The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  “Poor thing has apparently drawn charitable duty again,” Sir Fletcher said, “for that’s the new Duke of Murdoch at the reins. I do believe His Grace is pulling that phaeton with draft stock.”

  The beasts put to were at least matched, both chestnuts with four white socks, but they were far from the sleek Dutch trotters one expected a duke to drive.

  “Hamish MacHugh owns two thriving breweries,” Puget said, again turning his horse to the left. “He fought like a demon for Britain, no matter what the mess hall gossip was about conduct unbecoming an officer or desertion. As far as I’m concerned, he can drive any pair he pleases to drive.”

  “Megan isn’t wearing those ghastly spectacles, so she can’t see you, Puget,” Sir Fletcher said gently. Puget had seen a great deal of Megan’s handwriting, and for him, that was tantamount to peering at a person’s soul—a curse, when a man was plagued with a conscience.

  “She’s sitting rather close to the duke for a woman doing charitable duty,” Puget said. “But then, Murdoch takes up a lot of the bench. I saw them walking out last week with some of her cousins. Does that make you nervous?”

  Puget would enjoy the thought that Sir Fletcher’s marital prospects were tenuous. “Megan will never play me false.” Sir Fletcher need not say more, not to Puget.

  The phaeton rattled past twenty yards away, an incongruously delicate vehicle drawn by enormous horses with the hairy feet and coarse heads of the least refined specimens ever to qualify as equines. The sight should have been laughable, but with a duke at the ribbons, nobody would offer public ridicule.

  “Don’t underestimate yonder Scot,” Puget said. “Hamish MacHugh disobeyed direct orders and the generals left him alone because the French were terrified of him. My men said when the French caught him, they let him go because he was too dangerous to hold. Every Scotsman in the army would have personally avenged MacHugh’s death ten times over had the French let him come to harm.”

  If an army could advance on the strength of soldiers’ gossip, Wellington would have flown over the whole of Spain in a week.

  “Scotsmen like to kill things, Puget, and if nobody else obliges them, they kill each other. The French exaggerate, and should anybody need a reminder of Hamish MacHugh’s violent nature, I—who witnessed his brutality firsthand—will happily provide same.”

  Sir Fletcher had done some of that reminding in the card rooms last night. Never hurt to reminisce about old times with fellow veterans, after all. MacHugh’s younger brother was tagging along on this London trip, and Sir Fletcher had a nagging sense that one would cause trouble.

  Sir Fletcher had once sent Colin MacHugh from camp on a goose chase—typical prank among bored officers—and the whole business hadn’t ended well. Everybody in the officer’s mess had agreed that the Scots were singularly lacking in gentlemanly humor.

  “Miss Megan might be too good for the Scot,” Puget said, “but she deserves better than you.”

  “Of course she does,” Sir Fletcher replied, for the time had come to end this outing. “All the ladies deserve better than the fate life hands them, which is why I will make her an excellent husband. I’m mindful of the good luck that’s coming my way.”

  Megan hadn’t been exactly smiling from her perch beside Murdoch, but such was her refinement that she hadn’t looked grim either. Without the dreadful glasses, she was pretty enough, despite that red hair.

  “You’re very sure of your future,” Puget said as they drew nearer to the noise and bustle of Park Lane. “Very sure the Windhams will look favorably on your suit.”

  “I’m to meet with the lady’s papa on Monday afternoon, and I hope to convince his lordship that I offer Megan a love match, in the great Windham tradition. She’s a shortsighted, plain spinster with red hair. She knows she could do much worse.”

  Particularly if she attempted to refuse Sir Fletcher’s proposal.

  Megan’s Monday afternoon had not gone well, and her evening was turning into a disaster.

  “You will please spare a dance for Garner Puget,” Sir Fletcher said as he bowed over her hand. “If he’s seen dancing with a Windham, then he won’t look as presumptuous for standing up with Lady Pamela.”

  Megan curtsied, though fatigue weighted her limbs. The social season was exhausting, and for the past few nights she’d slept miserably. Garner Puget was a good dancer, though he had an unhappy mien and little conversation.

