Dukes In Disguise

by Grace Burrowes, Susanna Ives, Emily Greenwood

  Potatoes were the crop of the nearly destitute, capable of being tended by children and producing more food per acre than corn, but humble fare it was.

  Especially without butter.

  “My mother has apparently been reading my mail,” Connor said. “For years, she has surreptitiously been reading my mail. Your story confirms it and makes sense of many odd looks, contradictions, and strange coincidences. I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner.”

  The pleasure of his embrace was heartrending, inviting Julianna to rest, to be still and sheltered, to repose in the emotional safety created when somebody cared enough to offer physical comfort.

  “I miss my husband.”

  “I know, love. I’m sure John St. Bellan was a man well worth missing. He chose you, after all, and all of his efforts, all of his resources were devoted to creating a home for you and the children. Of course you miss him and probably always will.”

  Julianna sniffled, but did not step back. “I’m furious with him too. After five years, you’d think I’d get over that part.” She’d never get over the sheer loveliness of a husband’s physical company. John had been a quiet fellow, but affectionate.

  And lusty. She very much feared Maurice would be lusty too, and that… that would not be lovely.

  Connor’s fingers made slow, sweet circles against her nape. “Perhaps if you had an orange in the house, or my mother weren’t snooping through my mail, we wouldn’t be so angry.”

  Julianna ought to get back to her cobbler, but a certain duke stood between her and the counter. When she rested her cheek against his chest, she could feel the anger in him, now that he’d mentioned it. Hear that edge in his voice, sense it in his posture. A woman who’d been married apparently never lost the ability to read a man.

  “What will you do?” she asked.

  He was quiet for a few interesting moments. In those moments, fatigue dragged at Julianna, made her eyes heavy, her breathing slow.

  “You need to sleep at the club,” Connor said.

  “You’re not making sense.” Neither was he sliding away, shooting his lacy cuffs, and snitching more jam.

  “When a fellow has stayed too late, drunk too much, lost too much, instead of stumbling home and ending up in the gutter, or worse, he gets a room at the club for the night. Often he keeps rooms there, for a fee. Will you take a nap while I finish making this cobbler?”

  Julianna pulled back to peer at him—a mistake. He still had lashes worthy of a newborn calf, was still tall enough that she had to look up at him, but now she knew what his smile looked like and exactly how warm his embrace could be.

  She pushed dark hair back from his brow. “You’ll ruin my cobbler, and it’s a double batch. The children would be so disappointed I’d never live it down.”

  He might have kissed her—she was certainly tarrying in kissing range for no discernible reason.

  “I wish I had an orange to give you, Mrs. St. Bellan. An entire basket, in fact. I’d like to help.”

  Now she stepped aside. “You’re in my way, sir.”

  He moved not one inch. “Here’s the problem. If I let on to my ducal solicitors where I am, they’ll tell Uncle Leo, who will effectively shut the purse strings for years and cause the equivalent of riot and mayhem in the Mowne dukedom. At least fourteen scandals will follow, and I’ll have no peace. I have a very limited budget myself, despite being the head of your family. Nonetheless, but for my mother’s meddling, your circumstances might admit of an orange or two.”

  “You feel guilty,” Julianna said, her anger directing itself at him, not at a husband long dead.

  “I feel responsible, and you will chastise me for it. How do I make this cobbler?”

  She pushed him one step to the left, and after resisting for a moment, he obliged. “How is your backside, sir?”

  “A mild throb that threatens to descend to an undignified itch. Can you spare me some paper?”

  “Yes. Without paper, I could not write to your mother, so I’m careful not to run out. If you’re truly intent on learning some culinary skills, then I’ll brew a pot of tea.”

  Because at the rate she was going, Julianna would never remain standing until the children were tucked in for the night. She explained where the writing supplies were as she made tea, allowing herself to use fresh leaves for the first time in three days.

