Dismissing the Duke

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  “Now, Julia, that is not what I meant,” Papa said, his dander up. “I would be a poor manager of my assets if I did not look at the cost of things and determine the best use of my funds.”

  “I suppose we are very expensive, Papa,” Judith said, “and are not very good at saving you money. I could have made do with my old shawl. I suppose I did not truly need a cape.” Judith ran both hands over her sky blue woolen cape with black frogging down the front. “I do so love this cape, though, and it is so very warm. But I could have done without, if it would help you, Papa.”

  Julia allowed herself the smallest of smiles. Of the three sisters, Judith, the youngest, was the best at reducing their father to a puddle of guilt.

  “Of course you should have a cape,” Papa growled, stomping his feet on the floor of the coach as he shifted his weight. “I am not suggesting that you girls go about without the proper attire.”

  “How relieved we are,” Julia said.

  Papa cast her an appraising glance. Julia smiled as sweetly as she was able in response.

  “If you want a Season, then you shall have a Season,” he said. “I want to see you girls as happily settled as Jeanne is. It is entirely reasonable that you should want the same for yourselves, particularly given the . . . bumpy road to matrimony you’d had to date.”

  Yes, two dead suitors, three, counting Jeanne’s, was a bumpy road indeed.

  “I don’t think we need to proclaim our romantic history to the men of England, do you?” Julia asked her father.

  “Of course not. You mistake me. I am simply trying to say that I understand your goals and applaud them, and I will do whatever I can to see that you achieve them.”

  Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not.

  Papa might understand that she and Judith wanted to marry, there was no great mental capacity required to deduce that, but whether he understood how they wanted to marry, and to whom they wanted to be married, was an altogether different thing. Judith wanted romance of the fairy tale variety, a thing most difficult to find in a London drawing room, obviously. Julia wanted a life of luxury and abundance, a thing most difficult to find in England, and she based this conclusion on the remarks of her many Whitton cousins.

  Men were not difficult to find. Men of position might have no money and men of property could easily find themselves having only property and not much more, but men of substantial purse, who did not have the urge to gamble it all away, were quite thin on the ground. She cared nothing for titles and even less for vast acreage, something of a rarity for London, she gathered. She did hope it would make her hunt for a suitable husband more subtle than most girls out upon their first Season; obviously, she did not want to appear crass and materialistic. No one found that attractive. Neither was it attractive to slowly starve to death, or be cast upon the paving stones without a roof or a . . . woolen cloak.

  No, Papa had done well in the East India Company. She was accustomed to living well in India and she had every expectation to live well in England. She wanted to marry a man like her father, and wasn’t that a lovely compliment? Men of average intelligence would never see it that way, of course, and since men were, at best, of average intelligence she had no intention of letting her whys and wherefores be known. Not even to Judith. Judith, with her sweet, innocent, romantic notions of marriage, and her tendency to speak without adequate forethought, was not a suitable confidante. Jeanne might have been, but Jeanne had gone off with her husband.

  No, she had to manage this on her own, without support or advice. She was not daunted by the prospect. Indeed, she was invigorated and more than ready for the hunt to begin. First, a suitable residence, followed closely by a new wardrobe, and then the proper introductions and subsequent invitations to the best events so that she could find and acquire the perfect husband, one that met her every need.

  She could hardly wait.

  Chapter 2

  Peter Grant could hardly wait to get the London home of his family leased, and he could still not quite believe, on waking at first light, slumber still shrouding his thoughts, that he was required to. Yet dawn, in both the physical and metaphysical sense, always came and he was reminded in its cold, relentless light, that his elder brother had gambled away a fortune that should have lasted two generations, if prudently managed. His elder brother had not been a prudent man; he had even died imprudently, slumped at the gaming table, holding both an empty hand and an empty glass.

