Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

  Taking from her pocket the pencil she used to mark the orders at the mill, she unfolded the crumpled letter and tore off a strip of paper across the bottom of the page. She laid it onto the rock wall and wrote,

  I found this on the path. I hope the love it symbolizes leads you back to it.

  Not daring to write her name for fear of being arrested if Monmouth found the note before the ring’s owner, she removed a pin from her hair and speared the note to the trunk of the nearest tree. Then she slipped the ring over the pin, to let it dangle in place by the note, and hurried on toward the mill.

  John Daniels, Duke of Monmouth, called to the dogs to stay close by his heels as they ran ahead down the lane. He rolled his eyes when they glanced back at him, then ignored him and went bounding onward.

  But of course they did. Even the hounds were smart enough to realize that he was nothing more than an imposter in duke’s clothing.

  The pretense of his new life would have been laughable, if not for the fact that it was killing him.

  Christ! How was he supposed to lie around, doing nothing? But that was exactly how his new life as a duke was meant to be led. Sitting around Bishopswood like a damnable piece of furniture. Having servants waiting on him at all hours, answering whatever tiny need he had and acting offended if he dared do it himself. Being told that a man of his newly acquired rank and influence wasn’t supposed to do anything even remotely resembling work, including running his estate and overseeing his business interests when he employed land agents and accountants to do it for him.

  He was a man of action, his body built for hard work, and that was exactly how he’d spent most of his life—picking up a sledge hammer, a pick or shovel, an axe…whatever tool was needed as he built a series of warehouses across England that capitalized on the country’s improved transportation during the past two decades. The son of a mercantile owner, he’d started into business with only a shovel and the muscles in his back, saving his money until he had enough to buy his own warehouse along Bridgewater’s newly built canal from Birmingham. Only four walls and a questionable roof, but it was enough to earn a trickle of income that he could roll into purchasing another warehouse, which led to another and another, until he had a string of them. Soon he’d moved beyond the canals and bought several buildings in the port towns along the coast. More buildings, more income—enough to live a life of comfort.

  But that life had been nothing compared to the unfathomable wealth that buried him alive last winter when an unknown cousin he’d never met died unexpectedly without an heir, slamming a fortune and dukedom onto his shoulders.

  Overnight, he went from being a man of work and accomplishment to one of forced leisure, a peer who not only never had to work again but was expected not to. And he hated every moment of it.

  His secretary Watson assured him that he couldn’t refuse the title. That no one in the history of England had ever refused the inheritance of a dukedom. It simply wasn’t done! Wasn’t certain it could be done, even if he insisted on it. Then the man had stared at him as if he’d fallen off a turnip wagon and wasn’t smart enough to get out of the road.

  Something had to change in his new-found life, or he would go mad. He had to do something…work, build, put his mark on the world beyond adding his name to a long list of dead Monmouth dukes. Which was why he was championing the canal project through Little London. Beyond the undeniable good it would do for the surrounding area, the additional jobs and income it would bring to workers and their families, it would give him the sense of purpose he craved.

  If the frustrating woman at the mill would simply get out of his way.

  Miss Cora Bradley. The woman was beautiful, no doubt about that, with eyes that could see right through a man and a smile so brilliant that it could cut glass. She was an undiscovered jewel in an otherwise ordinary village who could have given any fine lady in London a run for her money when it came to raw allure. Even when she’d stormed into his house that morning to confront him about his latest offer regarding her father’s mill, dressed in a brown worsted wool dress and dirty apron, her toffee-colored hair piled loosely on top her head, she possessed a spirit that was breathtaking.

  But with that beauty also came the obstinacy of a mule.

  In aggravation, he snatched up a stone from the lane and hurled it into the woods to set the dogs on chase.

  A more stubborn, outspoken woman he’d never met, one unafraid to face down a duke and raise all kinds of trouble for him in Parliament with the local MP. One so committed beyond reason to keeping that little mill in operation that she’d refused to listen to logic about how the village would benefit by the dozens of new jobs that would be created by the factories further upstream. She’d flat-out refused his offer to buy the mill and the little freehold parcel of land on which it sat, at a price so far above what it was worth that any other reasonable business owner would have jumped gleefully at it.

  But oh no. Not her. She stormed past his butler and right up to his desk, jabbed her finger in the air, and boldly declared, “We will not surrender!”

  When she spun on her heel and marched out, he stared at her, stunned speechless. He knew then that this fight was a long way from finished.

  A movement by the trees caught his attention, and he halted in his steps.

  A bright whiteness, small and fluttering. Surely nothing more than a leaf stirring in the afternoon breeze. But as he walked closer, he saw the note pinned to the tree trunk, along with a tiny metal hoop—

  No, not a hoop.

  A ring.

