No Dukes Allowed

by Grace Burrowes

He tossed the rose skyward, and Genie snatched the beleaguered flower out of the air. “If you think to make this farce of an offer believable, you will court me at length, my lord. You will show me every courtesy, you will dote, you will pine, you will flirt with me and flatter me. No dowager duchess has any need of matrimony, with its attendant risks and obligations. Only after you have convinced the whole of polite society that the sun rises and sets in my eyes will you think of approaching Augustus to ask for my hand, or he will laugh you to scorn.”

  By which time, Genie would have a strategy for avoiding another tiara, even if it meant emigrating to darkest Peru.

  Dunstable braced his walking stick against his shoulder. “You want to enjoy a dalliance with the stone mason, is that it? I could ruin him with a whisper, my dear, so please don’t think to cuckold your intended with Morecambe’s bastard.”

  “Once again, you quite mistake a matter of which you have very little understanding. It’s time you left, my lord. You have a long and thorough courtship to plan.”

  He laughed again—Genie already hated his laugh—and bowed over her hand. “So I do, so I do. What a delightful prospect.”

  He was entirely too pleased with himself, and Genie was too distraught. “You will keep this scheme to yourself if you hope to see us wed, sir. I take a dim view of any suitor whose discretion cannot be trusted, and so will the rest of Society.”

  Dunstable tipped his hat to a jaunty angle with the handle of his walking stick. “Said the woman caught groping her husband’s cousin on the stair.”

  “What does your mother think of your plan to make a widowed copper heiress your duchess?”

  Dunstable’s stick hit the paving stone. “We’ll leave dear Mama out of this for the nonce. She knows the occasional heiress has kept many a titled family tree thriving.”

  Her Grace of Seymouth was an obnoxious old besom. Even Charles had had little patience with her, and for Genie, she’d served as an example of how not to be a duchess.

  “Go plan our courtship,” Genie said, gently placing the rosebud on the edge of the fountain, stem trailing in the water. “And do a thorough job of it.”

  Dunstable went chortling on his way, while Genie returned to the bench and contemplated a series of unfortunate choices. One certainty emerged: She could involve neither Adam nor Augustus in this tangled web. The one would be ruined, the other embroiled in scandal short months after inheriting his title.

  “But I cannot marry that grasping, greedy idiot,” Genie informed the swan at the center of the fountain. “One duke was more than enough, and two would be a penance I do not deserve. I hope there are some sheep farms for sale in Peru.”

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  “Duchess Eugenia is from home,” Mrs. Thompson said. “She departed three-quarters of an hour ago, unescorted, no word of her plans. I had hoped she was meeting you for a constitutional.”

  Adam held his cup of jasmine gunpowder under his nose. “She knew I had plans this morning. She did not know when I would call upon her.” The tea was soothing and fragrant. He wanted to smash the cup against the wall.

  “Shall I convey a message to her, Mr. Morecambe? She will be very sorry she missed you.”

  Is Dunstable bothering her? Tell her I love her. How much courting is enough? Adam could say none of that.

  “Tell her the press of business sends me to London once again, posthaste. I will return to Brighton at the earliest opportunity.”

  He set down his tea cup and rose before he blurted out his frustrations. Where was Genie, what was Dunstable to her, and why couldn’t one work site function smoothly for even a week at a time?

  “Mr. Morecambe, the press of business seems to vex you greatly. Is there anything I can do to help? I consider Her Grace a dear friend, and I’m sure she considers you in the same light.”

  I do not want to be merely her friend. “Can you spare me a few spoonfuls of tea from the caddy?”

  Mrs. Thompson peered into the little silver cannister. “We have plenty. Have you a handkerchief?”

  Adam spread out his handkerchief—monogrammed initials, no coat of arms—and Mrs. Thompson spooned dry tea onto the linen. She tied it up in a knot and passed it to him.

  “Safe travels, Mr. Morecambe. I’ll tell your duchess you were very cast down to miss her.”

  Adam stashed the tea in an inner pocket. “I am not cast down. I am determined, and she is not my duchess—yet.”

