Dukes by the Dozen

by Grace Burrowes

“A house party?” Meg had heard Mawbry screech before, but not in this particular timbre.

  Anne glared him down and nodded. “Of course. It’s the perfect time for it, what with the holiday and all.”

  “But mum…” His eyes bulged in that way they had, making him resemble a bulldog. The muttonchops didn’t help. “No one will come to Sutton in the dead of winter.”

  Regal nostrils flared. Indeed, how dare he contradict the dowager? “Nonsense. Sutton is only a few miles from London. And everyone is in London. Now take out your pen.”

  As Mawbry complied, with a resigned sigh, Anne turned to Meg. “What do you think? A Christmas theme?”

  “I think that would be lovely.”

  “Yes. Of course it will be.”

  Meg cleared her throat and attempted a blasé tone. “Do you think the duke will come?”

  Anne’s brow wrinkled, as though she might have suffered the same worry. “Probably not. If we were having the party in Devon. But we’re not.” She winked. “If the mountain won’t come to Muhammed, and all that.”

  Jonathan was a large man, but far from a mountain.

  The dowager frowned and shook her head. “Of course he will come,” she said, to herself, perhaps. “His entire family will be there. He cannot deny his girls a Christmas with their father.” That, of course, was true. If there was one soft spot in the Duke of Pembroke’s heart, it was his five-year-old twin daughters, whom he adored.

  Of course, he hadn’t seen them lately…

  “We must invite all the best families,” Anne said, waving her hand in the general direction of Mawbry’s poised pen. “Particularly the most eligible debutantes.”

  For some reason, Meg’s heart lurched at that. Which was ridiculous. Of course Jonathan needed to marry again. He had not yet produced the all-important male heir. And of course, he would choose a young girl. It was what men did.

  “The Pickerings, Mountbattens, and Pecks for certain.” Anne tapped her lip. “Perhaps the Evertons?” She rattled off a plethora of other names, all the best families with the best breeding, all of whom Meg knew, if vaguely, from her own season. With each name, her mood darkened, though it had no cause to. She knew what Jonathan thought of her. He respected her, certainly, and remembered her fondly as the barefoot shadow who had wanted to be a boy and who had followed Jonathan, his friend Arthur, and her brother George on countless romps.

  In retrospect, the boys had been rather decent, making her feel a part of the crowd at every turn when she had been, she imagined, a monumental annoyance.

  The coach lurched and Meg realized the dowager had moved on from the guest list and was discussing decorations. “We need greens throughout the house,” she told Mawbry. “Oh. And I want mistletoe. Everywhere.”

  “Mistletoe, mum?”

  “Yes, Mawbry. Everywhere. He cannot know if they are compatible without a kiss, now can he?”

  Mawbry’s face puckered even more, but he scratched that onto the list.

  “Oh, and a tree.”

  The secretary blinked. “A…tree, mum?”

  “Queen Charlotte has them. And so shall we.”

  “But that is a German tradition,” Mawbry said with a quiver at the end of his pointy nose.

  “And now it’s a Royal tradition.”

  Mawbry glanced at Meg, then cleared his throat. “What does one do with a tree?”

  The dowager pinned him with a sharp glare. “One decorates it, I presume. A tree in the ballroom would be rather absurd otherwise. Wouldn’t it?”

  Meg felt the need to step in before this became an altercation. Altercations with the dowager were unpleasant enough when one wasn’t crammed in a coach. “I believe the Germans decorate them with dolls and ribbons. And candles, of course.”

  “We must have the largest tree in Sutton, Mawbry. Make no mistake.”

  “Yes, mum. Anything else?”

  The dowager was precluded from answering when the coach made a sudden stop. She lifted the curtain and peered out the window. Meg peeped over her shoulder to see a smallish inn bathed in moonlight. “Whatever are we doing here?” Anne asked in a stentorian tone.

