Duke of Disgrace (Dukes of Destiny Book 3)

by Whitney Blake

  “Yes, and they all want to pay me soundly.”

  “That is the usual order of things,” said Mother. She, too, finished her wine.

  Sarah entered the room to light the tapers in their gilded wall sconces. The sun was fully setting over the garden, leaving ruddy, red trails of light over the mahogany table, the silver, and the floral wallpaper.

  “I might let all of them pay me—Mr. Radcliffe was a pain to deal with. Besides, unlike many of my tenants, they can afford it. The City can be a very lucrative place in which to work.”

  Radcliffe, recalled Jeremy with a huff. The man had totally been in the right; one of his employees was stealing profits, though it was hard to chart unless one knew where to look in the ledgers. Radcliffe worked in metals and kept a small showroom, so he employed several shop lads. But he’d been so supercilious it had been difficult for Jeremy to tolerate being in the same room with him for more than a quarter of an hour. This only made him look as though he had a tic, for he found he could not actually sit still in the man’s presence for longer than that.

  “Mm,” agreed his mother. “Grating voice.”

  When the dining room was filled with gentle candlelight and the final course was being served, she asked him, “Things really are running at a pace for you. Didn’t a letter arrive yesterday from the Duke of Lancaster, too?”

  Cocking his head, Jeremy replied, “Indeed, it did.”

  She must be peeking into my study, again.

  “What did he say?”

  “He desires a meeting in person Monday next. The subject of the meeting was not revealed in the letter. I would imagine it is something more sensitive than he would like to write down on something that might go amiss.” Or that could be saved as leverage by someone more pernicious than me. Lancaster was influential. Blackmailing him could go a long way if one was never caught at it.

  Mother waved his words away. “I am sure he seeks some representation or advice.”

  “Why?” Amused at his mother’s soothsaying, he resettled himself in his chair after taking some asparagus dripping in butter.

  “I have heard rumors in town that the old dog wishes to enter into some foreign investments.”

  “Have you?”

  “Unfortunately for him, he is old and notable and rich enough that the gossips ferret out everything they can about his business. Some of the mothers want to wed their daughters off to him now that he is a widower.” She did not sound especially vexed about this socially-sanctioned invasion of privacy. His mother was an avid listener. “But he is so old. Too old, one might say, to remarry.”

  He had never known her to cause harm, but she did so enjoy listening to whatever the news of the day was. She also read the society columns with relish. It was not only personal confidences she enjoyed, either. She was as conversant as any man on matters of state and politics.

  Probably more than many men were, actually, he admitted to himself.

  “Even if you are correct, should I not allow the duke to explain himself in his own time?”

  “Oh, naturally. I just don’t want you thinking he’ll involve you in some enormous family scandal. Lancaster is not the type. He’s never done a thing that leaves a hair out of place.”

  Suspicious. Jeremy declined to ask how his mother knew. Lancaster was older than her.

  “Thank you for your consideration. Now, am I correct in assuming that you have dodged discussion about this secretary that you have heroically procured for me?”

  She shook her head. “No, even I am not so obvious. But you must admit that even if the bulk of your work is not paid, if you are attracting powerful or wealthy clients, you must keep up certain appearances. A secretary is one aspect of those appearances.”

  He realized that she was nervous about something. That was strange. His mother was not a nervous creature. “Such as?”

  “Well, tidying your study or office, for one. Or even both of them—the one in London proper and the one here.”

  “Not one person has made mention of the state of my study.” Rather churlishly, a small voice in his head said, But it would be nice to see the top of my desk again. He could not say precisely when it began, but his nerves seemed to be too taxed to remember to do such small things. Small things he felt ashamed of not doing. Keeping his files in visible order. Tidying his desk.

  He didn’t want to tie it to having been in combat, but suspected it was the root cause.

  “Would it not be a good thing for yourself to have orderly spaces in which to work and consult?”