  He lifted it from the pin and examined it, and nostalgia twisted at his lips. Then his smile blossomed into a full grin when he read the note. After his encounter with Miss Bradley that morning, it gave him a needed lift in spirits.

  So did the ring. He turned it over in his hand, and a distant memory emerged from the far back of his mind. His grandmother’s ring. She’d had one just like it, fashioned by his blacksmith grandfather, who’d been unable to afford anything more expensive. But that ring was more precious to her than all the jewels that his new-found dukedom could have bought, because it was made specifically for her. A ring as unique as their love.

  Lost so long ago that the engraving was illegible, with the black tarnish most likely permanent, the ring’s true owner would be impossible to find. Certainly not through an unsigned note pinned to a tree. But whoever had left it here was optimistic enough to believe it could be reunited with the woman who had worn it and completely forgiving to whomever had lost it.

  “If only Miss Bradley could be that forgiving,” he muttered before continuing his walk and whistling to the dogs to follow.

  He couldn’t have said why three hours later he returned to the tree with a thank you note that he pinned to the trunk, or why he slipped the ring into his pocket to take it back to the house with him. But he knew exactly why he left his note unsigned. Because he wanted to be someone other than Monmouth. Because he wanted to be nothing more than a man whose grandmother wore the same simple ring.

  Chapter 2

  And so began a back and forth of pinned notes…

  * * *

  My grandmother had a ring like the one you left on the tree. My grandfather made it in his own blacksmith shop, and I remember playing with it as a child in front of the hearth fire in their little cottage while she told me stories about ghosts and fairies. My grandfather died young, but my grandmother lived until an elderly age and never tired of telling me how much I reminded her of him, just as strong and determined, just as hard-working…

  You are so very fortunate to have those memories. I never knew my grandparents on either side. My mother passed away a few years ago, although my father tells me that I remind him of her. I have her hair and eyes, her temperament. Not a day passes in which I do not think of her. You will probably consider me foolish, but at night when I cannot sleep, I talk to her, sharing my problems and little triumphs of the day. I would like to think that she is proud of me… />
  I am certain she is…I am rereading Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Do you like to read the old books? There was a copy tucked onto a shelf in my bedroom, and I could not resist opening it.

  Re-reading Spenser? My! You did not lie about being hard-working and determined. Yet surely you garnered enough sermons on virtue and goodness the first time through. A second heart-felt reading would undoubtedly elevate you to the level of saintliness fit for a vicar! I tease in good-natured fun, having enjoyed many hours reading Spenser…many, many hours. (Unless you are a vicar. In which case I give my sincerest apologies.)

  P.S. – I dearly hope you are not a vicar.

  I am the furthest thing from a man of the Church, as you would notice the moment you saw me. I am somewhat unnerved to hear how good of an education you must possess to have read Spenser—and understood it. You will catch me out now for a lack of a formal education and will see through my façade to label me what I am…a simple man to whom fate has either been amusingly capricious or incredibly cruel. It is too soon to tell either way.

  Well…as long as you are not a vicar.

  With every new day, a new note…

  Fall is my favorite time of year. The poets say that it is a dying time, but how wrong they are! Nature’s bounty in all its goodness, the labors of a hard-worked summer finally bearing fruit, the crackle of frost and change in the air…Can you feel it?

  If I knew where you lived, I would bring you a basket filled with apples and pears, chestnuts and figs, even a small pumpkin—and I would place a new journal on top so that you could write your own poems and prove all those other poets wrong.

  My poetry is lacking in…well, everything. I lack the wit of Chaucer, the depth of Shakespeare, the allegory of Milton…

  Not with your perceptions of the world. Did you not only a few days ago describe the blue morning haze over the fields at dawn so vividly that I felt the chill of the damp dew? You will have to try much harder to convince me that you lack a poet’s soul.

  Ode to a Country Field (Mouse)

  The morning sun is round, yellow and bright,

  As it chases away the dark o’ night. Look there!

  What’s that? I see a sight!

  A field mouse that gives me such a fright!

  Perhaps your talent lies in playwriting…

  * * *

  Always unsigned, always sharing nothing about their identities. Only the magic created by the notes, the slow revelation of their deepest fears and desires…sharing those secrets that they would never dare to reveal to anyone else.

  My heart longs to run away from this place. Not that this place is wrong necessarily—but to see the world, to feel the rush of adventure that pumps the blood through a person’s veins and makes her feel truly alive. I want to taste new foods, meet new people, see new places I have only read about in books…

  And I long to be able to sit still. My body seems to be in perpetual motion, never content unless I am moving, building, doing…

  If only we could switch places. I would take your motion, and you could stay here, connected to Little London, with its villagers and fields, with its lazy river that never wants to go anywhere faster than a slow ramble. Every day feels as if life is passing by, yet I cannot do anything to stop it.

