What to Do with a Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Finally he was so mad for her that he showed up for Sunday service.” Cordelia laughed. “We all thought the poor vicar was going to faint.”

  “And do you remember, Cordelia? As soon as the vicar said the final blessing, the men—and some of the women—rushed out to change their bets to favor marriage over a slip on the shoulder.”

  “So you see,” Cordelia said, leaning over to poke Cat’s arm. “Play your cards right, my dear, and you could be a duchess.”

  Cat jerked back out of Cordelia’s reach. “You can’t think . . . I would never . . .” How horrible to lure a man into marriage in any situation, but especially if he thought he’d die as a result. “I don’t want to be a duchess. I don’t want to be a wife.”

  “But would you mind being a widow?” Gertrude asked.

  Malcolm started wailing. Thank God.

  “We’ll have to continue the meeting next week. Perhaps we can be more productive then.” Viola had to shout to make herself heard over Malcolm. “And this time, everyone, please try to be prompt.” She looked directly at Cat.

  Cat nodded. She didn’t have time to argue the matter. She had to get to Anne.

  “You don’t really mean to apply for the Spinster House position, do you?” Jane was asking Anne when Cat reached them.

  “I certainly do.” Anne started for the door.

  “But why?” That was what puzzled—and, all right, infuriated—Cat. “You don’t need the Spinster House.”

  Anne glared at her. “Yes, I do.”

  “But your father’s a baron,” Jane said as they went outside.

  “A baron—yes. And a beef-witted, beetle-headed, coxcomb.” Anne’s voice was suddenly high and thin. She sniffed and blinked rapidly.

  Oh, dear. Anne was going to start crying, and she never cried. Something must be seriously amiss.

  “Did you see the legs on that man?”

  Gertrude Boltwood’s voice preceded her as she pushed open the inn door. It would be fatal if she and her sister saw Anne on the verge of tears.

  “Come on.” Cat grabbed Anne’s arm, and she and Jane towed her down the street.

  “Oh, lud,” Jane said, glancing back. “The Boltwoods are coming this way.”

  “Let’s go to the willow,” Cat said. Anne was still fighting tears. She needed to unburden herself, and the willow was where they had always gone to share secrets.

  They turned the corner and hurried down the narrow lane, over the stile at the stone fence, along the edge of Farmer Linden’s field—observed by a few placid cows and a sprinkling of sheep—and across the wooden bridge to the willow. Cat pulled Anne down to sit next to her on a bench someone had placed under the willow’s drooping branches ages ago, and Jane sat on Anne’s other side. The stream burbled comfortingly near their feet.

  “All right, Anne,” Cat said. “Tell us everything.”

  Anne fished her handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. “You already know Papa dragged me off to Viscount Banningly’s house party.”

  “Yes,” Cat and Jane said in unison.

  Anne had complained bitterly about it for weeks beforehand. On her twenty-sixth birthday several months ago, the baron had suddenly decided Anne was in danger of remaining permanently on the shelf. He’d started pushing her to attend ton house parties, and when he discovered she’d been spending more time reading in the library than trying to charm eligible men, he started attending with her.

  Anne sniffed and then gave up and blew her nose again. “Lud, how I hate those things. The men are dead bores. All they talk about are horses and hunting, and if they have a title or money—and most have at least one of those—they are even more insufferable, expecting you to bat your eyes and sigh and admire them. Faugh!” She pushed her hair out of her face and scowled. “And they look you over as if they’re at Tattersall’s and you’re a horse they’re considering buying.”

  “That sounds dreadful,” Cat said. But Anne had been to many parties over the years and had never come home in such a state. “Did one of them ask your father for your hand, then?”

  “No.” Anne’s mouth tightened. “It’s far, far worse than that.”

  “Good God!” Jane paled. “Never say someone . . . Surely your father being there would have kept anyone from . . .” Jane put a comforting hand on Anne’s arm. “Did some dastard try to take your virtue?”

  “Good God, no!” Anne shook off Jane’s hold. “Of course not. I’d like to see any man try. The fellow wouldn’t be able to sit a horse for many days afterward.”

