The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  “Why?” Her lips quirked. “Are we not having fun?”

  “We’re having far too much fun.”

  “These parties are supposed to be boring?” She lifted an eyebrow.

  He gave her a stern nod, well aware his eyes betrayed his humor. “Precisely. You’re meant to remark upon the weather, and I upon… the tea cakes…”

  “Good heavens, that is boring,” she replied with mock horror. “How does anyone find a match with conversations as dull as those? I should think marriage requires an understanding built upon something more substantial than weather and tea cakes.”

  He frowned. “I thought you weren’t looking for marriage.”

  She lifted her chin. “We established you were not.”

  His fingers tightened possessively. He tried to relax them. She was free to do as she pleased. “So you are on the hunt?”

  “It’s complicated,” she admitted. “And, as you may have noticed, not going very well.”

  He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think everyone has noticed.”

  He smiled at the eye roll she did not quite manage to hide. He did not smile at the twist to his stomach upon the news she was on the hunt for a husband.

  Not that he was available, he reminded himself. Good lord. What should have been an unremarkable waltz was becoming much more dangerous than he could have dreamed.

  He put a bit more distance between them. Tried to, anyway. “Do you dance often in America?”

  “Never.”

  “Then how did you learn to waltz?”

  “My grandparents hired a tutor when I arrived in London.”

  Grandparents! His lungs expanded with pleasure. He should not feel so victorious at having teased another personal detail from that rosy mouth but, well, there it was. Although, come to think of it, he hadn’t learned much. If there was no dancing in America, why would her grandparents have hired an instructor? And if her grandparents were British, what had she been doing in America? “Where do—”

  “York!” came a familiar voice at Oliver’s back as the last strains of the waltz faded away. “Introduce me to your friend.”

  The owner of the deep voice had to know that Miss Halton had not yet made any friends. Oliver turned to flash a cold smile at the Duke of Ravenwood. He was not a friend either. Not anymore. The war had changed them both for different reasons, and neither of them much liked who the other had become.

  “It’s Carlisle now,” Oliver corrected, his voice low and dangerous.

  Ravenwood flinched, as if the slight had been accidental rather than premeditated. “That’s right. I was very sorry to hear the news. The two of you weren’t close, but… A father is a father.”

  Oliver glared at him in silence. Anything said now would be disastrous to them both.

  Ravenwood turned his gaze toward the siren Oliver still hadn’t relinquished. “Does this delightful young lady have a name?”

  Oliver released Miss Halton’s hand. Their moment was clearly over. “Miss Halton, this is His Grace, the Duke of Ravenwood. Ravenwood, this is Miss Halton, of America.”

  Ravenwood lifted Miss Halton’s gloved hand to his parted lips. “The honor—and utter delight—are most assuredly mine, my dear lady. May I have the pleasure of your company during the next set?”

  Oliver kept his hands at his sides. The giant stick up Ravenwood’s arse would keep him from putting Miss Halton’s honor in any danger. And it was time to slip back into the library and check on Xavier. Perhaps he would finally come around.

  Miss Halton, for her part, was gazing at Ravenwood, her eyes filled with suspicion, not seduction. Very wise. She’d gone from no dances at all, to being on the arm of both an earl and a duke in quick succession.

  The gaggle of nervous young bucks lining up behind them for a chance to add their names to her dance card? Also Oliver’s fault. When he’d sought to save Miss Halton’s precarious reputation from the evil of wagging tongues, he’d acted as Oliver York, rescuer of people who wished he’d leave them alone. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten that he was now the Earl of Carlisle, as well as a decorated war hero whom these dandified imbeciles had been emulating from the moment Oliver strode back ashore.

  Having won both Ravenwood’s and Oliver’s attentions, Miss Halton would no longer be in want of dance partners.

  Ravenwood passed Miss Halton’s dance card to the next addlepate in line, but was not so quick to release her hand. “However did you meet an old caterpillar like Carlisle?”