  Mrs. Thompson stood and smiled, and such was her beauty that Adam, to whom aesthetics had long been a priority, should have goggled at her for a full minute. He offered her a hasty bow and nearly ran for the door, grabbing his hat and walking stick from a dismayed housekeeper.

  Every two miles on the journey to London, Adam took a whiff of the tea sachet and schooled himself to patience. He should have left a note. He should send an express at the next change of horses. He should turn the damned coach around and let the work site sort itself out.

  Except it wouldn’t. Work sites never did.

  Nonetheless, the situation had improved by the time Adam arrived. Rosenbarker and the head mason had turned up, though the wagon had been stolen.

  “They wanted to study the tipper,” Rosenbarker said, pacing Adam’s small office as if a child had been kidnapped rather than a piece of equipment. “Held us at gunpoint, directed us to drive a good fifteen miles past the quarry, and if a friendly farmer hadn’t happened along, we’d still be hiking home from Berkshire.”

  “They used deadly force to steal a damned wagon?” Adam asked.

  “They both had pistols,” the head mason said, his words bearing a thick Welsh accent. “Big, ugly pistols, the use of which I trow they grasped far more easily than they did the mechanism that works the tipper.”

  None of the tipper’s various gears, screws, or levers had been stamped with a point of origin for this very reason. Adam could bear to lose a wagon, and he wasn’t much concerned that others would learn how to use the mechanical advantage of a screw to raise one end of a wagon bed. Manufacturing that wagon involved a team that included carpenters, machinists, artificers, wheelwrights, and joiners, none of whom knew the identities of the others.

  Until the patent on the wagon was approved, Adam would continue to exercise caution.

  “You’ve both had an ordeal,” he said. “Take the rest of the day off, and I’ll hire a guard to… We don’t have the damned tipper to guard.”

  “The first lot of new wagons are supposed to be ready by the end of the week,” Rosenbarker replied. “We can unload the old-fashioned way until then.”

  Which would impact the schedule, and the payroll, and the dealings with the subcontractors.

  “Do the best you can. I’ll revise the schedule, hire guards for the site, and notify the authorities that my wagon has gone missing.”

  Though they would do little enough besides condole Adam on the loss. Doubtless the tipper was already in pieces in some barn or warehouse, never to be functional again.

  “The blackguards also took a team of horses, guv,” the head mason said. “That’s a hanging offense too.”

  Forcing Adam to leave Brighton without offering Genie a farewell should be a hanging offense. Consigning him to spending the evening on schedules and budgets should be a hanging offense.

  “Where do we get our tea?” Adam asked Rosenbarker when the head mason had departed for the nearest pub.

  “Twinings on the Strand, because it’s close and they don’t adulterate the product with everything from grass clippings to hedge weeds.”

  “How late are they open?”

  “Damned if I know. Where are you off to?”

  Adam grabbed his hat and walking stick. “I’ll be back within the hour. I’m off to report a crime.” And buy some jasmine-scented tea.

  * * *

  Genie had spent three days traipsing the length and breadth of Brighton, Mr. Vernon at her side. One property was too small, another had creeping damp freshly pain
ted over in the basement, a third was going soggy about the cupola, a fourth was perfect but too far from a livery and lacked space to add a stable.

  No wonder Adam had been frustrated.

  Genie was growing frustrated. Dunstable had called on her twice and all but sat himself in her lap, he’d been so fawningly devoted. He’d sent flowers after the last call, a gaudy profusion of irises sure to be remarked by anybody who’d seen the delivery boy pounding on the front door before the housekeeper had shooed him around to the back.

  Dunstable had proposed an afternoon constitutional for tomorrow, and Genie was thus praying for rain, and for Adam’s safe return.

  “I did hear of one other property,” Mr. Vernon said.

  The cat sat at the solicitor’s feet, wearing an expression that suggested a pounce would follow when Mr. Vernon was least prepared to host a cat on his lap.

