by Evie Dunmore
PRAISE FOR
Bringing Down the Duke
“Evie Dunmore’s debut is a marvel. Set against the backdrop of the British suffrage movement, Bringing Down the Duke is a witty, richly detailed, historically significant, and achingly romantic celebration of the power of love and the passionate fight for women’s rights. A stunning blend of history and romance that will enchant readers.”
—Chanel Cleeton, New York Times bestselling author of When We Left Cuba
“Evie Dunmore’s Bringing Down the Duke dazzles and reminds us all why we fell in love with historical romance.”
—Julia London, New York Times bestselling author of Seduced by a Scot
“Simply superb! Evie Dunmore will wow you.”
—Gaelen Foley, New York Times bestselling author of Duke of Shadows
“Bringing Down the Duke is the best historical romance I’ve read all year. I was spellbound by this story of forbidden love between a spirited, clever suffragette heroine and her straitlaced duke, a man who proves that fire burns hottest when it’s under ice. Evie Dunmore is a marvelous, fresh new voice in romance who is sure to go far. Don’t miss her brilliant debut!”
—Anna Campbell, bestselling author of the Dashing Widows series
“Evie Dunmore’s Bringing Down the Duke delivers the best of two worlds—a steamy romance coupled with the heft of a meticulously researched historical novel. The story of the women’s suffrage movement in Britain is every bit as compelling as the chemistry between Annabelle and Sebastian. Readers will be entranced watching Annabelle, a woman ahead of her time, bring the sexy duke to his knees.”
—Renée Rosen, author of Park Avenue Summer
“I have read the future of historical romance, and it’s Evie Dunmore.”
—Eva Leigh, author of Counting on the Countess
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Evie Dunmore
Readers Guide copyright © 2019 by Evie Dunmore
Excerpt copyright © 2019 by Evie Dunmore
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dunmore, Evie, author.
Title: Bringing down the duke / Evie Dunmore.
Description: First edition. | New York : Jove, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018060569 | ISBN 9781984805683 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781984805690 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PR9110.9.D86 B75 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018060569
First Edition: September 2019
Cover design and illustration by Farjana Yasmin
Cover background references courtesy of Shutterstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise for Bringing Down the Duke
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Teaser
About the Author
For Opa,
who taught me I could take on anything, but don’t have to put up with everything.
Chapter 1
Kent, August 1879
Absolutely not. What an utterly harebrained idea, Annabelle.”
Gilbert’s eyes had the rolling look of a hare that knew the hounds were upon him.
Annabelle lowered her lashes. She knew it would look demure, and demure placated her cousin best when he was all in a fluster. Of all the types of men she had learned to manage, the “ignorant yet self-important” type was not exactly the most challenging. Then again, when her very fate lay in the hands of such a man, it added insult to injury. Gilbert would snatch the chance of a lifetime from her here in his cramped little study and go straight back to admiring his freshly pinned butterflies in the display case on the desk between them.
“What would be next,” he said, “joining the circus? Standing for Parliament?”
“I understand that it’s unusual,” she said, “but—”
“You are not going to Oxford,” he bellowed, and slapped his hand down on the desk.
Her father’s old desk. Left to Gilbert in her father’s will rather than to her. The dignified piece of furniture did nothing for her cousin: age-worn on four carved lion paws, it would have bolstered the authority of any man throning behind it, but Gilbert was still fluffed up like a startled chicken. Well. It was understandable that he felt ambushed. She had surprised herself. After five long years as Gilbert’s maid for everything, she hadn’t expected to feel a yearning urge ever again. She’d kept her head down, her feet on the ground, and had accepted that the parish borders of Chorleywood were the boundaries to her dreams. And then the news that Oxford University had opened a women’s college had slammed into her chest with the force of an arrow.
She had wanted to ignore it, but, after barely a week, her self-control, so laboriously acquired, had crumbled.
But surely, this was not just a case of her wanting too much. Who knew for how long Gilbert’s ramshackle household would stand between her and destitution? Between her and a position where she was easy prey for a lecherous master? During the day, she went through her routines like an automaton. At night, the awareness crept in that she was forever balancing on the precipice of an abyss and there, at the bottom, lurked old age in the workhouse. In her nightmares, she fell and fell.
Her fingers felt for the slim envelope in her apron pocket. Her Oxford admission letter. A proper education could break her fall.
