he didn’t require warnings, secondly, because he was usually the party handing them out. He warned his siblings of crooked gaming hells. He warned his mother away
from elderly bachelors looking to flatter their way to a comfortable dotage. He warned his head groom away from windbroken teams going on the block at Tatt’s.

  For the sheer novelty of the experience, he heeded the lady’s admonition and remained where he was.

  “Call the watch?” Dersham repeated, dropping his fists. “No need for that. A gentlemen’s disagreement should be kept private.”

  The lady sent a pointed glance to the crowd. “Your grooms can mind your teams,” she said, “while you gentlemen repair to The Happy Heifer to discuss the situation over a civilized pint.”

  Amherst scowled at his wheel. “Damn thing’s useless. Papa will read me the Riot Act.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Dersham will lend you his curricle while the wheel is being repaired.”

  Oh, she was good. She tossed out that casual suggestion while repositioning her hat, as if the slanting afternoon sun was of more moment than the potential for broken noses and criminal charges.

  Amherst left off visually lamenting his bent wheel and walked over to Dersham’s bays. “Prime goers. They can’t help who’s at the ribbons.”

  Dersham apparently had sense enough to detect a resolution to his troubles that wouldn’t jeopardize his fine tailoring.

  “Got ’em off Greymoor,” Dersham said. “Everybody wants the matching white socks and fancy bloodlines. Greymoor says it’s more important to have sound conformation and matching minds.”

  Rather like marriage.

  The crowd was drifting away, and again, Clonmere shifted forward, prepared to clap each good fellow on the shoulder and shove him toward the pub, but the lady’s glower gave him pause.

  Her reproach was fleeting and aimed only at him, also startlingly ferocious. For one instant, green eyes promised him a verbal thrashing that would make fisticuffs in the street look like a mere squabble among chickens.

  Clonmere took a step back.

  “Greymoor knows what he’s about,” Amherst said. “D’you fancy an ale? I fancy a turn with your bays.”