Dukes In Disguise

by Grace Burrowes, Susanna Ives, Emily Greenwood

  “Yes, yes,” the duke said, twirling a lace-cuffed wrist. A hint of lace, a peek of lace, a mere gesture of lace. “Death by eyebrow at thirty paces. This house is lovely.”

  Julianna almost snapped at him not to admire the house, except… he wasn’t wrong, and she was exhausted. Market days had become increasingly fraught, with Maurice trying to escort her everywhere while, to a person, the merchants and tinkers charged her daylight robbery prices for every necessity.

  “The house used to be lovely,” she said. “The place has grown weary in recent years, faded and worn. The winters are long and bitter, the summers endless work.”

  They’d reached the blue bedroom, the only other furnished room in Julianna’s wing of the house. His Grace’s lips had acquired a whitish cast, even in the gloom of the corridor. The streak on his breeches had grown another alarming inch.

  “I’ll fetch water, clean bandages, and my medicinals,” Julianna said, opening the door to the bedroom. “You will get out of those breeches, and I’ll deal with them as soon as I’ve seen to your wound.”

  “You are a woman,” the duke replied, this time bracing himself on the doorjamb in an elegant, casual pose. “Can’t this MacWondrous fellow do a bit of doctoring? A surgeon has already seen to the injury once. I’m sure all it wants is a change of dressing.”

  In the kitchen, the children were probably begging second and third helpings of bread and butter from MacTavish, or even inveigling him into breaking out the jam. Mrs. Periwinkle would have stood firm against such maneuvers, but she was off visiting her sister in York.

  “I have seen more bare male hindquarters than you can imagine,” Julianna said. “They all conform to a common design, and yours is no different. Your pride is the greater affliction, would be my guess. If it’s any consolation, I can likely salvage your breeches, which MacTavish claims are worth a pretty penny.”

  The duke tried for a smile and came up… short.

  Oh, the expression was engaging, a practiced blend of charming, arrogant, handsome, and self-deprecating. He’d likely had that one well in hand by the age of three, and his old nanny was still recalling it fondly from some snug pensioner’s cottage.

  And yet, the angle of Mowne’s lean body against the doorjamb suggested not a casual pose, but a desperate facsimile of one. He was injured, bleeding, and… in pain. Worse, he wanted nobody to see his suffering.

  Pride was not the exclusive province of dukes.

  “The breeches are ruined,” His Grace said, shoving away from the door and sauntering—crookedly—into the room. MacTavish had cracked a window, so the air was fresh, if a bit chilly. “You may toss them in the rag bin.”

  “They are far from ruined. The stain is still wet, and a good blotting cloth will get out most of the blood. Once it dries, we can take a gum erasure at just the right angle—”

  Lace fluttered as he waved his hand. “The breeches are ruined, I say. I never want to see them again, but tell me, where does a fellow sit when he’s a hazard to the upholstery and must get his boots off?”

  “On the raised hearth,” Julianna said, following him into the bedroom and closing the door. “I’ll get your boots off. You’ll only tear the wound worse if you try, and you’re making enough of a mess as it is.”

  He sat, gingerly, and Julianna resisted the urge to help him. He was pale, and the only thing worse than a duke expecting free hospitality without notice was a duke expiring from loss of blood on Julianna’s very hearth.

  Though maybe having Mowne underfoot wouldn’t be all bad. MacTavish would take the discarded ducal breeches to the shops in York and come back with nothing less than Sunday roast, a laundry tub that didn’t leak, new shoes for Horty, and heaven knew what other necessities.

  Julianna took the heel of the duke’s right boot in her hand and tugged as gently as she could, for she had the suspicion His lacy, drawling, arrogant Grace knew exactly what the fate of his fine breeches would be.

  * * *

  Revelation followed upon insight crowded closely by surprise, very little of it good as far as Con was concerned.

  One truly could see spots before one’s eyes, for example. When dear Cousin Jules tugged upon the heel of Con’s boot, the protest from his backside was painful enough that, in addition to black spots, his vision contracted, and the lady’s murmured apology seemed to come from across the surf of an angry invisible ocean.