  In response, the coach door flew open, revealing the governess, Miss Friss, who had been riding in the lead coach with the girls. Her hair was askew, her face a’flush and her eyes wild. “They are monsters,” she howled. “Monsters, I tell you.”

  Anne reared back. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Those girls are monsters. I refuse to continue this journey with them.”

  “I say.” The dowager affected her most regal expression. “They are children.”

  Miss Friss attempted to say a word or two, which came out as gibberish. Then she cleared her throat, threw back her shoulders, and said, in no uncertain terms, “I quit.”

  “You cannot quit,” Anne sputtered, for the first time allowing her consternation to show. “We are in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I don’t care,” snapped the redoubtable Miss Friss, who had come with all the best references. “I will not be subjected to such…horrors.” And then, without another word, she turned tail, and stormed toward the inn.

  Anne glanced at Meg. “Well, I say.”

  “Indeed,” Mawbry added.

  The dowager snorted. “I hope she knows she’s not getting a good reference from me.”

  “Of course not.” Meg patted her hand. “Shall I go talk to her?”

  “Oh, ballocks,” she snorted. “Let her be. Mawbry. You go ride with the girls to Sutton.”

  It was clear from the way his eyes bulged, he was mortified at the proposition, which Meg found irritating. Vicca and Lizzie were somewhat unruly, but they were not beasts from the bowels of hell. Most days.

  “I’ll ride with them, dear,” she said patting Anne’s hand again. “The two of you have a party to plan and no time to spare.”

  Mawbry nearly collapsed with relief.

  “Are you sure, darling?” Anne asked.

  “Of course.” Meg gathered her coat and book and eased out of the coach. Though the sharp wind cut through her immediately, she turned back and shot the dowager a broad smile. “I’ll see you in Sutton.”

  “Bless you, dear,” Anne said.

  Mawbry nodded effusively. “Bless you.”

  Meg had to smile as she made her way to the Coach from Hell waiting patiently just ahead. Poor Mawbry had had quite a scare. She came alongside the window and saw two adorable, perfectly identical faces peering out and she arranged her features into a glower so they would know she was cross. The faces disappeared.

  “We didn’t do it,” the two chorused as she opened the door and stepped inside.

  Meg surveyed them dourly. “Miss Friss was the best governess in the country, you know.”

  “Miss Priss, you mean,” one of them said. Meg suspected it was Lizzie, but in the shadows of the cab, it was hard to tell.

  “And you’ve run her off.” The coach lurched into motion, barely covering their hurrahs. She tugged on her gloves and gave each of them a sharp glance. “Whatever will your papa say?”

  That sobered them. Their eyes widened and they shared a speaking glance, the type that twins often had. “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

  “How do you propose I avoid telling him? When the first thing he will have to do when he arrives in Sutton is hire a new governess?”

  “Why can’t you be our governess?” Vicca asked, crawling into Meg’s lap. She knew it was Vicca; Vicca was the one who got her way by being charming. So like her father.

  “Because I am your grandmother’s companion.” That was a job in itself. Meg didn’t mind, though. She was grateful to Anne for taking her in when George died and Cyril inherited. God alone knew where she would have ended up otherwise.

  “But we like you.”

  “Is it not possible to find a governess you do like?” And one who could manage their high spirits?

  Lizzie put out a lip. “We like you.”

  “And I like you
.” Untrue. She loved them. They were a charming mix of Tessa and Jonathan. There was no way she could not love them. “But you have to understand, proper young ladies do not terrorize their governesses.”

  “We didn’t terrorize her,” Vicca said.

  Lizzie nodded. “Not really.”

  But then, they both grinned, and they were alarming grins indeed.

  Meg blew out a breath. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ballocks.”

  They both loved that she cursed, and laughed. “All right,” Lizzie said. “We might have waited until she was asleep…”

  “And?”

  Vicca smiled up at her. Her little face was so sweet. It was almost unthinkable that she might say, “And then we set her shoe on fire.”

  Meg gaped. “You what?”

  Lizzie crossed her arms and huffed. “It was only a little fire.”