  That was perceptive. He could not argue with it. “I do suppose compensation is no object,” he said, slowly.

  “No, and I do not think it’s foolhardy for you to remain generous in how you approach most of your situations.” She continued, with more warmth in her voice, “I know justice is close to your heart. I am happy that you are starting to think ahead to a potential place in politics. But there is no sense in making yourself miserable.”

  Jeremy had to smile.

  The dowager duchess was never one to withhold praise. He was eternally glad that at least one of his parents understood his interest in the law and, more than that, in applying it. His father had never understood why his son would want to engage in a profession when he was rich enough to hold a profession in perfect disdain. Paul certainly held professions in disdain. For himself, anyway.

  Giving in, Jeremy said, “Fine. Tell me who is to become my secretary, then. I hope he has sound judgement and a knack for sorting out messes.”

  “As you know, this person came to my attention because of the Wenwoods, but it is their upbringing which makes them unique most of all.”

  “This sounds very mysterious.” Person? thought Jeremy. “His upbringing? How do you mean? I would assume he has had some kind of education.”

  “Indeed, though I do not know if it was strictly traditional.”

  “That’s not bad,” said Jeremy, “necessarily.”

  “And they have immense discretion… they are levelheaded, too.”

  They?

  “Both important when one is dealing with either clerical work or the law.” Jeremy stared at his mother in the candlelight, trying to understand the reason for her uncharacteristic reticence. “If he is as you say then I have no qualms in meeting this new assistant.” He reached for a second serving of the asparagus.

  His mother had such an odd expression on her face that he was not sure if she was wincing or smiling.

  “I beg your pardon, Mother?” he asked, self-consciously.

  “The candidate I found is not a man.”

  “You cannot be serious,” he said, dropping his fork with a clatter and bringing his palm to his eyes. But she could be. She was something of an egalitarian, voicing support for those women who had joined the boards of banks, those widows who had never remarried and instead managed their affairs themselves. The more he digested her assertion, the more he was certain she was in earnest.

  “I am,” said she.

  Some of his mother’s views had rubbed off on him. He had no problem with women managing their own affairs or remaining spinsters forever. He held no moral issue with doxies and did not judge the flower sellers. In all, he could not fault any woman for earning a living, or living as she wished. Hell, even Isabel. But for some reason, this seemed hard to fathom. “A female secretary is rather unheard of, madam! What shall be said of her reputation, of mine, of yours…” He trailed off. “Hers in particular would be torn to shreds!”

  Besides that, what would everyone say about him? He was on the cusp, apparently, of becoming a favored barrister among his own rank, as well as within the wealthy merchant class.

  Even if he did not mind a woman as his secretary, surely most, if not all, of his patrons would. This seemed like a mistake waiting to happen.

  “You are still married, somehow—and here, I finally see the full advantage of having the Harpy immediately present. Though it may raise eyebrows, nobody could dare to reall
y oppose the arrangement. Especially not while I am in the house. Constantly acting in the position of a chaperone, if you will.”

  “I cannot think of anyone else having done this before.”

  “Well, you employ a female governess for Luke, and before that, he had a nurse. I try to think about it in those terms. A secretary is an employee, not a mistress.” His mother was missing the point. People said governesses were conniving opportunists all the time.

  “Yes, but if the secretary was a woman, everyone would have us in bed together by the end of the week. She’d be seeing sensitive and sometimes complex documents…” Jeremy reached for his wine glass before recalling it was already empty. “Apart from that, what man would respect a woman who greets him at an office? Would respect a man who has a woman to greet his clients?”

  “Really, Jeremy, she does not have to work in your office in town.”

  Through a laugh, Jeremy said, “Does she not?”

  “If you must know, her father is Wenwood’s steward and she has been learning under her father for years as a kind of secretary already.”

  He had to look over his mother’s head through one of the windows overlooking part of the garden, and gather his thoughts. He flicked his gaze back to her after a moment of regarding a yew tree. “And this woman. You have met her? She agrees to the arrangement, or would, if I gave my assent?”