  The second boot wasn’t as bad, though Con could feel his life’s blood soaking into the wound’s dressing.

  “Why does nobody warn a fellow that most activities involve the fundament in some way? I dread to sneeze, for example, and rising right now…” He was babbling. Worse, he was whining and babbling. A tanned, callused female hand appeared in his line of sight as the pain in his arse faded to a roar.

  “You can remain there until autumn remarking the wonders of your anatomical functions, or I’ll help you to the dressing screen,” said his angel of dubious mercy. She waggled her fingers. “I haven’t all day, Mr. Amadour.”

  Perhaps she had other arses to insult elsewhere in the house, but—give the woman credit—she pulled Con, fifteen stone of fit adult male, to his feet easily, then kept hold of his hand while another shower of spots faded.

  “When did you last eat?” she asked, as if inquiring of a suspect regarding his whereabouts on the night of the triple murder.

  “Yesterday.”

  “You drank your sustenance,” she said, leading him to a dressing screen painted the same shade of blue as her eyes.

  Quite pretty, that blue, and yes, now that she’d graciously reminded him, Con had passed famished hours ago.

  “And you likely got no rest because of your injury,” she went on. “What would your mother say?”

  Ah, delightful. A compassionate Deity had placed a sturdy washstand behind the privacy screen. A great mercy, that, because Con’s body chose then to recall that laudanum often gave him the dry heaves.

  “My mother would tell me a duke does not bleed in public. If you’ll excuse me, I will see about disrobing while you fetch your medicinals.”

  Being sick might figure on the agenda somewhere as well, but so would being… grateful. The room was pleasant and airy, with roses climbing about the windowsills. The storm was rumbling on its way, leaving the scent of cool rain and lavender sachets in its wake. The herbal fragrance soothed Con’s belly, the pattering rain on the roses eased his soul.

  Cousin Jules was a tartar, though apparently, she’d had to be. Con had been remiss not to investigate her circumstances himself—Cousin Jules, indeed—even if she’d welcome his prying about as much he welcomed the thought of her probing at his wound.

  The wound on his arse, which hurt like nineteen devils were applying their pitchforks in unison. Con waited for the lady to go scowling and muttering on her way before bracing himself against the washstand and forcing the pain down to ignorable proportions.

  The pain refused his ducal command. Another revelation.

  By slow degrees, he peeled himself out of his clothing. Contrary to his valet’s conceits, Con was capable of dressing and undressing himself. The valet was a bequest from Con’s father, and Con simply hadn’t the heart to pension off a fellow whose greatest joy in life was a perfectly starched length of linen.

  The dressing was affixed to his flank by long strips wound about his hips and thigh. He was loath to dislodge his bandages, for the wound was indeed bleeding. One did not, however, want to unnecessarily offend a lady’s modesty, regardless of how many arses she claimed to have inspected—nor to affront a duke’s already tattered, hungry, weary, and thirsty (come to think of it) dignity either.

  From his trunk, Con unearthed a dressing gown. Blue silk, not his favorite, but sufficient unto the present need. By the time Cousin Jules returned, he’d helped himself to a glass of water and was affecting a lounge against the window frame, studying green countryside that seemed to go on forever.

  “How shall we do this?” he asked.<
br />
  “Carefully,” she retorted, setting down a basin and a sack on the night table. “And quickly. I’ve a stew on the stove, and if MacTavish gets distracted, dinner will burn and the pot will be ruined. Can you lie facedown on the bed?”

  Facedown was an excellent notion, for another revelation had befallen Con: His cock was in excellent working order, despite fatigue, hunger, humiliation, pain, and volition to the contrary. The notion of Julianna ogling his nearly naked self, her hands on him in highly personal locations, and those hands being no stranger to the male anatomy, had worked a dark alchemy on his male imagination.

  Con got himself onto the bed and managed to stretch out without revealing anything untoward. Mere stirrings, but bothersome, highly ungentlemanly stirrings.

  He moved pillows aside and got as comfortable as he could. “Tell me about all these naked fellows you’ve seen. Are you a widow?”