  “A tiny little coal.” Vicca held her fingers up, showing the smallest space.

  “You cannot set your governess on fire! Honestly. What are we going to do with you two?”

  “It wasn’t our fault,” Vicca said.

  “She smelled funny.”

  “We didn’t like the way she smelled.”

  “It wasn’t our fault.”

  They stared at her then, two identical, beautiful, familiar faces, wide-eyed and innocent.

  She wasn’t taken in for a moment.

  “Lie down, both of you, and try to sleep. We’ll be in Sutton in a few hours and I don’t want any trouble.” They both did as she bade them and repentantly so, but she felt the need to say, in her sternest tone, “And do not set me on fire.”

  To which they giggled.

  * * *

  Jonathan Pembroke arrived at the Sutton house long after dark. To his relief, the house was quiet. Given the letter from his mother, and its companion from Mawbry, he’d been expecting something akin to a circus. Sanders took his coat and pointed him toward the parlor when he asked after his mother’s whereabouts.

  Indeed, he found her there, snoozing by the fire with a glass of ratafia in her hand. He removed it and set it on the table, which woke her.

  “Mother.” He kissed her papery cheek.

  “Darling. You came.”

  He huffed as he sat in the chair beside her. “Did you imagine I wouldn’t? Once I got your note?”

  “I wasn’t sure.” She took a sip of her drink to hide her smile. Of course she knew he would come. If only to divine what she was up to.

  “What’s this I hear about a house party?”

  His mother shrugged. She had that expression on her face, the one that made little hairs prickle on his nape.

  “Mother?”

  “Why not have a party? This is the season, after all.”

  “Yes. It is the season. In London.”

  She waved her hand. “Sutton is practically London.”

  “Not hardly.” It was practically the back of beyond. Ten miles away. “No one will come to a party in Sutton during the season.”

  “Of course they will, with a duke inviting them.”

  “No one has house parties in winter.”

  “Exactly. It’s a brilliant idea. People will be clamoring to attend. Besides, clearly, you are not adept at meeting people on your own.”

  “People?” He frowned at her. “I meet lots of people.”

  “In gaming hells? What kind of quality people are those?”

  Ah… “Dukes and earls, mostly.”

  Her face scrunched up. “You know what I mean.”

  “Do I?” He inspected his fingernails. Indeed, he knew where this was going. It always went there. With her. “The last thing I want, after a brutal session in Parliament, is a hunting party.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Mother, you are so transparent. You’re having a party to trot out all the young fillies for my delectation. Their mamas must be slathering.”

  “Honestly, Jonathan.” She sighed. “You are so full of yourself.”

  He blinked.

  “Whatever makes you think the party’s for you?”

  “I’m the duke?”

  “Precisely. Dukes can find their own mates.” She gave him a quick up and down. “When they are so inclined.”

  “So who is this party for?”

  “Whom.”

  “Whom.” Honestly, she was so irritating at times.

  “Meg Chalmers, of course.”

  “Meg?” He didn’t boggle, but just barely. “She’s on the shelf.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, he felt a hot tide creep up his cheeks. He was genuinely fond of Meg, and she was younger than him. It was a shame that society marked her as too old for marriage.

  His mother pinned him with a reproving glare he was certain he deserved. “She’s not yet four and twenty. I was older than that when I gave birth to you.”

  “You’re throwing a party to find a husband for your companion?”

  His mother batted her lashes. “I feel bad about what happened to her.”

  So did he, in point of fact.

  “Promise you will help.”

  Dear God. “Help? How can I help?”

  Her eyes lit up and she leaned closer. “You must invite your friends of course.” Her forehead wrinkled. “The decent ones.”

  “That is quite a presumption.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That I have decent friends.”

  “Oh.” She laughed, and then she sobered. “What about Bentley?”

  “Bentley?” He gaped at her. “Bentley is an inveterate gambler.”

  “Well, that’s no good. How about Exeter?”

  “He’s a sot.”