  “Yes, I have met her, and if you’d like to know, she made the same objections you did.”

  “Good, then she is at least sensible.”

  “I invited her to visit us tomorrow, and—”

  With a burst of laughter, Jeremy said, “You almost go too far. Do you realize that?”

  “Send me away to the house in Bath if you think I overstep my bounds.”

  “No, it will be more of a punishment for you to stay here. You love Bath.”

  “Well, I think you will see that I have made a good decision, even if it is a little out of the ordinary.”

  All Jeremy could do was shake his head. He found he had little to say until they finished dinner. He was lost in thought, less worried about what Isabel might have to say about all of this—she was hardly around him enough to know what he did during the day—and more concerned with the ramifications of what his mother had set in motion.

  *

  The next morning, Margaret awoke to the shrill sounds of an argument. Rather, the Harpy was hurling abuses at Mrs. Snow and the unfortunate housekeeper was, as servants were expected to do, bearing it all without any protest. Isabel, it seemed, was in a most irritable state. Which seemed to be her only state.

  Well aware that the Harpy was probably desirous of a row with her and simply taking it out on any person who came into her vicinity, Margaret rose from bed and dressed in her favorite pink morning dress. It was one that Lady Isabel had particularly maligned as too bright for a woman of her age, so Margaret delighted in wearing it as often as possible in her presence.

  It was just as well that Jeremy had been roused by the chief hostler just before first light, as she learned from Higgins, Mr. Snow’s second-in-command and lord of the footmen, because she didn’t think Jeremy could handle the stress of another argument. He was still outdoors, though a glance at the grandfather clock in the foyer told her it was eleven.

  Higgins blinked his enormous brown eyes at her and further explained, “You see, your grace, one of the mares was foaling and Mr. Pond knows how his grace likes to be around for that, and—”

  Margaret silenced him with a raised hand. “That is quite enough, Higgins. I do not need to hear more about foaling before I break my fast.”

  She sailed into the breakfast room with all the authority she had learned from being a duchess and faced her daughter-in-law calmly. “What on earth seems to be the matter, Isabel?”

  As ever, Isabel appeared the picture of beauty and style, her hair neatly coiffed and her cap woven with a single ribbon that matched her sapphire-toned dress. She had cornered Mrs. Snow somehow. Either the housekeeper was going about her other duties and had passed by the room, or she had brought more dishes to be served. Breakfast was not often an enormous affair in Rosethorpe, but a cursory glance at the walnut sideboard told her there was slightly more variety in the offerings today.

  Pity. It was her favorite meal, her favorite room in all the house, all cheerful yellows and creams, and the Harpy had to be sullying things. How she wished she could be mistress of the house again. Isabel simply squandered it.

  “There was a hair in the preserves.”

  “Perhaps we shall have to find a fox or a gun to take care of it.”

  It took Isabel a few seconds to understand the jest. She did not appreciate it. “Yes, yes,” she sneered, “we all know how witty the Dowager Duchess of Bowland is.”

  Mrs. Snow did not appear to want to look her mistress in the eyes, so she looked at Margaret instead. “I just set them out,” she said. “There was nothing untoward in them. Nothing at all.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Snow,” said Margaret kindly. “I am sure it is just a misunderstanding.”

  “Indeed?” Isabel said, her voice rising in nearly a squawk. “A misunderstanding?”

  Mrs. Snow jumped, but Margaret said, “Aggie, do go and attend your duties.”

  With a curtsy, Mrs. Snow left them both and did not look again at Isabel. Margaret settled herself comfortably at the table after making herself a plate and pouring herself some coffee. Isabel, however, would not reach an entente without the last word.

  “I do hope that when I am so obsolete, I have your confidence.”

  “Why, dear, whatever do you mean?” Margaret’s tone was falsely bright.