  “I am a widow, and there haven’t been that many fellows. Modesty in the male of the species is rare in my—oh, you poor man.”

  She’d twitched his dressing gown aside and peeled away bandages far enough to expose only what needed exposing, a flank more than a cheek, as it were. Her compassion did what Con’s conscience could not, and un-stirred the mischief his cock had been brewing.

  He said what pain-crazed men had likely been saying since the first spear had creased the first male behind.

  “It’s only a flesh wound.”

  A cool cloth was laid over the wound, not shoved at it, as the surgeon had done, but gently pressed against Con’s skin.

  “Did some half-sober barber-surgeon tell you that? Superficial wounds hurt awfully because they tear through flesh and muscle. You won’t bleed to death as you might if an artery were pierced, but this is…”

  She wrung out the cloth and brought more relief. This went on for some minutes, until Con was nearly asleep and prepared to sign over his entire wardrobe for MacMiraculous to pawn in York.

  “The wound looks clean,” Cousin Jules said after a final, careful dabbing at the injury. “Infection can strike any time, though, so we’ll want to change the dressing regularly.”

  Four times a day at least. Considering the article at risk was a duke, and the next in line for the title was Freddy, tending to the wound six times a day might be—

  Shame upon me.

  “How long have you lived here?” Con had been sending bank drafts for at least… five years?

  “Since I married Mr. St. Bellan when I turned eighteen. This might sting a bit.”

  Whatever minty decoction she’d applied to the wound stung far more than a bit. Then the stinging faded, and for the first time in more than a day, the pain subsided without recourse to the poppy.

  “I gather Mr. St. Bellan was not well-fixed?” Con asked.

  “John worked very hard. Had he lived, the farm would doubtless have thrived, but as it is, we struggle. Your mother’s generosity is necessary, and even with that—” Cloth was torn smartly asunder.

  Who was this we? Cousin and her pet Highlander, a maid of all work, and a few obese cats? The sheep and goats? But, no.

  She had mentioned children.

  “As it is, you are the one left working very hard,” Con said. “I can re-bandage myself, if you’ll leave me the supplies.”

  “Some fresh air wouldn’t hurt the wound,” she said. “Fresh air will help it heal more quickly, in fact. I have a bit of laudanum, though we try to save it for when it’s truly needed.”

  We again, and hoarding the medical supplies.

  “See to your stew,” Con said, remaining on the bed, breathing lavender and relief. “Thank you, for your kindness and for your hospitality. You will be careful not to mention my identity below stairs?”

  She gave Con’s silk-clad bum a little pat, or maybe she’d accidentally touched him in passing—on his aching backside. So gently.

  “We don’t have a below stairs or an above stairs, Mr. Amadour. We have only hard work, liberal affection, fresh air, and good, simple fare. I’ll bring you a tray now, though don’t expect me to make a habit of it. The bandages are on the night table.”

  Fatigue was crashing down on Con like an overturned coach. “You needn’t bring a tray. I’ll find my way to your kitchen easily enough. Don’t forget to take the ruined breeches.”

  Con had been in perhaps six kitchens in his life, and none in recent years, but he knew they were typically ground-floor establishments at the back of the house, where tradesmen could come and go without disturbing anybody…. Without disturbing him, rather.

  “Rest,” she said. “Your wound will appreciate a day or two of complete rest.”

  An hour, perhaps. An hour to nap would be a novel departure from Con’s unceasing schedule of responsibilities and recreations. He ought to write to Starlingham and Lucere, make sure they were comfortably ensconced in their temporary identities.

  He should also write to his mother, asking what in blazes she was about, expecting a St. Bellan widow’s household with children to eke by on a pittance. Write to his solicitors, and… Paper would also be hoarded in this household. Quill pens, ink, everything would be hoarded, except hard work, which would be available in endless quantities.

  Con pulled his thoughts back from a near drowse. “Do you go by Jules?”

  “Julianna.”