  “I am interested in anything remotely suitable.” Genie was also interested in one architect, to the exclusion of all dukes, titles, or fortune hunters. Instinct prodded her to follow her heart, but Dunstable was circling like a vulture and threatening the two men whom Genie esteemed most highly in all the world.

  “Bit of old scandal attached to this property,” Mr. Vernon said. “I happened to dine last night with my former partner, Mr. Bacchus Dingle, and informed him of Your Grace’s present quest. Dingle’s memory goes back to before Brighton became fashionable, for he was raised here. He told me that the Duke of Seymouth had a residence built not far from the Pavilion, because our then-Regent’s interest in Brighton was well established. Lovely property, according to Dingle.”

  None of the inquiries Genie had made—and she had made dozens—had mentioned anything about a ducal residence being for sale.

  “Go on.”

  “The duke took it into his head that the builder had been skimping on materials, cutting corners, and overcharging. His Grace refused to pay for the property, and the builder retired in debt and disgrace. The property has stood empty all these years, though the ducal heir became the owner on the occasion of his majority. What sort of papa deeds over a rattletrap establishment to his firstborn, I ask you?”

  An instant of foreboding settled over Genie before recollections turned her foreboding to dread.

  Adam’s father had suffered a nasty turn at the hands of a duke.

  Seymouth was a duke whose firstborn had come of age in recent years.

  Dunstable imposed on friends when he visited Brighton, suggesting any residence he owned was not regularly staffed.

  Oh dear. Oh damn. Of all the dukes in all the peerages in all the world…

  “If the property was poorly constructed, Mr. Vernon, shouldn’t fifteen years of neglect have resulted in its disintegration?”

  The cat decided to be civil and stropped himself against Vernon’s boots. The solicitor picked the beast up and scratched his hairy chin.

  “Your Grace, as usual, makes a practical observation. If the property was poorly constructed, then it would be riddled with damp. The sea air is unforgiving of shoddy work and hard on even a solid edifice. Would you like to see the house?”

  “Above all things, and without alerting the present owner.”

  Vernon and the cat turned the same impatient expression on her. “Your Grace does not contemplate housebreaking, I hope?”

  “Of course not. A duchess merely indulges in harmless, discreet curiosity. On no account is anybody to learn of my interest in the place. If I do make an offer, I want the owner to regard the sum tendered as a windfall from somebody ignorant of the building’s tarnished pedigree.”

  Vernon set the cat down and rose. “I am your servant in all things, Your Grace. Will you at least comfort my conscience by assuring me that His Grace of Tindale will approve the expenditure before you saddle yourself with an uninhabitable abode?”

  Genie got to her feet. “Who employs you, Mr. Vernon?”

  “You do, Your Grace.”

  “Then as your employer, I encourage you to refrain from dragging any unnecessary dukes into my affairs. I’m available tomorrow at any hour to view this property.”

  She accompanied Mr. Vernon to the foyer and passed him his hat and walking stick. He was approaching his prime, no longer a boy, his wisdom beginning to catch up to the abundance of a young man’s animal spirits. He was a fine solicitor, but England was full of fine solicitors, and Genie could not afford to be sentimental.

  “We’ll use the servants’ entrance,” he said. “Dress accordingly, for the place hasn’t any staff in residence. I’ll come by for you in the alley in a closed coach and return you by the same means.”

  Genie beamed at him. “You’ve done this before. I’m impressed, Mr. Vernon.”

  “Don’t be impressed, Your Grace. Be very, very discreet. Good day.”

  She closed the door behind him and allowed herself a moment of hope. She’d spent years being discreet, and what had that earned her but Dunstable yapping at her heels and filching her heirlooms? Now he wanted to filch her future and get children on her, three boys, at least, with no guarantee that he’d keep his word to cease threatening Augustus—or Adam.

  * * *

  A smartly turned-out gentleman climbed into an equally smart town coach, which rolled away from Genie’s doorstep at a smart pace. Adam had paused only long enough to wash the dust of the road from his person and wasn’t feeling smart in any regard.