  “You are so confident when you deal with the servants, and the house, and, well, everything,” said Isabel. Her words were sweet, but it was, Margaret thought, like the sweetness of arsenic. She didn’t know if Isabel would consent to sitting down to breakfast with her. But she went back to the sideboard and replenished her plate, then sat at the head of the table.

  “Perhaps you can learn to parlay your brazenness into a more genteel and commanding confidence. It may take time, but then, all self-improvement must start somewhere. I wouldn’t be discouraged.”

  With a piece of roll poised halfway between her plate and her lips, Isabel stared at Margaret. It was in this state of her wordlessness that Mr. Snow entered the breakfast room to announce the presence of a “Miss Charlotte Masbeck”.

  “Thank you, Mr. Snow,” said Margaret.

  Isabel’s look of shock was slowly replaced by a look of confusion. “Who in the world is Miss Charlotte Masbeck?”

  But Margaret spoke over her. “Do send Miss Masbeck into the breakfast room when she has refreshed herself. I know it’s a little earlier than we normally keep visiting hours, but I suspected she might arrive nearer to eleven than not. And if you please, send someone to fetch his grace.” By now, unless something bad had happened with the foaling mare, he should be done with his early-morning summons.

  Mr. Snow nodded and hurried away with a rustle of his trousers. Unhurried and unbothered, Margaret resumed eating her roll, punctuating each bite with a sip of coffee. It is an hour’s journey from London, but I find I must always right my dress or see to something after I have finished it.

  Isabel said, “I asked—who is Miss Charlotte Masbeck?”

  “A possible employee of Jeremy’s.” This simple announcement could, Margaret wagered, rouse a range of reactions. She was interested to see which would surface first.

  “An… employee? A woman?”

  Ah, so it was to be old-fashioned jealousy. The manner in which Isabel said woman spoke volumes. Fascinating. I didn’t think she cared one way or the other. Perhaps it was not jealousy so much as avarice? Isabel probably did not want to share in the same way an ill-mannered child did not want to.

  “Indeed, Isabel.”

  “What service could my husband possibly need from a woman?”

  Oh, Margaret was enjoying this. “W
ell, I shall leave him to tell you once he has made his decision. I’m only his mother, after all.”

  Without another word, Isabel rose from the table and all but stomped from the room with her hands gathered in fists and her nose in the air. She seemed very prone to doing that.

  And at the door, she almost knocked down Miss Masbeck, who had evidently been shown the way to the breakfast room.

  Higgins, who was preceding Miss Masbeck, gave a startled cry, while the woman herself did not have time to say much of anything.

  Isabel uttered an indignant squeak. Had it not been for Jeremy, who was coming from behind and arrived just in time to witness the collision, the new prospective secretary would have fallen flat on her back.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte could scarcely believe that the Dowager Duchess of Bowland informed her that she would make a good secretary for the duke. There was the obvious matter of her not being a man yet, somehow, the forthright Lady Hareden had either been prompted to ask Charlotte by Lord Wenwood, or her reputation was true and she did not care for particular mores.

  Given the dignity and bearing of the dowager duchess, Charlotte could not quite imagine that she was truly the hoydenish, irreverent widow that Lady Myles had said she was.

  Oh, Charlotte knew she ought not to have heard that, but she was passing through to the duke’s study where her father was making copies of some documents relating to revenue.

  A woman called Lady Myles had been visiting Lady Wenwood—who, shortly after hearing this snide pronouncement upon the dowager duchess’ character, concluded the visit half an hour early, claiming that she’d promised Mary a walk in the garden with Mama and had forgotten about it until that instant. Lady Wenwood and Lady Hareden were friends, and the prior would not allow the latter to be insulted.

  As Charlotte read Daniel’s composition, a piece on the history of Parliament that was incredibly sophisticated for a ten-year-old boy, her mind drifted. So much had happened in the last year that left her head spinning, including this very recent offer of prospective employment.