�
��This conversation is over,” Gilbert said.
Her hands knotted into fists. Calm. Stay calm. “I didn’t mean to quarrel with you,” she said softly. “I thought you would be delighted.” A blatant lie, that.
Gilbert’s brow furrowed. “Delighted, me?” His expression slid into something like concern. “Are you quite all right?”
“Given the advantages for your family, I assumed you’d welcome the opportunity.”
“Advantages—”
“I apologize, cousin. I shouldn’t have wasted your precious time.” She made to rise.
“Now, don’t be hasty,” Gilbert said, waving his hand. “Sit, sit.”
She gazed at him limpidly. “I know that you have great plans for the boys,” she said, “and an Oxford-certified governess would help with that.”
“Indeed I have plans, sound plans,” Gilbert clucked, “but you already know more Greek and Latin than is necessary, certainly more than is appropriate. And ’tis well known that too much education derails the female brain, and where’s the advantage for us in that, eh?”
“I could have applied for a position as governess or companion at the manor.”
This was her final shot—if mentioning Baron Ashby, lord of the manor up the hill and owner of their parish, did not move Gilbert, nothing would. Gilbert fair worshipped the ground the nobleman walked on.
Indeed, he stilled. She could almost hear his mind beginning to work, churning like the old kitchen grindstone, old because Gilbert never had enough coin to maintain the cottage. A logical consequence when his small salary for ringing the church bells remained the same while his family steadily grew.
“Well,” Gilbert said, “that could earn a pretty penny. The master pays well.”
“Indeed. But I understand. Even a fortune wouldn’t justify impropriety.”
“’Tis true, ’tis true, but it wouldn’t be exactly improper, would it, given that it would serve a higher purpose.”
“Oh,” she cried, “I couldn’t go, now that you’ve shown me all the flaws in my plan—what if my brain derailed . . .”
“Now, don’t exaggerate,” Gilbert said. “Your head is probably quite inured to books. However, we can’t do without your hands for even a week. I’d have to hire help in your stead.” He leveled an alarmingly cunning gaze at her. “The budget won’t allow for that, as you know.”
How unfortunate that he had to discover financial planning now. No doubt he wanted her to compensate any expenses her departure would cause, since she cost him exactly . . . nothing. Unfortunately, her small scholarship would barely keep her fed and clothed.
She leaned forward in her chair. “How much would you pay a maid, cousin?”
Gilbert’s eyes widened with surprise, but he recovered quickly enough.
He crossed his arms. “Two pounds.”
She arched a brow. “Two pounds?”
His expression turned mulish. “Yes. Beth is, eh, in a certain way again. I’ll hire additional help.”
He wouldn’t, but she managed to take the bite out of her voice. “Then I shall send you two pounds every month.”
Gilbert frowned. “Now, how will you manage that?”
“Quite easily.” I have absolutely no idea. “There’ll be plenty of pupils in need of tutoring.”
“I see.”
He was not convinced, and neither was she, for even the maids at the manor wouldn’t earn two pounds a month, and if she scraped together an extra two shillings, it would be a miracle.
She rose and stuck out her hand across the desk. “You have my word.”
Gilbert eyed her hand as if it were an alien creature. “Tell me,” he then said, “how can I be sure that those Oxford airs and graces won’t rub off on you, and that you will come back here in the end?”
Her mind blanked. Odd. The entire purpose of wheedling permission out of Gilbert had been to keep her place in his household— a woman needed a place, any place. But something bristled inside her at the thought of giving her word on the matter.
“But where else would I go?” she asked.
Gilbert pursed his lips. He absently patted his belly. He took his time before he spoke again. “If you fell behind on your payments,” he finally said, “I’d have to ask you to return.”
Her mind turned the words over slowly. Calling her back meant he had to let her go first. He was letting her go.
“Understood,” she managed.
The press of his soft fingers barely registered against her callused palm. She steadied herself against the desk, the only solid thing in a suddenly fuzzy room.
“You’ll need a chaperone, of course,” she heard him say.
She couldn’t stifle a laugh, a throaty sound that almost startled her. “But I’m twenty-and-five years old.”
“Hmph,” Gilbert said. “I suppose with such an education, you’ll make yourself wholly unmarriageable anyway.”
“How fortunate then that I have no desire to marry.”