  While Julianna sat at the worktable and swilled a lovely, strong, hot, sweet cup of tea, she instructed the duke on how to make a creditable cobbler, even without the dash of orange juice. He took direction surprisingly well, though Julianna spent her entire tea break wondering what sort of kisser he’d be.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Dear Tiger,

  I have need of some coin for reasons I’m not at liberty to disclose. Please post what you can comfortably spare to the Yorkshire inn named below. UDR. Enforce same on Her Grace BAMS. Freddy is well but has taxed my resources. Uncle threatening utter ruin, as usual. Moon and Stars send love, as do I, to you, Hector, and Quint. Mama must bear my ire, for now. SNM. C.

  The note was tiny, as befit one carried by a pigeon, but for all that, it was the most precious communication Antigone had received from her older brother in years.

  “Antigone! Antigone Charlotte Dardanella Josephine Marie! Open this door or have your mother’s complete collapse on your conscience.”

  Antigone’s cat yawned, for even the pets were inured to Mama’s histrionics. How Mowne stood Her Grace’s daily dramas was a mystery.

  “Coming, Mama!” Antigone tucked her brother’s note into her skirt pocket, for Mama could read upside down in far too many languages.

  “That boy!” Mama said, sweeping into the library. “That awful, mean boy. I try to help him, try to guide in him in the ways his sainted father no longer can, and what do I get? Read this!”

  Another tiny note was shoved at Antigone. Pity the poor pigeon who’d carried double the load.

  Your Grace,

  For the remainder of the Season, your allowance has been cut in half. If you ever read my mail again, your funds will be cut off entirely. Kirkwood has been asked for his resignation by post for having accommodated your meddling. Drummond’s livelihood hangs by a thread. I am very disappointed in you, madam. Complain to Uncle Leo of this development, and you will do so from the permanent comfort of the dower house. Mowne

  “You must write to him,” Mama said, stalking back and forth before the fire. She’d begun to apply henna to her flaming hair even before Antigone’s come out, but she was still an impressive figure. “He’s met some woman, and she’s put him up to this, I vow it. That Culpeper girl was the determined sort.”

  No woman in her right mind would take on Mama for an in-law, which fact probably accounted for Mowne’s continued bachelor status.

  “Mama, please have a seat, and I’ll ring for tea.”

  “Tea will not return my funds to me! Helen Gibbersley expects vowels to be paid immediately, as if we were officers on leave with nothing better to do than shoot at each other on foggy mornings. I will have my funds of that boy, or else.”

  UDR. The initials were a long-forgotten relic of the code developed among the ducal siblings and stood for Utmost Discretion Required.

  No whining to adults allowed, no turning to sympathetic servants. Sibling bonds alone would have to resolve the difficulty. Antigone had wondered in recent years if Mowne even recalled that among his dependents and responsibilities remained a trio of siblings in addition to Feckless Freddy.

  “Mama, how much do you owe and to whom?” Antigone asked.

  Her Grace named an appalling figure, though Antigone suspected it was accurate to the penny.

  “How much is owed to you?” Antigone asked.

  Mama’s hems swished to stillness around her slippers. “A duchess doesn’t bother with those amounts. I can’t very well ask for the sums to be paid, can I?”

  Mama meant well, most of the time, but she could become invested in
her own consequence to the exclusion of common sense. Antigone, on the other hand, loved puzzles, her brothers, and haggling with milliners. Freddy, Hector, and Quint all but ignored her, while Mowne paid her bills, admired her frocks, and escorted her when escort was needed.

  He also never, ever let her help with anything.

  “Mama, you will bring me your vowels, both those owed and those owing. You will not breathe a word of this to Uncle Leo, or he’ll applaud Mowne for cutting you off, and then where will you be? You recall how Leo was with Aunt Lillian?”

  Mama seated herself on a delicate gilt armchair, though for a woman of her statuesque proportions, the effect was not to enthrone a duchess so much as to put the penitent on the sinner’s stool.

  “Lillian was a flighty, nonsensical, interfering woman,” Mama said, twitching back her skirts the better to reveal intricate embroidery about the underskirt. “Leo chose poorly.”