  The gentleman might have been calling on one of the other ladies. He might have been an old friend, or a garden-variety fortune hunter. Adam resented him on general principles, though, because he’d been crisp and attractive and full of energy.

  “Mr. Morecambe, a pleasant surprise,” Genie said, ushering him into the formal parlor—not her private sitting room.

  The leavings of a tea tray sat on the low table, and the cat, balancing on its back legs, was making designs on the cream pot.

  “I was called to London again. Did Mrs. Thompson tell you?”

  “She did. Shall we go upstairs? I’ve had about as much tea as I can tolerate for one day, but I will never tire of good company.”

  Genie’s words should have reassured Adam, but her manner was merely friendly, and she looked tired. He followed her up the steps, long hours in the saddle making even that slight exertion an effort.

  She left the door open and settled on the sofa. “How goes the work in London?”

  Adam remained standing. “Somebody is trying to steal my tipper-wagon design. They won’t get far without knowing how I put the thing together. Screws have been around for millennia. Might I sit?”

  “Of course. I gather the tipper wagon is very clever?”

  Adam took the place beside her on the sofa. “Very valuable, because it saves time and labor.” Who was that man? “I’ve missed you.”

  She rose and took the wing chair when Adam had hoped she might instead close and lock the door.

  “I’ve missed you as well, but in your absence, my situation has become complicated.”

  “In what regard?”

  She tried for a smile and ended up studying the carpet, a fine Dutch weave of flowers and leaves in red, green, blue, and gold.

  “Another suitor has presented himself, a most unexpected and ardent admirer.”

  Adam knew all about competing bids, and they didn’t intimidate him. “Your expression suggests that admiration is not mutual.”

  “Admiration can take many forms.”

  He would have bet his tipper-wagon patent that Genie had not admired this rival in the privacy of her bed or on any picnic blankets.

  “Are you showing me the door, Your Grace?” Part of him accepted that possibility as inevitable. His version of courting had been to drag her all over the backstairs of two large houses between disappearances to London. Not very impressive.

  But his heart—his purely human heart—ached to think she’d give up on him so easily.

  “I am not showing you the door, but if in the coming weeks, I am less available t
o you, or you see me in company that you cannot condone, then you must not take it amiss.”

  Adam rose, for he refused to take such a reversal of his dreams sitting down. “This is called letting me go gently. My spirits will soon be level with the pavement, but nobody will be troubled by a loud, impolite crash. I am to pretend your announcement has not devastated me, pretend my affections were only superficially engaged. That is what an almighty duke or a marquess or an earl—”

  She’d flinched at the word marquess.

  Dunstable, then, the pestilential spawn of a posing, prancing, lying old scoundrel of a duke.

  “You fancy to become like your friend,” Adam asked, “the Double Duchess? I read the papers, Your Grace. Has ducal consequence once again exerted itself to crush the aspirations of the lowly Morecambes?”

  Say no. Say of course not. Say anything honest.

  She shook her head. “Mr. Morecambe, I consider you a dear friend. I am not at liberty to say more, but please believe that my regard for you is genuine. I simply need time…” Her breathing caught, an odd hitch that she tried to cover by rising. “I simply have a few complications to sort out. I hope that one day soon, I might again be able to welcome your attentions.”

  She was tossing him out on his ear, ejecting him like a tavern regular who’d overimbibed.

  Adam’s pride demanded that he make a dignified exit, before overimbibing in truth. He was exhausted, furious, minus his tipper wagon, and soon to be minus his intended. Minus the woman who’d sat for hours while he’d sketched woodwork at Petworth.

  Minus the lady who’d cheerfully driven through miles of countryside so he could spend a day admiring parts of Petworth he’d never be admitted to without her.

  Minus the high-born friend who’d earned him a peek at every royal pantry in Brighton.

  Minus his lover.

  Minus his favorite duchess, whose first marriage had been bewildering, grueling, and, above all, lonely.

  She was staring out the window, a pillar of unshared confidences and private woes. How stubborn she was, and how he loved her.