  “Then in a household without an above stairs or a below stairs, Julianna, you must call me Connor.” Though the notion was odd. How could anybody function without a proper sense of where they fit in and where they were unwelcome?

  She withdrew soundlessly, leaving Con to wonder, as sleep stole over him, and his injured parts were soothed by fresh Yorkshire air, about all those naked backsides Julianna St. Bellan had seen, and how his would have compared to the others if she’d been less considerate of his modesty.

  * * *

  Julianna gave herself two minutes to lean on the bedroom door and worry.

  Also to miss her husband. “Honest John” St. Bellan had been well-liked, good-humored, a tireless worker, and shrewd. When everybody in the neighborhood had been succumbing to the coal developer’s promises of riches, John had smiled and kept his hand on the figurative plough.

  Old John, Julianna’s father-in-law, had accurately predicted that England would become a wheat-importing country in his son’s lifetime, and John had bet his livelihood on that prediction. The gamble should have paid off. For others who’d not died of a virulent flu, it had paid off handsomely.

  Coal was important, at least part of the year.

  Bread was necessary nearly every day. That thought had Julianna heading for the stairs, because when it came to bread and butter, the children put biblical plagues to shame.

  “Seconds, MacTavish?” Julianna asked as she put the medicinals on a high shelf. “And did we wash our hands before we sat down?”

  Four little pairs of legs stopped kicking at the worktable bench, four pairs of eyes found anywhere to look but at Julianna. Three blond heads and one brunette—Roberta was their changeling—all bent as if bread and butter required relentless study. John would have known how to remind them without scolding, but Julianna had lost the knack of a cheerful reminder a year ago, when the last plough horse had come up lame.

  “I should be flattered,” she said, tousling each blond mop and winking at Roberta. “My bread is so delicious, my butter so wonderful, you cannot resist a second serving. I might have to have some myself.”

  Relief shone from the children’s eyes, while MacTavish gave the stew a stir. “How’s the patient?”

  “Resting,” Julianna said, cutting herself a thin slice of bread. How she longed to slather jam on it, to eat sitting down, and ask the children how their studies had gone that morning. “Children, I have some news. Harold, please stop crossing your eyes.”

  He’d been crossing them at Roberta, which was better than when he took a notion to tease her.

  “Yes, missus,” they chorused.

  Julianna took out her han
dkerchief and wiped a spot of jam—jam?—from Ralph’s chin. “This is good news, for we have a visitor. Mr. Connor Amadour, a distant cousin, is paying a call. He’ll bide with us for a short time.”

  “Can he fold towels?” Ralph asked.

  “Guests don’t work,” Harold shot back. As the oldest, he was often obnoxious, but he was also a hard worker. In the Yorkshire countryside, much—almost everything—was forgiven a hard worker of either gender and any species.

  “A guest can grow bored,” Julianna said, “and if he’d like to help fold towels to pass the time, as Cousin Connor’s hosts, we’ll allow him to help.” Though how the poor man would sit still for long was a mystery. The wound he’d suffered was no mere scratch.

  “I hope he’s bored all the time,” Ralph said. “I hope he’s so bored, he’ll like to churn the butter, shell the peas—”

  “Beat the rugs,” Harold sang out.

  “Get the eggs and wash the chicken poo off them,” Lucas shouted.

  “And read to us,” Roberta whispered.

  Her brothers rolled their eyes, and Ralph shoved at her little shoulder. “We don’t need anybody to read to us. We’re not babies.”

  Not any longer they weren’t. John had gone off to York one day to buy seed and come back with four children collected from the poorhouse.

  We have love to give and none of our own to give it to. They ’ll die there, or soon wish they were dead. Fresh air, family, a sense of belonging, and an opportunity to make a contribution commensurate with their abilities … A farm needs children, and the children need the farm.

  He had loved them, and they’d loved him, and that winter, he’d died with the children gathered about his bed and worry in his eyes.

  “You are my babies,” Julianna said. “And I love reading to you.”

  “So why don’t you do it anymore?” Lucas was blessed with a logical mind, according to the curate, Mr. Hucklebee. The boy had not yet learned that logic could sound disrespectful.