  There was much to be said in favor of his death, most immediately that the other fellows at play had not, so very generously, required Percival’s heir, himself, to make good on the gaming debt of that night. Of the other nights and days, yes, he must make good on those. One did not expect gentlemen to be ridiculously sentimental about gambling debts, and Peter did not. In the longer term, paying the accounts had taken Peter by the throat and he would not draw a clean breath until he had set all to rights. He had his mother to think of, naturally, and himself and his prospects, even more naturally.

  It was time for Peter Grant to marry. His mother was quite clear on this point, less clear on many others, and Peter did agree with her. He was closing on thirty years of age and if he waited much longer to find a woman worthy of him, the women of the Town would begin to whisper that there was something unworthy about him, no woman having bothered to trap him into marriage before now. So said his mother. He had no reason to disbelieve her, other than the bald fact that she wanted him married and settled. She seemed to think that his elder brother, Percival, would not have gambled with such joyous abandon if he had been leg-shackled.

  Peter could not see that it would have made a difference. There was little point now in arguing about it with his mother. Percival had been cold and dead and buried for coming on two months. His going had been a blessing and his passing had been little lamented, most especially by Peter. He and Percival had not been close, to say the least. In fact, Peter had not liked Percival at all. He had always been a cruel, spoiled, selfish child and coming into his majority had done nothing to temper those attributes. The only friends Percival had enjoyed were his gaming friends, and having met a few of them, Peter had come to believe that they had spent time with Percival only because he was such an enthusiastic loser. He had a positive genius for losing.

  Peter was nothing at all like Percival.

  Percival would never have considered leasing the house in Portman Square. Their father had purchased it without making a dent in their considerable West Indian fortune. Their mother had filled the interiors with items of good taste, and filled them to abundance. Percival had lived in the Portman Square house when he was in Town, which was always, and lived on money he believed he should have, but did not. Their father had managed money well. Percival used money lavishly, believing them to be one and the same skill. Peter, who had actually spent time in the West Indies, understood better than Percival had ever desired to know what it took to make money in the sugar trade. Percival had hoped to marry into the peerage, using his fortune as bait. Percival had baited himself into an early grave, for which Peter would be thankful until the day he died.

  It might be a very unchristian thought, but it did have the benefit of being the truth. A man in profound debt did not have the luxury of high-minded Christian thoughts.

  Peter walked through the massive house, checking for dust on the hall chandelier, none; checking that the front door hardware was shining and bright, it was. He looked up at the curving staircase that rose up three stories to a vaulted skylight and said a silent good-bye to Portman Square. He felt not the slightest whisper of regret. The lease on this house, if leased for a year, would pay the last of the debts. He needed Mr. Whitton to let it for the rest of the year, three months paid in advance, ideally. That would hold the most ardent of the creditors at bay, muzzling them to some degree. Any degree of muzzling would be a great relief.

  Small wonder that Percival had increased his alcohol consumption as his funds decreased. Creditors were a noisy, bothersome bunch
. He planned to have nothing more to do with creditors once Percival’s batch were done with. He might even move permanently to York, to live closer to Mother’s side of the family, which was where she was now. Of course, if he wanted to live near his mother again, he’d need a wife. He was not going to listen to Mother being noisy about a wife.

  Quiet was what Peter Grant wanted most of all. Blessed, well-earned quiet. It was on that pleasant thought, his hand on the library mantle, contemplating a well-ordered life, that the front door was opened by Edwards and Mr. Whitton, he presumed, was admitted to the Grant family home on Portman Square.

  The house from the exterior was impressive. Once inside, the butler, looking as detached and superior as butlers were wont to look, the view only improved. The house was the very definition of elegant grandiosity. Julia fell in love with it on the spot, and she was not the sort of woman who threw her heart around with careless abandon. Just the opposite of that, as everyone who knew her agreed. This home, this colossal home of perfect proportions and celestial lighting, would showcase her beautifully. What an elegant trap she could set here. All a man had to do was walk into the main salon, a sumptuous room done up in shades of coral red and jade green and burnt amber, and he would fall into her arms like a toddling infant. The setting could not have been more perfect for the seduction of a well-moneyed, well-connected man.