  “The hostesses and matchmakers generally see to apportioning the bachelors among the wallflowers,” Megan said as the orchestra struck up the introduction for the supper waltz. “Lady Halstrop and her sisters are conscientious in that regard.”

  As conscientious as hungry raptors flying over a freshly scythed hayfield. No single gentleman would sit out a dance if the matchmakers could arrange it otherwise. Megan had seen the Duke of Murdoch twirling down the dance floor earlier in the evening, though not for the past hour.

  “If your attention were any more fixed on that clock,” Sir Fletcher said, “I’d think you had an assignation, Megan, my dear.”

  Megan did have an assignation. Tomorrow morning, she desperately hoped to entertain Murdoch in her mama’s best parlor, and to retrieve from His Grace every single letter she’d written to Sir Fletcher Pilkington.

  “I’m tired,” she murmured. “Meaning no disrespect to present company, but my feet ache.” As did her head and her heart.

  The waltz began, Sir Fletcher pulled Megan too close, and they moved off. To anybody observing, Sir Fletcher would be a dashing, besotted fellow, quietly enraptured by the lady in his arms. He smiled sweetly, his gaze was devoted, and his partnering only a bit presumptuous.

  Megan wanted to presume her last cup of punch all over his snow-white cravat.

  “Poor darling,” Sir Fletcher crooned, loudly enough for the couples nearby to overhear. “Of course, you’re exhausted. If you’d rather leave the dance floor we can enjoy the gardens instead.”

  God, no. Megan knew what Sir Fletcher was capable of in a moonlit garden or a secluded alcove.

  “If I were to sit out a dance, it wouldn’t be the waltz.” Not the waltz promised to Sir Fletcher in any case. “Is that Lady Pamela dancing with Mr. Puget now?”

  “You truly can’t see them?” Sir Fletcher asked, his tone quite un-besotted.

  “Lady Pamela is carrying a blue fan and wearing a peach-colored gown tonight, so I assumed it was she. I cannot discern features at this distance.” Megan could tell that her admission annoyed Sir Fletcher, though.

  “See that you don’t pass on this miserable eyesight to my children,” he said. “As long as you bear me sons, my father will deal generously with me, but I don’t fancy the notion of my offspring sporting about in blue spectacles.”

  Then marry somebody else. Megan couldn’t say that, not until she had her letters back.

  “I am the only Windham with any significant impairment of vision or any other faculty, Sir Fletcher.” Anwen was shy to a fault, but shy women bore healthy babies every day. “You needn’t worry about the trait showing up in your progeny.”

  In Megan’s progeny, perhaps.

  “You do look fatigued,” Sir Fletcher said, turning Megan under his arm. “You’re not thinking of dodging off to Wales with your parents, are you?”

  Well, yes, she had been. When Sir Fletcher had closeted himself with Papa for a half hour earlier in the day, Megan had been ready to dodge off anywhere rather than risk appearing for tonight’s ball.

  “My parents prefer to make those journeys without benefit of their daughters’ company.” She used the next turn to reestablish a proper distance from her partner.

  “Is it my imagination, or are there more Windhams in evidence this season than in previous years?” Sir Fletcher was brandishing his smile again, while his gaze remained calculating. “I’ve seen more of Keswick, Rosecroft, Deene, and your cousins these past two weeks than during last year’s entire season.”

  Megan had her suspicions regarding what M
urdoch had called a gathering of the Windham clan. Her theory ought to make her sisters nervous, for it was certainly no comfort to her.

  “I am not the only unmarried Windham,” she said. “Their Graces take matchmaking seriously, and have likely assembled the family with that situation in mind.”

  Sir Fletcher laughed the golden, public laugh that made Megan’s insides curdle, especially when she’d said nothing humorous.

  “You will not remain unmarried much longer, my dear. I met with your papa today.”

  And Papa, the wretch, hadn’t even warned Megan the appointment had been made.

  “Papa has yet to apprise me of the nature of your exchange. Had my sisters not told me of your call, I’d have no notion you’d come by.”

  Sir Fletcher steered Megan too close to the edge of the dance floor, for she nearly bumped into Joseph, Earl of Keswick.