  It is the darkness of night that bothers me, when I am unable to sleep and the rest of the house is quiet and still around me. Thoughts come then that tell me that I am a fraud, that I am sleeping in a bed that belongs to another man, that my life is not this existence…

  My father is dying, and there is little anyone can do to help him. He worries about what will become of me. I will be fine. I am strong and determined, capable of making my own way. I share this not to ask for help or pity, but because sharing it makes it real. If I tell you, putting voice to it within these letters, then I must believe it myself.

  * * *

  More letters, more sharing of heart-felt desires and secrets, until…

  Should we meet?

  Cora stood in the lane and bit her bottom lip. Another pinned letter awaited her at the tree.

  A nagging curiosity had made her return to the lane the day after she’d found the ring, to see if anyone had claimed it, only to find a reply.

  Of course, she’d responded to that note. How could she not, when she read the depth of emotion it conveyed? The correspondence had simply gathered speed from there, with notes coming every day and bringing new secrets, dreams, and confessions.

  She didn’t dare reveal her name nor ask for his, although she’d garnered bits of information about him through the personal details he’d shared. Such as that he was a him in the first place. New to the area. From honest, hard-working stock who appreciated a job well-done and cared about his family and friends, so not at all like that pompous Monmouth. Yet he was also a well-educated man of self-reflection. She’d taken more pleasure in those little notes than she’d dare admit and found herself looking forward to her walk so she could claim the latest missive in their surprising exchange. Each one was a treasure, making her laugh at something witty he’d shared, see the world in a new way, commiserate, or feel a pang of sympathy.

  Until the note from two days ago. Which simply surprised the daylights out of her.

  He wanted to meet her in person. No—not anything that certain. Not even a suggestion, really. Just simply pondering if they should…yet it stunned the breath from her.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Eventually, they would have to share their identities and perhaps meet. But she simply hadn’t expected it so soon, and just when she’d come to count on those letters to distract her from the problems with the mill and caring for her ailing father.

  The animosity between her and Monmouth had only grown during the past few weeks. The Little London lock was now the only obstacle in preventing the completion of the canal, and her father’s mill was the only obstacle preventing the construction of the lock. The entire canal project had come to a halt at the foundations of the mill. While the canal was stalled, however, the arguments she fought with Monmouth had only increased. Or, they would have increased, had she gone back to Bishopswood, had they come across each other in the village, had she not taken Samuel Newhouse’s advice and left the fight to be settled in Parliament. That option gave her little hope, except that she knew how slowly Parliament acted these days, slowly enough that perhaps the entire canal project would be forgotten by the time they moved to tear down the mill. Or perhaps her father would have passed away by then, rendering the fight meaningless.

  Still, she’d given her word to Mr. Newhouse and to Papa that she would avoid any direct confrontations with His Grace. Which was why she was standing in the middle of the lane as the sun was setting, coming here only when she knew she wouldn’t accidentally meet the duke.

  But she hadn’t expected to find this note.

  She wasn’t certain there would be another, since she hadn’t answered the last one from two days ago, the only one she hadn’t answered since the letters started coming.

  Yet there it was. Not an ordinary note pinned to the tree, either. Composed of thick cardstock, it dangled from the lowest bough by a ribbon, folded carefully, and sealed with wax. As if he were worried that she might never answer unless he made a formal overture.

  Fearing he wrote something inside that would reveal his identity before she was ready, she couldn’t stop her hand from shaking as she untied the ribbon, broke the seal, and opened the note. A second card lay nestled inside. Then all of her shook as she scanned over it.

  An invitation to the Monmouth masquerade.

  She choked back a startled laugh. No, not an invitation to a ball—an unwitting request to infiltrate enemy territory.

  Perhaps I surprised you when I suggested that we meet.

  Not surprised. Downright stunned!

  I simply wanted to meet in person the charming creature who’s been leaving me these notes, to have the chance to speak of all that we’v
e shared. I’d hoped you’d wanted that, as well.

  She did want that…just not so quickly. If they met in person and it went wrong, there could be no going back to their exchange of letters and the intimacy they’d created with them.

  I have an idea, one that protects our secrets. We’ll meet at the masquerade, where we’ll be hidden behind the safety of masks and fancy dress.

  Yes, they would have to be. Because she’d be tossed out as soon as she revealed her face.

  Please accept this invitation and meet me there. I’ll be at the ball, dressed as a black panther. Should you decide to attend, do not tell me your costume. You will be able to find me and then decide whether you want to approach or leave, keeping your secrets in place…although I’ll be very disappointed if you leave.

  A faint smile tugged uncertainly at her lips. She was tempted to meet him. And what a brilliant idea, too. She would be given the opportunity to see him first, then decide if she wanted to press on and speak with him or leave, with him never knowing which lady she was or if she’d even arrived.

  So very tempted! Who was this man? Did they know each other beyond the letters? Would they like each other once they came face-to-face and had no more letters to hide behind?