  According to Con, Leo had married the love of his life and lost her too soon. An excess of concern for remaining family members had turned Leo penny-pinching and sour.

  “Mama, have you been reading Mowne’s mail?”

  Much sniffing ensued, and twitching of skirts, and shifting about on the chair. “A mother worries.”

  This mother worried mostly about gossip, tattle, and maintaining her position as the Duchess of Mowne—a dowager duchess being a far less powerful and interesting creature.

  The next acronyms in Con’s note had been equally intriguing: BAMS—By Any Means Suitable—and SNM.

  Show No Mercy, as when Lucere or Starlingham had committed some childhood offense that generated the sort of animosity of great moment to small boys. For the space of entire hours, the Sun, Moon, and Stars might stop talking to one another when in the grip of a childish pique.

  “You won’t read his mail again, will you?” Antigone pressed as the cat hopped onto the sofa beside her. King James was a grand specimen, all feline dignity and magnificent orange coat. “When Mowne makes up his mind, he cannot be reasoned with, and you have offended him beyond bearing.”

  Antigone had learned years ago not to leave her mail where Mama could even see it, coming or going. Why hadn’t Antigone warned Con about Mama’s snooping?

  “I have tried to assist your brother to step into his papa’s shoes. This is the thanks I get, when all I’ve done is sort through a few bits of correspondence.”

  Meaning Mama was reading nearly every letter to find its way to the ducal address.

  “You have cost Kirkwood his post,” Antigone said. “What would Papa think of that?”

  Kirkwood, the Mowne town house butler, had been old when Antigone had been born. He was a relic not of the former duke, but of Antigone’s grandfather—and was the duchess’s familiar among the staff.

  Mama withdrew an ornate double-ended scent bottle from her skirt pocket. “I’ll tell Kirkwood not to resign. Mowne is being dramatic. It’s a very unattractive trait in a person of high station. Very unattractive.”

  She took a significant whiff from one end of the bottle—more posturing, for lavender graced the library air, not the reviving spirits of ammonia the bottle likely also held.

  “What’s unattractive,” Antigone said, “is a mother undermining her own son’s authority under his very roof. Fortunately, the dower house at Mowne is lovely. I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable there, and your friends will visit you often.”

  Showing no mercy was downright enjoyable, even more enjoyable than haggling with milliners.

  Mama jammed her scent bottle back in its pocket. “Teasing your own mother is beneath you, Antigone Charlotte. I’ll not have it.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t tease, and you should never have read Mowne’s correspondence. Your friends won’t visit you, unless they’re pockets to let and need a repairing lease. Given the way your set gambles, that will be a frequent occasion for a few of them.”

  Mama rose to yank the bellpull. “I have raised a brood of vipers. Sharper than the serpent’s tooth, and whatever the rest of that quote is.” She appropriated the seat behind the estate desk in another artful rustle of skirts. “I must indulge your brother’s queer start for the nonce, nonetheless. I’m not about to hare off to Scotland to argue sense into his misguided head. I’m done trying to help, do you hear me? Done exerting myself to the utmost to ease his burdens every day in every way I can. What can we do about those vowels?”

  Drummond, the conscientious solicitor who handled disbursement of the family funds, would doubtless be relieved to hear of Mama’s latest sacrifice.

  “You’ll no longer have time to meddle with Mowne’s mail,” Antigone said. “I’ll tell you what to do about your vowels, and you will follow my directions to the letter.” Lucere and Starlingham had warned Antigone years ago about the perils of the casual IOU. “If you owe Helen Gibbersley fifty pounds, you send her Penelope Framingham’s note of hand for sixty, along with an apology for not being able to make an exact exchange. You thank Helen for her willingness to be a bit flexible, and trust your own note will come back from Helen by return post.”

  Mama left off poking through the desk drawers, closing the last with a bang. “One does this? One trades the vowels about? Are you sure? Do your brothers know how this is done?”

  The cat hopped off the sofa and strutted across the library.