  “The furnishings are not quite . . .” she said, letting her voice trail off until she capped the moment with a negligent shrug.

  “Aren’t they?” Judith said. “Not at all what I was expecting either. They are far more beautiful than I had dared to hope.”

  Julia did her very best not to sigh heavily. Born and bred in Hyderabad, India and still Judith had never learned to play the role of disinterested shopper and begin the fine art of haggling.

  “The light in this room is a bit gloomy, isn’t it?” Julia said, staring at her sister.

  Judith was too busy gasping in delight to notice.

  “The light improves in the summer months,” said a male voice from behind her.

  They all turned, all except the butler, who still maintained his detachment and superior stance, toward the voice of the mysterious speaker. He was a man of average height, average complexion, average blue eyes, and unruly brown hair; he was not the sort of man to make any impression whatsoever on a woman. He did not make any impression on Julia at all. The butler was more impressive than this man. He must be the leasing agent.

  “Mr. Humphrey Whitton, Miss Julia Whitton, and Miss Judith Whitton,” the butler intoned, “may I present Mr. Peter Grant.”

  “How do you do?” Mr. Peter Average Grant said in greeting, making a polite little half bow.

  “Very well, sir,” Papa said. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Grant.”

  Julia and Judith said nothing, as was common in these situations. They were well brought up young women and they, therefore, did not engage in casual conversation with leasing agents.

  “May we see the dining room, Papa?” Julia asked, ignoring Mr. Grant entirely. “The dining room may be situated more pleasantly than the salon.”

  Whatever Mr. Grant hoped to get by way of rent, he would find she was going to drive the price down by one-fifth, at the very least. One-third was her goal. Julia loved a bargain. It was the one battle approved of for women and she indulged her warrior instincts in the art of sharp dealing freely.

  “Oh, yes, may we have a complete tour of the house? It is beyond lovely, Mr. Grant,” Judith said.

  Really, Judith ought to have remained at home if she was going to foul the deal so blatantly.

  “Does the butler remain with the house?” Papa asked as they walked back into the marble foyer and through pedimented doorway to the dining room.

  The light from above shone down into the foyer turning the room into a Greek temple of sorts, with Julia as the goddess to be appeased. How well she liked that image. She would make a grand entrance on those stairs one day soon, and she would capture her husband at a single glance.

  “Edwards,” Mr. Grant said, supplying the name of the butler. “Yes, he does. Edwards treats this house as his eternal bride, forever devoted to her care. Edwards would never desert her, and if you take the house, you will find him essential in seeing that all runs smoothly.”

  “How lovely,” Judith said, looking at Mr. Edwards. “How long have you been here, Mr. Edwards?”

  Oh, good gad. Now Judith was talking to the butler, praising him before he’d done more than open the front door. It was going to be impossible to drive a hard bargain in such an atmosphere of oohing and aahing.

  The dining room was massive, the table easily accommodating twenty-four with two buffet tables on one side and four windows on the other. At the short end of the room stood a carved wood fireplace surround that reached to the ceiling.

  “Thirty-three years, Miss Whitton,” Edwards said. Edwards was clearly aging well; he had not fifty gray hairs on his dark brown head.

  “This room is so beautiful, Mr. Grant,” Judith said.

  “Many delicious meals, and delicious gossip, have been enjoyed within these walls, Miss Whitton,” Mr. Grant said, his average blue eyes shining. Shining with avarice and the joy of an easy sale, to be sure.

  “Mr. Grant, would you show me the upstairs rooms, if you please?” Julia said. She simply had to get him away from her simpering sister; this deal would cost far too much if Judith kept complimenting everything for the next half hour. “I am sure Edwards can show my father and sister the rest of the rooms on this floor.” When Mr. Grant looked in some surprise at her, she added, “We do have other houses to see before we make up our minds as to which house would suit us best. Our schedule today is rather full. I do think divide and conquer must be our motto for the day.”