  Oliver’s smile froze as he flashed Miss Halton a warning look. He knew they should’ve got their stories straight when they’d had the chance.

  She blinked up at Ravenwood innocently. “Didn’t he tell you? We’ve known each other a shocking length of time. If you can credit it, Lord Carlisle is even the first man I ever danced with.”

  Ravenwood shot a surprised glance at Oliver, who was struggling not to smile at Miss Halton’s clever response. Every word was true, yet gave the impression they’d known each other for ages. Which, given that he and Ravenwood had known each other all their lives, would mean Oliver had been keeping her a secret for decades. Splendid idea, that. He wished she were his secret. He found himself quite disinclined to share.

  He grinned at Miss Halton until the butterflies in his stomach churned into nausea. He was sinking fast. With a gallant bow, he broke free of her web and forced himself to walk away from those enchanting green eyes. Far, far away.

  He could not dare risk his heart.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, after giving up on deciphering the incoherent handwriting in his father’s innumerable estate journals, Oliver tied his horses on Threadneedle Street for a meeting with his father’s banker. He had returned home in mid-December but hadn’t been able to secure an appointment until after Christmastide. It was just as well, he supposed. He’d needed those few weeks to adjust to the loss of his father and the disorientation of being back in England after three long years at war.

  He’d missed the probate proceedings altogether, and his father’s solicitors—whomever they might be—had disappeared before Oliver returned home. He was wholly alone.

  When he’d been cleaning weapons or charging across battlefields, he’d dreamed of the idle carelessness of his old life. Boxing matches at Gentleman Jackson’s. Quick afternoon visits to Tattersalls to bid on the latest horseflesh. Lazy evenings at the pleasure gardens or in bed with his mistress.

  But he hadn’t come home to any of those things. Hadn’t even thought about them since the moment he held his father’s coronet in his knife-scarred hands. Leading troops was so much simpler than managing an earldom. Soldiers were trained. Heirs were…accidental.

  He had come to London determined to make the best of it. Being back in the city meant Oliver finally had a chance to find someone capable of explaining the earldom to him in the King’s English. Or at the very least, make sense of the charts of accounts. He strode into the Bank of England with his shoulders back and his head held high.

  Unfortunately, the portly Mr. Brown couldn’t seem to make sense of Oliver’s presence in his office.

  “Young…Master…York?” he gasped, sounding as if he’d perhaps swallowed a pheasant.

  “It’s Carlisle now,” Oliver found himself explaining for the second time in as many days. “I’m sure the bank received notice of my father’s unfortunate passing?”

  “Yes…Yes…Of course we have done…” Mr. Brown’s feeble reply faded away, but his eyes remained round as cannonballs.

  “Did the accounts not transfer to me, then? Are there forms I need to sign, evidence to provide?”

  “No…Everything is yours, of course. Such that it is. Of course. I’m just… It’s such a surprise that you’re here, that’s all. Such a surprise. What with the probate report, you know.”

  Oliver shifted in his suddenly uncomfortable chair. It didn’t seem like a good surprise. Nor had he encountered any reports. His father’s financial records
were a disaster. “You were not expecting to meet with me?”

  “Er, no. Obviously we were not. Meet about what? In situations like these, that is.”

  “In situations like what?” Oliver demanded, his muscles clenched as tight as his jaw. “Situations in which an heir inherits his father’s holdings? My schedule for the next few weeks is filled with appointments. I’m meeting with everyone in charge of everything. Why wouldn’t I meet with the bank?”

  “B-because there are no holdings,” Mr. Brown stammered. “Your father closed his account with us after he sold the last of the unentailed properties. All that’s left is the principle seat. I’ve no idea how your father was paying his retainers or caring for his tenants these last months.” Mr. Brown narrowed his eyes. “Unless there’s another account at another bank?”

  Another bank? The buzzing in Oliver’s ears increased to a roar as his fists tightened painfully. One of the few phrases he’d managed to make out on the first page of each journal was “Bank of England.” This could mean only one thing.