  “One does so at a discount, so to speak, which is part of the danger of even making a note of hand. Your obligation can travel anywhere in Mayfair—or beyond—and the unscrupulous gambler can find herself owing an enormous sum to a party whom she’d rather not recognize in the street.”

  Mama’s horror was probably entirely genuine. “Anybody can collect on my notes?”

  Well, no. IOUs were not enforceable contracts, for they did not represent an exchange of consideration. They were a mere promise to pay, unsupported by legal weight. A debt of honor, in other words, which concept might tax Mama’s tenuous grasp of personal integrity.

  “Anybody can hold you accountable for the sums you owe, and Mowne has apparently already directed Drummond to reduce your pin money by half. Perhaps it’s time you did enjoy some Highland scenery, Mama.”

  Mama was a Lowlander, her people hailing from the Borders, though she seldom acknowledged those antecedents.

  “Scotland is relentlessly cold, young lady. The men are always flaunting their knees in those ridiculous kilts, and nobody sleeps properly during a Scottish summer. I’ll enjoy a few weeks’ respite at Mowne, and you may tell Drummond to direct my few remaining funds there.”

  Having ensured Mama would not inflict herself on Mowne in person, Antigone spent the next hour sorting out her mother’s finances, and then penning notes to Hector and Quint. Utmost Discretion Required meant only the St. Bellan siblings were to know of an epistle’s contents.

  The time had come to remind Hector and Quint that their older brother was more than simply the fellow who signed bank drafts, managed Mama, placated Uncle Leo, and kept Freddy from ruining them all.

  * * *

  Con waited nearly a week for Antigone’s reply, and during that week he felt shot in the arse all over again.

  Julianna worked without ceasing, an education in itself for a man who’d thought running a dukedom demanding. The household had a cook/housekeeper, but Con could not decide if that good woman had been let go, sent on an unpaid visit to relatives in York, or had chosen to take a summer holiday.

  Julianna, meanwhile, didn’t merely give orders, review draft correspondence, and stay out waltzing until all hours. She swept, washed, cooked, totaled ledgers, stitched, cooked some more, beat the rugs, cooked yet more…

  While Con tried to keep the children productively occupied and his hands to himself.

  His wound itched, his conscience positively tormented him, and his cock… became an increasing bother as well.

  “Make me a list, and I will go to market for you tomorrow,” Con said when the children had been put to bed with another story of Con’s
misspent youth.

  “You cannot,” Julianna replied, drawing her needle through the hem of Harold’s trousers. “MacTavish goes in to York to fetch your mail and bring Mrs. Periwinkle home to us tomorrow, and Maurice will escort me about at market. I consider that preferable to having him take me to services.”

  Between MacTavish’s silences, Julianna’s haunted gaze, and the children’s declarations that peat was better than coal, Con had concluded that nobody in the household liked Maurice Warren, but they dared not say so.

  “Julianna, if you don’t want this fellow sniffing about your skirts, you tell him his attentions are flattering, but you cannot in good conscience encourage them. He expresses his regret that he’s misread the situation, begs your pardon, and asks that you let him know if you’d ever reconsider. This is how it’s done, and there’s an end to it.”

  In the alternative, Connor could simply strut about in his ducal finery, wave the signet ring conspicuously, and let it be known Julianna was a valued relation of the Duke of Mowne. Even for a widow of independent means, Warren would be bound to reckon with her family before imposing his addresses on her.

  “It’s not that simple,” Julianna said, drawing the thread snug against the fabric. “Mr. Warren has been a friend to me and to this farm.”

  While Connor had been his mother’s dupe, kicking his heels two hundred miles to the south. To reveal his identity outside this household would invite Uncle Leo’s worst interference, though, and then where would Antigone, Hector, and Quint be? Where would the charities be that Connor supported from his own funds? The notes of hand he’d quietly bought for his friends until their own finances came right? The small pensions, and not so small, that Uncle Leo would never have approved?

  “Mr. Warren has lent you a few mules he can easily spare,” Connor said. “Any neighbor should do the same for a widow trying to make a go of good land. I’ve wondered where your neighbors have been, in fact.”