  Jane scowled at Anne. “Then what is the problem?”

  “Papa!” Anne started crying again. “He’s a randy old goat who, at fifty, fancies himself a lusty lad of twenty.”

  “Oh.” Cat stared at Jane. Jane’s mouth was hanging open as wide as Cat’s must be. “But I thought he’d been seeing the Widow Conklin for that sort of thing.”

  The widow was an accommodating woman of indeterminate age who lived on the edge of Loves Bridge. She’d moved into her little cottage before Cat was born and had become very popular with the local men. It was doubtful that there had ever been a Mr. Conklin, but as the widow was pleasant and polite and never put herself forward—and refused to entertain married men without their wives’ permission—the village women accepted her without much complaint.

  “He had been,” Anne said, “but now he’s decided he’s in l-love. He wants to remarry.”

  “I see.” Jane looked at Cat for help.

  What was she to say? Neither she nor Jane had experience with this. Cat’s parents were still married, of course, and Jane’s parents had perished in a carriage accident when Jane was young.

  “Perhaps your father wants a companion for his old age, Anne,” Cat said. “He must be lonely.”

  Anne’s mother had died at the end of Anne’s first Season, almost ten years ago, so one might wonder why the baron suddenly felt the need for a wife.

  There was no comprehending the male mind.

  Anne glared at her. “Mrs. Eaton is Lord Banningly’s widowed, much younger sister. She’s only twenty-five—a year younger than I am.”

  “Oh.” Cat couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  Well, a single polite or helpful thing.

  She looked at Jane. Jane shook her head and shrugged. Apparently she had nothing to add either.

  “Papa wishes to get an heir, and Mrs. Eaton has two young sons. That is one of her main selling points.”

  “There are others?” Jane asked.

  Anne flushed. “I suppose she’s rather beautiful.”

  “I just can’t imagine your father telling you all this, Anne.” The baron could be gruff and sometimes tactless, but Cat wouldn’t have thought him callous.

  “He didn’t need to tell me. It was painfully obvious—he was casting sheep’s-eyes at the woman the entire party.”

  “Ah, but was the woman casting sheep’s-eyes back at him? If she’s not interested—and pardon me for saying so, but the baron is old enough to be her fa—” Jane caught herself and coughed. “That is, the baron is quite a bit older than she.”

  Anne balled her handkerchief tightly in her hand, her jaw hardening. “I suspect she is looking for a home for herself and her sons. She seemed perfectly willing to entertain Papa’s attentions. In fact—” Anne pressed her lips tightly together.

  Cat was afraid to ask, but Jane wasn’t.

  “In fact what?”

  “I stepped into the library one rainy afternoon, trying to avoid an especially annoying viscount, and found Mrs. Eaton on Papa’s lap, her bodice drooping and her skirts in disarray.”

  Eew!

  Blast, Cat hadn’t said that aloud, had she? No, she didn’t think so. And clearly it was exactly what Jane and Anne were thinking anyway.

  “So you see,” Anne said, “I have to win the Spinster House.”

  Marcus sat with Mr. Emmett in the castle study. It was the morning after he’d posted the notices. In just a few days, he could
leave Loves Bridge forever.

  Except there was a lot of work to be done first. His friends were right. Even the best steward wasn’t the same as the landowner.

  “Your Grace, if you will only look at this report, you will see that the drainage in the south field needs improvement.”

  The paper fluttered as if it were a captured bird in poor Emmett’s shaking hand. He waited for Emmett to lay it on his desk. He’d tried earlier to take something directly from the elderly steward, but that had seemed only to make the man’s infirmity more pronounced.

  “I can ride out with you to inspect the area, if you like, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Emmett.”

  He was not at all certain Emmett should be on the back of a horse. Miss Hutting had been correct: mentally, the man was as sharp as one could wish. His knowledge of the castle and its contents was encyclopedic. But physically . . .