  “Then you will find the time to speak with your papa privately,” Sir Fletcher said, “and before he chases your mama into the Welsh countryside. It’s disgraceful, a couple that age making an annual wedding journey. You and I will have more decorum, once you provide me with a few sons.”

  Oh, yes, Sir Fletcher. At once, Sir Fletcher. Three healthy boys by Christmas, Sir Fletcher.

  He would happily see Megan die in childbed, if it meant he bested his brothers in the race to provide the old earl a potential heir. As Megan had tossed and turned last night away, she’d concluded that Sir Fletcher’s impetuous wooing years ago had been more about that race than preparing for this subsequent courting-by-blackmail.

  Westhaven went twirling by, his countess in his arms. Megan knew them by how they danced as a couple, by their absolute unity of movement.

  “I do not speak for my father’s schedule, Sir Fletcher. I have been available to him, but you must allow for the notion that his lordship has a mind of his own. He’s a duke’s son, after all.”

  The relevant truth was even simpler. Papa and Mama were partners in all matters of significance, and Papa would not have given Sir Fletcher leave to court Megan without first consulting Mama.

  And Mama, bless her soul for all eternity, was preoccupied with preparations for the upcoming journey.

  “Lord Anthony will consult you regarding the acceptability of my addresses?” Sir Fletcher seemed puzzled by such consideration.

  Of course Papa would. “Mama might have you in mind for one of my sisters, or have another arrangement under consideration for me. If Papa didn’t give you a direct answer, he had reasons of his own.”

  Sir Fletcher studied Megan for the duration of two eight-measure phrases. The waltz was in a minor key, which made the dance more dramatic and haunting. She’d never hear this tune again without feeling a sense of dread bordering on panic.

  “You will approach your father at breakfast tomorrow,” Sir Fletcher said. “Demand to know why I met with him, express your rapturous support for my suit. An announcement must be made soon, and a date set not long after that if I’m to put a babe in your belly before the shooting begins in August.”

  Lovely. First take aim at the wife, then at the grouse. A fine set of priorities. Sir Fletcher would be at Megan incessantly once he married her, and no earthly power could preserve her from his demands.

  “I will do my best to accost Papa at the very next opportunity.” Megan would also do her best to ensure no such opportunity arose.

  The waltz built toward its final crescendo, which afforded Sir Fletcher an excuse to lean closer. He smelled of roses, but beneath that Megan picked up old sweat and stale tobacco. His breath was foul, and dancing this closely, Megan could see that Sir Fletcher’s artfully styled golden locks had already begun to recede.

  “I have considered compromising you,” he said, “in the interests of dispensing with all of this posturing and preening. I still might. My creditors are not a patient lot.”

  Panic became real for an instant, a sense of all the air disappearing from Megan’s lungs, all the reason deserting her mind. Blind flight from the dance floor and even from England loomed as the only solution to the problems her lack of judgment had created.

  She was on the point of jerking out of Sir Fletcher’s arms—what a scandal that would cause!—when sanity reasserted itself. At that very moment, Murdoch might already have retrieved her letters. She might have won free through the good, stealthy offices of an ally she could never have anticipated relying on even two weeks ago.

  “You have already compromised me, Sir Fletcher,” Megan said. “Announcing that fact now will reflect on your family as well as mine. You have unmarried sisters as well as older brothers who need wives, and you are one dance away from being branded a fortune hunter. Show yourself to be the scapegrace younger brother, and your papa might well cut you off. Moreland could send me to the country to repent of my supposed sins rather than grant us leave to marry.”

  The dance came to an end, and Megan dropped into the expected curtsy. Sir Fletcher drew her up, and waited while other couples filed off the dance floor.

  “Such a sensible little thing you are,” he said, patting her hand. “I have, of course, already weighed those factors, which is why I await your father’s leave to court you. See that my patience is rewarded, my dear, or it will go the worse for you. I can spread enough rumor to ruin you without creating scandal outright.”

  His smile was indulgent, his caresses to Megan’s hand made her skin crawl. She sent up a prayer for Murdoch’s skills at thievery, and smiled right back.