“Yes, yes,” Gilbert said. She knew he didn’t approve of voluntary spinsterhood, ’twas unnatural. But any concerns expressed over her virtue were at best a nod to protocol, and he probably suspected as much. Or, like everyone in Chorleywood, he suspected something.
As if on cue, he scowled. “There is one more thing we have to be clear about, Annabelle, quite clear indeed.”
The words were already hovering between them, like buzzards readying to strike.
Have them pick at her; at this point, her sensibilities were as callused as her hands.
“Oxford, as is well known, is a place of vice,” Gilbert began, “a viper pit, full of drunkards and debauchery. Should you become entangled in anything improper, if there’s but a shadow of a doubt about your moral conduct, much as it pains me, you will forfeit your place in this house. A man in my position, in service of the Church of England, must stay clear of scandal.”
He was, no doubt, referring to the sort of scandal involving a man. He had no reason to worry on that account. There was, however, the matter of her scholarship. Gilbert seemed to assume that it had been granted by the university, but in truth her benefactor was the National Society for Women’s Suffrage, which she now had to support in their quest for a woman’s right to vote. In her defense, the society had first come to her attention through a certain Lady Lucie Tedbury and her adverts for women’s stipends, not because she had an interest in political activism, but it was a safe guess that on the list of moral outrages, votes for women would rank only marginally below scandals of passion in Gilbert’s book.
“Fortunately, an old spinster from the country should be quite safe from any scandals,” she said brightly, “even at Oxford.”
Gilbert’s squint returned. She tensed as he perused her. Had she overdone it? She might be past the first blush of youth, and digging up potatoes in wind, sun, and rain had penciled a few delicate lines around her eyes. But the mirror in the morning still showed the face of her early twenties, the same slanted cheekbones, the fine nose, and, a nod to her French ancestry, a mouth that always seemed on the verge of a pout. A mouth that compelled a man to go quite mad for her, or so she had been told.
She quirked her lips wryly. Whenever she met her reflection, she saw her eyes. Their green sparkle had been long dulled by an awareness no fresh debutante would possess, an awareness that shielded her far better from scandals than fading looks ever could. Truly, the last thing she wanted was to get into trouble over a man again.
Chapter 2
Westminster, October
Now,” said Lady Lucie, “for the new members among us, there are three rules for handing a leaflet to a gentleman. One: identify a man of influence. Two: approach him firmly, but with a smile. Three: remember they can sense if you are afraid, but they are usually more afraid of you.”
“Like dogs,” Annabelle muttered.
The lady’s sharp gray gaze shifted to her. “Why, yes.”
Clearly there were good ears on this one, something to keep in mind.
Annabelle clutched the ends of her shawl against her chest in a frozen fist. The rough wool offered little protection from the chilly London fog wafting across Parliament Square, certainly not from the cutting glances of passersby. Parliament was closed for the season, but there were still plenty of gentlemen strolling around Westminster, engineering the laws that governed them all. Her stomach plunged at the thought of approaching any such man. No decent woman would talk to a stranger in the street, certainly not while brandishing pamphlets that boldly declared The Married Women’s Property Act makes a slave of every wife!
There was of course some truth to this headline—thanks to the Property Act, a woman of means lost all her property to her husband on her wedding day . . . Still, given the disapproving glances skewering their little group, she had tried to hold her pamphlets discreetly. Her efforts had been demolished swiftly the moment Lady Lucie, secretary of the National Society for Women’s Suffrage, had opened her mouth for her motivating speech. The lady was a deceptively ethereal-looking creature, dainty like a china doll with perfectly smooth pale blond hair and a delicate heart-shaped face, but her voice blared like a foghorn across the square as she charged her disciples.
How had these ladies been coerced into attendance? They were huddling like sheep in a storm, clearly wishing to be elsewhere, and she’d bet her shawl that none of them were beholden to the purse strings of a stipend committee. The red-haired girl next to her looked unassuming enough with her round brown eyes and her upturned nose, pink from the cold, but thanks to the Oxford grapevine, she knew who the young woman was: Miss Harriet Greenfield, daughter of Britain’s most powerful banking tycoon. The mighty Julien Greenfield probably had no idea that his daughter was working for the cause. Gilbert certainly would have an apoplexy if he learned about any of this.
Miss Greenfield held her leaflets gingerly, as if she half expected them to try and take a bite out of her hand. “Identify, approach, smile,” she murmured. “That’s simple enough.”