  “There are no other accounts.” The weak voice that scraped from Oliver’s hoarse throat didn’t sound like his own.

  Mr. Brown nodded jerkily, then gave a what-can-you-do lift to his hands. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lord. If that’s the case, there’s no money. Unless you’ve funds of your own to invest…?”

  Oliver shook his head. Or tried to. His shoulders were too tight, his neck too corded. He gritted his teeth. Lovely. His father had left the son he’d never wanted alone and penniless. His lips flattened. Checkmate from beyond the grave.

  All soldiers left the army with coin in their pockets when they sold their commissions, but Oliver had already spent his on the town house he had rented in Mayfair. There was none left over for salaries or tenants or—good lord, the tailor! The bill he’d accumulated when outfitting Xavier and himself in the first stare of fashion would rival the rents he had paid for his London town house. He gripped the arms of his chair as if he might explode at any moment.

  Now what? He couldn’t undo all that labor, or make good on any of his debts. The food—where was the food coming from? The tenants, most likely. No wonder his father’s liquor supply had dwindled. Oliver had thought the menservants were judging him for going from the battle to the bottle, but there was simply no money left to spend. His breath caught.

  The staff! How long would they remain in his employ, once they discovered he could ill afford to keep them? Had they imagined excuses for why their wages were late, expecting the new heir to settle accounts with them at any moment?

  His heart raced. He wasn’t protecting his tenants, he was stealing from them. And using his servants as free labor until they wised up enough to take themselves to the street. Penniless. Just like him.

  He slammed his fist onto the banker’s table. Untenable. But what could he do? He didn’t have tuppence to wager at the gaming hells, or much hope of marrying into the kind of fortune he’d need just to break even with debts of this size. An earldom! The Carlisle estate didn’t need an heiress, it needed a royal princess. And a magic lantern, just to be safe.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” No. He tried to rein in his anger. This wasn’t Mr. Brown’s fault. Blame didn’t matter. All of it—the estate’s every debt, every brick, every tenant—was Oliver’s responsibility.

  “Your father didn’t involve you in his affairs because…” Mr. Brown straightened his documents rather than meet Oliver’s eyes. “Frankly, you weren’t expected to live.”

  Oliver leaned forward, startled. “What? When? During the war?”

  “When you were born. Your mother died of fever, and you were quite small and sickly.”

  “Twenty-six years ago! At what point would I be considered healthy enough to be let in on the secret?”

  “It’s…not secret.”

  The back of Oliver’s neck chilled. “Everybody knew the estate was doomed but me? How is that even possible?”

  Mr. Brown shook his head. “The situation didn’t become desperate until the final weeks of your father’s life. The earldom’s lack of funds may not yet be common knowledge, but…Your father couldn’t continue to pay his last mistress. Now that he’s gone, who knows what pillow talk she’ll have with her next protector? If you’ll pardon my bluntness.”

  Shite on a shingle. Mr. Brown’s bluntness was the least of Oliver’s problems.

  His father had died in his final mistress’s bed, the infamy of which had vaulted her to the pinnacle of the demimonde. Oliver doubted she’d waited five minutes before sharing every salacious detail with her demimondaine friends, who in turn would do the same with their upper-crust clients, and the next thing you knew, all of London would have heard that Oliver’s papa didn’t just die of prawn salad. He’d died poor. Leaving Oliver the least eligible bachelor in England.

  Are your pockets to let? the delectable Miss Halton had asked the night before. Was that an innocent question, or was the truth becoming known?

  No, he reminded himself. He hadn’t introduced himself yet, so there was no way Miss Halton had matched his face to any rumors.

  He hoped.

  Oliver pushed himself up on stiff legs and muttered his farewells. He blindly made his way out of the bank and onto the street. He had wasted enough of Mr. Brown’s time. And his own.

  The past few months had been one nightmare after another. He’d lost his father, his best friends. So much death in so little time.