  Physically he was probably in excellent shape for a man who was eighty years old. Hell, he’d be happy to be as fit as Emmett if he could hope to live to that age. But no matter how robust, an eighty-year-old man with a touch of the palsy should likely not be spending hours in the saddle, galloping around a vast estate.

  “This seems reasonable, but you are right—I probably should see the area myself.” Since he was stuck here until the Spinster House issue was resolved, he might as well use his time productively.

  “That would be splendid, Your Grace.”

  Good God, Emmett was almost bouncing in his chair. Was he really that eager to go look at some ditches?

  “That is, it is splendid that you are taking a personal interest in the land, Your Grace. I don’t mean to be critical—I completely understand why you’ve not wanted to visit the castle. But your tenants do sincerely wish to see you, if for no other reason than to see who it is their rents support.”

  Yes, he would grant he did owe them something for that.

  He regarded Emmett. Hmm. “When did you come to work at the castle, Mr. Emmett?”

  “When I was twenty, Your Grace.”

  So the man must have known his father and mother. Emmett could tell him if there was any truth to that harpy Mrs. Barker’s tale.

  Did he want to know about his parents?

  It felt cowardly not to inquire.

  “How old was my father when you arrived, Mr. Emmett?”

  “Seven, Your Grace, and his sister—your aunt, Lady Margaret—was twelve. Not that they spent much time here. The duchess preferred the London house.”

  “Of course.”

  Emmett sighed. “It is the way of it.”

  Marcus straightened the report Emmett had given him so it was at right angles to the edge of his desk. “And once my father reached his majority, did he take more of an interest in the estate?”

  He glanced back up to see Emmett frown, a blush coloring his wrinkled cheeks. Blast.

  “He came somewhat frequently, Your Grace, but not to attend to estate business, I’m afraid.”

  Ah. He could guess what sort of business his father had been attending to. “I encountered Mrs. Barker this morning, Mr. Emmett.”

  The man’s frown descended to a scowl. “That woman is most unpleasant.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  He should let the subject drop. Nothing good could come from poking into this long abandoned dunghill, and yet he found he didn’t like the notion that the villagers knew more about his family than he did.

  “She gave me the impression that my father visited Loves Bridge when he wanted some female, er, companionship.”

  He’d hoped he’d somehow misunderstood the woman, but Emmett was nodding.

  “Aye. I’m sorry to say it, Your Grace, but your father was a rake.”

  Zeus! His father had been more than a rake. It was one thing to frequent the beds of jaded London ladies who knew how the game was played. But consorting with village girls, especially when you were the lord of the manor? That was unconscionable.

  Apparently he came from a long line of blackguards.

  His aunt and uncle must have known what the man had been like. Had they told Nate? Was Marcus the only one in the dark?

  The scoundrel was his father. Someone should have told him the man’s history. It might have explained his mother’s absence....

  No. Nothing could explain that.

  Oh, God, what did it matter? His father could have been a saint. The curse would still have killed him.

  “I had such great hopes that your father had fallen in love with Clara,” Emmett was saying. “And Clara was so obviously in love with him.”

  Bloody hell, there it was again. Why did Emmett think his mother had loved his father?

  And why was he calling her by her Christian name?

  “How well did you know my mother, Mr. Emmett? I believe the Barker woman said she was new to the village.”

  “She was. She was Mrs. Watson’s brother’s daughter. Mrs. Watson used to be the village dressmaker here, and her brother had sent Clara to her to learn the trade, though I suspect the real reason was his new wife didn’t care to have the girl in her house. She was very beautiful.”

  “So Mrs. Barker said.” He’d never seen his mother. A painting hadn’t been done of her, or, if it had, it had been stuck away in an attic and forgotten. “I can’t imagine my father would have married an ugly woman.”

  “Yes, well, being beautiful and without funds isn’t easy for a woman.” Emmett frowned. “Watson was a particular friend of mine and shared the details of Clara’s visit over a pint. When the duke began to pursue her, Watson asked me to determine your father’s intentions, not that it was my place to ask such a thing. I tried once and was firmly rebuffed, and rightly so, I suppose. I am only the steward.”

  He’d always assumed his mother had trapped his father, but both the Barker woman and Emmett indicated otherwise.