  Chapter Nine

  Megan Windham’s recall of the Pilkington townhouse had been blessedly accurate. She’d drawn Hamish a map, right down to where a portrait of dueling fencers hung and on which side of the library fireplace the hearth tools stood.

  Noisy business, when cast iron pokers went clattering against the bricks.

  The third window Hamish tried—the family parlor—had been carelessly closed, so the latch had been easy to coax open. The rest had been a matter of hoisting, twisting, and silently cursing while praying the floorboards wouldn’t creak.

  The library desk was locked, which gave Hamish hope that, indeed, Megan’s letters were secreted therein. He’d inserted a pick into the keyhole and begun the delicate process of easing the mechanism open when a question rang out through the darkness.

  “Are you a thief?”

  Hamish straightened slowly, searching the shadows of the darkened library. “Of course not, miss.”

  The girl shifted her doll from one hip to the other. Hamish would put her age at about seven. Too old to suck her thumb, too young to be entirely fearless in the dark. Her nightgown was a pale swath in the gloom, and her blonde hair caught the moonlight coming through the library window.

  A fairy sprite, and every Scotsman knew fairies were the embodiment of mischief.

  “If you’re not a thief, what are you?”

  Hamish was in trouble. Great, awful trouble. “I’m the new footman. Name’s Thomas. Just started today.”

  The girl skipped into the library, smiling hugely. “Why aren’t you in livery?”

  A bright child—confound the luck. “I’m too big. Had to have a new kit made up, and it’s not back from the tailor’s yet. That’s a lovely dolly. What’s her name?”

  “Harold. She’s contrary, like me. I’m Lady Geneva. Why is it dark in here, Thomas?”

  “Saves coin to leave the candles unlit when the family’s out. Is wee Harold up past her bedtime, milady?”

  Delicate lashes lowered. “Will you peach on us?”

  Before Hamish had been a soldier, before he’d been head of the family, a brewery owner, a duke, or anything, he’d been an older brother.

  Thank the kind powers, he knew what this child wanted.

  “I could be sacked for not doing my duty and reporting your wanderings,” he said, crouching to address the girl at eye level. “I shouldn’t like to be sacked. My family would be disappointed that I’d lost my new job already, but Harold ought not to wander the house by herself.
”

  Lady Geneva climbed onto a sofa, standing barefoot on the cushions. “Do you have older sisters?”

  “Younger sisters, milady. Your sisters are older?”

  She heaved such a sigh as ought not to come from one so small. “They get to go out dancing, and my brothers go out too, but they play cards and sometimes they get sore heads. Do you know how to play cards?”

  “I’ve played a game or two. Someday you’ll go out dancing too, Lady Geneva. You’ll have pretty dresses and adventures.”

  Dresses alone wouldn’t do for this one, God help her parents.

  She swung Harold in a wide arc, as if sweeping around a dance floor, and nearly knocked a lamp over.

  “I want to waltz at Almack’s,” she said. “So does Harold. I’m very pretty. Papa tells me so all the time. Mama used to be pretty, and my sisters have pretty dresses. They want to get married.”

  “Does Harold want to get married?”

  “No!” Geneva punctuated her reply with a few emphatic bounces on the sofa cushions. “She wants a pony of her own, so she doesn’t have to wait until Fletcher takes her up on his horse, and walks up and down the mews with her. Fletcher is my spoiled brother. Frank is lazy, and Theodore is a disappointment. Martin is the heir. I’m to call him Lord Paltrow.”

  Hamish caught the child mid-bounce and affixed her to his hip. “Spoiled brothers are the very devil. I haven’t any, and I’m grateful for that. I hope you aren’t spoiled?”

  “Not yet. Neither is Harold, but she’s cross sometimes.” Geneva fiddled with the lapel of Hamish’s coat—a dark garment for a dark errand. “Fletcher forgets. He says he’ll take me up on his horse, and then he rides off and forgets. He’s busy.”

  Now there was an understatement. “Hadn’t you better take Harold back up to bed before any of your brothers or sisters come home and find you’ve left the nursery?”

  “You smell good. Do you know how to tell time, Thomas?”