  “But Julia--” Judith said.

  Papa cut her off by saying, “Divide and conquer, yes, certainly. Edwards, lead on, if you will.” Papa took Judith by the elbow and they walked out of the dining room before Mr. Grant could stop them.

  “Mr. Grant? If you would?” she said, arranging her shawl more firmly about her, girding for battle, as it were. The house was perfect. The public rooms were precisely right; what cared she what the bedrooms looked like as long as the fireplaces drew well and the mattresses were not lousy?

  “Certainly, Miss Whitton,” he said. “I am yours to command, it seems.”

  Odd phrasing for a leasing agent, to be sure.

  She followed him out of the dining room, making sure she did not cast a last, loving glance at the perfect proportions of the room in departure, and walked behind him up the stairs. His trousers were quite well made, for a leasing agent. He must do very well in his work to afford such fabric and such precise tailoring. Mr. Grant kept slowing, apparently wanting them to ascend the stairs side by side. She was not going to walk in friendly association with the leasing agent; such relaxed social positioning did not win wars.

  Mr. Grant stopped halfway up the curving stair and waited, his hand on the banister. She stopped a step behind and to the side of him, staring into his face with a look she hoped he read as polite impatience. She was not feeling particularly polite, in fact.

  “I do think you should hold the banister if you will not take my arm, Miss Whitton. The steps can be slippery to the uninitiated.”

  “I have walked up stairs before, Mr. Grant. I am hardly uninitiated in stair climbing,” she said.

  The skylight was closer now, the blue of his eyes more pronounced in the sunny light flowing over them. His hair was medium brown with flickers of gold running through the waves; his hair was thick, wavy, and somewhat long for current fashion. If only her hair curled that way; she could rule the world with hair like his. It was nearly flamboyant.

  “Shall I tell you of the time I fell down these stairs and knocked out a front tooth?” he said. “Will that convince you that there is more danger in not taking my arm than in taking it?”

  Knocked out a front to
oth? She looked at his mouth. She had not noticed any missing teeth when they were being introduced. His mouth was finely drawn, very finely drawn, in fact. If he kept his lips locked together, the world should never know about his missing front tooth.

  “I was a boy when the fall occurred,” he said. “I will not say I was pushed,” he paused, smiling at her in mild amusement, “but I was nudged. With a steady and resolute hand upon my back, I was definitely nudged.”

  He had been a boy here? This leasing agent?

  “Someone pushed you down these stairs?” she said.

  His eyes were actually quite grayish blue, like a stormy winter sea. Near the pupil, his eyes appeared almost silver. His eyes smiled when he spoke. She had never before noticed that eyes could smile. Perhaps only Mr. Grant could smile with his eyes. That seemed unlikely. The world was full of people with blue eyes and brown hair, as well as all the other colors of hair and eyes to choose from; he could not be the only person who could smile with his eyes. She really should look around more, pay more attention to eyes and make a study of it. She should definitely do that. It would take Mr. Grant down a peg.

  “My elder brother,” Mr. Grant said. “He was . . . energetic.”

  “He sounds a horror,” she said without thinking.

  Mr. Grant’s silvery blue gray eyes widened and then he laughed, a full, rich laugh that echoed off the skylight and the marble and the walls and . . . her. She felt his laughter slide underneath her ribs and lodge there, like a purring kitten.

  No, like a burr. Mr. Grant was not her ideal. Mr. Peter Grant, leasing agent, was not on the menu of Men Who Might Win Her.

  “I beg your pardon. That was not well-done of me.”

  “I have never heard him described more accurately,” Mr. Grant said, taking her by the elbow and proceeding up the stairs with her firmly at his side.

  It was quite bold of him since she had not given him permission to touch her. She really ought to be more upset with him and say something superior and slightly abusive.