  “The courtship was far too brief, in my view. And then they were married in the village church and went off to London. I believe—” He pressed his lips together. “Well, that is neither here nor there.”

  “What is neither here nor there, Mr. Emmett?”

  Emmett’s brow furrowed, and he leaned toward Marcus. “Your Grace, I know it is none of my concern, but, well, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t believe the duke treated Clara well.”

  “You think he beat her?” Good God, was there no end to his father’s perfidy?

  Emmett looked horrified. “Oh, no, Your Grace. Nothing like that. I think he merely went back to his old ways, frequenting brothels and the like. I suppose it was to be expected—he was a duke, after all—but Clara didn’t expect it. For her, marriage meant fidelity.” He shook his head. “She was only a country mouse, and an Irish one at that.”

  “The man knew what she was when he married her.”

  “Yes, but knowing and knowing are somewhat different, if you take my meaning. And, frankly, your father was too infatuated with Clara to think clearly . . . until he got what he wanted, that is.”

  Yes. His blasted father had been thinking with his cock instead of his head.

  “And there is this—I’ve often wondered if the curse didn’t cause your father to go a little mad both in pursuing Clara so single-mindedly and afterward, once he knew Clara was increasing.”

  Marcus could understand the dread—perhaps even the panic—his father must have felt. It could not be pleasant to have death breathing down your neck. He only hoped he’d find the courage to live with honor and dignity when his turn came.

  Emmett shifted in his chair. “I can’t lay all the blame at your father’s door, however. I expect Clara wed him thinking she could change him, and, of course, she soon discovered she couldn’t.” He sighed, shaking his head.

  “In any event, when she came back to Loves Bridge after he died, she wanted nothing to do with the dukedom. She even insisted on staying with the Watsons, but we were able to persuade her that would cause too much talk. The next duke had to be born in the castle.”

&
nbsp; So his mother had abandoned him because she held his father’s sins against him. Hell, of course she had. That’s what the curse was all about, wasn’t it? Punishing the heirs for the sin of the third duke.

  Emmett was fidgeting as if there was something else he wished to say.

  Might as well say it for him.

  “And then my mother took me to my aunt and uncle’s and left me there so she could be free of the curse at last.” On a dispassionate level, he could understand that. He’d get free if he could.

  Emmett’s eyes widened in what appeared to be shock. “No, that’s not what happened at all, Your Grace. Your aunt and uncle came here. They persuaded Clara that it would be best if she gave you to them to raise.”

  “What?!”

  That wasn’t possible. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Philip would never have done that. It was his mother who’d decided she didn’t want him.

  “Please try to understand, Your Grace.” Emmett’s rheumy eyes held his without wavering. “Clara had been dragged to London, away from the few people she knew, and thrust into a society that taunted her, both because of the curse and because of her Irish accent. Her husband ignored her, flitting from one woman’s bed to another, and when he died unexpectedly—”

  “Unexpectedly?!”

  “To Clara, Your Grace. She’d not really believed in the curse until then.” Emmett sighed, his shoulders drooping. “She came back to Loves Bridge brokenhearted, heavy and awkward with child. And then, just days after your birth, your aunt and uncle arrived. They were part of the world you were born to inhabit, a world that was completely foreign to Clara. Your uncle was even your guardian. So when your aunt said it would be best if they, in effect, adopted you, Clara agreed.”

  Good God, this turned everything on its head. “So are you saying my mother gave me up for my benefit?”

  Emmett sat back, clearly puzzled. “Of course. What other reason could she have had? She cried for days after your aunt and uncle took you away.”

  Emmett must be wrong. “That doesn’t explain why she hasn’t contacted me since.”

  “I suspect she thought you wouldn’t welcome it, Your Grace. I believe your aunt and uncle persuaded her it would be best if she forgot she’d ever given birth to you, that having an Irish mother would be worse than having no mother at all.” He shook his head. “I must admit, I didn’t agree, but then I know very little about the ton. And, if you’ll forgive me, what little I do know I cannot like.”