  At least he had no dependents to care for. The four friends had marched off as free men and returned home avowed to stay that way. Except for Edmund, who hadn’t returned at all. Thank God the man hadn’t married his childhood sweetheart before heading into battle. Sarah Fairfax was far too young to be a widow. Not that anything lessened the pain.

  Come to think of it, Oliver hadn’t seen Miss Fairfax even once since he’d returned to Town. His heart twisted. Although a fiancée wasn’t expected to don widow’s weeds for a full year like a wife would, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn Sarah Fairfax had done. Oliver himself would probably never remove his black armband.

  They’d all lost too much.

  He crossed his arms and shivered against the January cold. He could pay her a call, check in. A friendly face would be welcome right about now, and they could both use a break from their misery. He couldn’t recover an earldom in one day. Spending the afternoon with someone who didn’t expect him to be anyone but himself sounded divine.

  As he swung up into his carriage, he decided his second errand after visiting Miss Fairfax’s town house ought to be finding a stable to take his barouche and his prized pair of grays off his hands. Were there any other horses or carriages to sell, or had his father already rid himself of the lot? His arms broke out in gooseflesh. Perhaps even the grays would not bring in enough blunt to staunch the flow.

  How many servants could Oliver let go without the house falling down about his ears? His cheeks burned at what they must think. Some of the staff had been with his family for generations. Their great-grandparents had shined boots and curled hair for Oliver’s great-grandparents. He would write glorious letters of recommendation for all of them, but how could he ever repay them for staying as long as they had with no income? By tossing them to the gutters with nothing more than a spare pair of clothes and a note of commendation in their pockets?

  Chapter 5

  Berkeley Square, at last! Oliver leapt from his carriage. He had never been so happy to see Sarah Fairfax’s gated garden in his life. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off of his impossible situation, even for a few hours.

  He made good use of the brass knocker. Within seconds the door cracked open, revealing an inch and a half of the Fairfax butler’s familiar face. He did not miss the flash of pain in the butler’s eyes.

  Oliver frowned. Primble had never hesitated to throw the door wide for any of the friends. Yet he continued to block the way. Oliver rubbed the base of his neck as he waited for an invitation tha
t was obviously not forthcoming.

  “What is it? Is Miss Fairfax unwell?” His throat went dry. He pushed past the butler, despite any risk of contagion to himself. A humorless smile curled his lips. What risk? He’d already planned not to continue the family line. A timely demise was probably the best he could do for the Carlisle estate. “Sarah? Are you ill? It’s Oliver. Where are you?”

  Hesitant shuffles sounded from behind a tri-paneled embroidered screen. After a fraught moment of silence, she threw herself, sobbing, into Oliver’s arms.

  Er, sort of. They were separated by an extra fourteen inches of…belly.

  He stared at the top of her head in dawning horror. Pregnant. No wonder he hadn’t seen her about Town. She couldn’t leave her home. This was a hundred times worse than simple mourning. This was—

  “Edmund’s baby,” she choked out brokenly, looking up at him with huge bloodshot eyes above puffy black circles. She probably hadn’t slept since she got the news. Either piece of news.

  Bloody hell.

  “How—? When—?”

  “Bruges,” she supplied, smiling through her tears. “He had one day of leave shortly before you were all sent to Waterloo, so I met him in Bruges. It’s supposed to be the Venice of Belgium, and it’s ever so lovely. Edmund and I…Edmund and I…We were to be married!” She wrenched herself from Oliver’s arms and thumped down onto the closest chair, her sobs in her throat and her face in her hands. “I was meant to have him forever, and now all that I’ll ever have is his bastard baby!”

  “Don’t—” talk like that, he had been about to say. But she was right. Damn. He thought back. They’d gone to Waterloo in early June, and it was now early January. Seven months. Sarah Fairfax was unwed and pregnant by a dead man. At two-and-twenty, her life was over. Oliver sank into the chair opposite her and reached for her hands. “Who knows?”

  “The servants, of course. My parents. And now you.” She glanced up at him with a wry smile. “Why? Are you going to offer for me? Another couple months and I’ll have one pip of a dowry.”