  “Lud, Jonathan. What kind of friends do you have?” She tapped her chin. “How about Moncrieff?”

  Moncrieff had a serious proclivity for trollops. Hardly the marrying kind, but he couldn’t tell his mother that, or he might be in danger of proving her point. “Let me think on it.”

  “You do that. And remember, it’s Meg. She’s practically family. She deserves someone nice. It was beastly what Cyril did to her.”

  Jonathan murmured something and nodded, but he didn’t mention the fact that this was the way of the world. Though he would never have done so, many men ousted the families of the previous lord when they claimed the title. It was not looked highly upon by the ton, but that didn’t stop it happening. “I’m just glad she had you to take her in, Mother,” he said.

  She grunted and stared at the fire. “Cyril should be flogged.”

  “Perhaps you can arrange a party for that.”

  “Perhaps I shall.” The gleam in her eye was a trifle alarming, so he decided to change the topic.

  “Where are the girls?”

  His mother took another sip. “Upstairs in bed, of course. It’s the middle of the night.”

  Not hardly. It was just past eleven.

  “They might be in Meg’s room, though.”

  “Meg’s room? Why would my daughters be sleeping in Meg’s room?”

  “Oh dear.” She sent him a rueful glance. “They might have frightened off another nanny.”

  Another nanny? Jonathan raked back his hair. “Might have?”

  “There was some talk of setting her boot on fire.”

  “That would do it.” He had no idea why he had to fight back a smile. “How many nannies is that?”

  “I’ve lost count. But, Jonathan, it’s not their fault.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Those girls need a mother. Nannies just won’t do for such high-spirited creatures.”

  “They have a father.”

  “Hmm.” She finished off her glass and re-poured. “A father who prefers to flitter about in London.”

  “I hardly flitter. For the past two months, I’ve been working straight through.” The parliamentary session had been endless.

  “My point exactly. They need a mother.”

  Blast. She had won that point afte
r all.

  “Even though this party is for Meg, it wouldn’t hurt for you to assess some of the young ladies who are coming. Say you will.”

  Blast.

  But her expression was so compelling, he had to say yes. If only to get her to stop talking about it.

  After that major concession, he decided it would be wise to escape before she managed to pry any more from him. It was a skill at which she excelled. “I think I shall pop in on the girls, and then retire.”

  “You do that.” She nodded. “I will see you in the morning. Have a list for me then.”

  His brow wrinkled. “A list?”

  His mother sighed heavily. “Were you even listening to me?”

  “Of course I was listening. You didn’t mention a list.”

  “I hate when people don’t listen.”

  “Which list, Mother?”

  “The list of suitors for Meg, of course.”

  Ah. That. “I will work on it.”

  “You do that. Have it for me first thing.”

  He rose, bent to kiss her cheek once more, and then headed up the stairs. It took a moment at the landing to remember the way to the nursery. That was the trouble with having a house one rarely used. After a false start or two, he found the correct hallway and strolled through the dim corridor toward his daughters’ room.

  The door was open, so he heard the soft strains of a Brahm’s lullaby as he approached and a grin picked up the corners of his lips. He’d always loved Meg’s singing. Because he didn’t want her to stop, he lingered at the door, taking in the serene scene. She sat in a rocking chair by the fire with her hair down, holding a bundle of his progeny. It was impossible to tell which one in the shadows, but it hardly mattered. After the day he’d had, such peace was a balm. His heart swelled.

  He must have made a noise, because Meg stopped singing and turned to him. Even in the darkness, he saw her eyes widen and glow. Her lips quirked and she whispered, “You’re here.”

  He wasn’t sure why, but he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. As though he’d stood here before, a thousand times, watching her hold his sleeping child.

  He had no idea why it caused his heart to swell.

  Chapter 2

  Meg held Vicca closer as she stared at Jonathan. It was wrong for her heart to launch into such a mad patter at the sight of him. She’d known he was coming—eventually. This was hardly a surprise. But she couldn’t help her reaction to him. She never could.