The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  “I told you I wanted the supper waltz,” Puget muttered. “Lady Pamela said all she could risk was the allemande. Your parents are negotiating on her behalf with some northern earl who seldom comes to Town but needs a nanny for his wards. I won’t have it, Pilkington.”

  “Sir Fletcher, if you please. You shall have it, unless Pamela agrees to run off with you, and that she will not do.” The morning air became perfumed with true love’s frustration, about which Sir Fletcher did not care. “I need more money.”

  “You just came into fifty damned pounds. How can you spend fifty pounds in a week?”

  Sir Fletcher tipped his hat to the new Duchess of Quimbey, who was accompanied by an enormous dog. A footman led a second, equally sizable canine a few yards behind her.

  “A single gentleman of good breeding has needs, Puget, especially during the season. Your papa’s an earl. Must I draw you pictures?”

  “Fifty pounds would keep some families for a year.”

  “You don’t say. Thank you for that fascinating revelation. I, by contrast, need an infusion of cash by this time next week.”

  Puget walked along in silence for a dozen yards. He wasn’t a bad sort, but neither was he particularly clever, despite claiming a host of artistic abilities. A clever man with Puget’s skills would have forged his way to the funds necessary to wed the fair Pamela by now. At the very least Puget could have been immortalizing aging duchesses on canvas—or their flatulent pugs. Sporting portraits might also have netted him a solid income, provided he wasn’t offended by the stench of sweat.

  “You have no intention of aiding my cause where your sister is concerned, do you?”

  The only cause Sir Fletcher was interested in aiding was his own. While spreading rumors about a certain Scottish duke, Sir Fletcher had been drawn into a few card games, and luck had run against him. The result had been more than a week of dodging invitations, for debts of honor were to be paid promptly.

  “I have supported your efforts where Pamela is concerned, else you’d not be permitted even an allemande. True love is supposed to be determined, Puget. I can’t do all the work, nor can I remedy your fundamental unsuitability in my father’s eyes. That will take coin or at least a gentlemanly means of support, which brings me back to the topic at hand.”

  “I won’t do it,” Puget said. “I’ve told myself that no sacrifice is too great if it means Lady Pamela and I can be together, but a dance here and there, while Lady Pamela is paraded like a prize mare before some bumpkin from Cumberland—”

  Pammy was more of a heifer, sturdy and hale. “I’ll have a word with the bumpkin, tell him Pamela is prone to megrims and tantrums, which is nothing but the truth. She requires a fortune in bonnets and boots too, and puts a significant dent in Cook’s larders. Leave the bumpkin to me, and have another fifty pounds in my hand by week’s end.”

  Puget paused at the street corner, his gaze traveling back across the square. “She said she’d meet me here before noon.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Noon was at least a half hour away. “Puget, attend me. Find some other former officer to fleece by week’s end, or you’ll have danced your last allemande with my sister.”

  “There are no other officers, Pilkington. I’ve racked my brain, combed through my journals and old records. You’ve dipped into the pockets of the ones with both coin and a propensity for drink and cards. The list is shorter than you’d think.”

  Probably true, because many who’d mustered out were now leg-shackled, and that could cramp a man’s social habits abominably.

  “Who is in Town this year that normally ruralizes for the season?”

  Puget paid attention to the social scene. A younger son without means had to. “More Windhams than usual, but Keswick and Rosecroft are neither gamblers nor drunks.”

  “What about MacHugh?” Sir Fletcher said. “He’s new to the title, rumored to have means, and has two sisters and a brother in tow. You saw his handwriting on various requisitions or dispatches, and he’s doubtless been welcomed into any number of gentlemen’s clubs now that he has a title.”

  A Scottish savage waltzed into a fine old title, while an English earl’s son was reduced to scheming to pay the tailor. Justice was a blind, deaf, poxy old whore, and relieving MacHugh of a few quid would rectify one of her more egregious missteps.

  “MacHugh’s—Murdoch’s—penmanship is distinctive,” Puget said, thin lips pursing, “but he never drinks to excess. I haven’t seen him in the clubs either. For him, a stray gambling debt won’t do.”

  Impatience flared, for a call on the household of Lord Anthony Windham had become a pressing priority.

  “Then concoct a bootmaker, G. Puget and Sons, or something like it. Send an overdue bill around to the new Duke of Murdoch, payable by return post to your present lodging. Outfitting a family new to Town in a season’s worth of boots ought to be at least fifty pounds of custom.”

  G. Puget and Sons might also serve as a vintner, butcher, or tobacconist. The scheme was simple and elegant, a great improvement over Puget’s more complicated games.

  At the far end of the square, Pammy’s embonpoint figure came sashaying around the corner, her lady’s maid trailing behind her. One street from her home, she’d be permitted to take the air with such a weak excuse for a chaperone, particularly if Step-mama had overindulged the previous evening.

  “Fine,” Puget said. “I’ll send His Grace of Murdoch a bill for boots, but this is the last time, Pilkington. You put my neck in a noose with your requests, and that hasn’t got me any closer to putting a ring on Lady Pamela’s finger.”

  Nothing short of divine intervention would accomplish that aim. “Send word when you have the money, and don’t despair where Pamela is concerned. She is a very determined young woman.”

  Particularly when a plate of tea cakes was involved.

  Puget was already walking away, gaze intent on his lady fair. Sir Fletcher took off in the opposite direction—it wouldn’t do for Pamela to spot him in company with her gallant swain—and soon arrived at Lord Anthony Windham’s townhouse.

  “If you’d please alert Miss Megan Windham to my presence,” Sir Fletcher said, passing over his walking stick and hat to the butler. “And I’d like to bid her parents farewell before they leave for Wales too.”

  Lord Anthony had intimated that marital protocol required him to consult Megan’s mother regarding potential suitors—a courtesy between parents. Sir Fletcher had murmured appropriate masculine commiserations, but no note had come from Lord Anthony, no quiet word had been offered on a shady bridle path, and thus no public courtship could ensue.

  Without a public courtship, a bachelor had no solid prospects to trade upon, as every shopkeeper and merchant seemed to know.

  “Sir Fletcher, good day.” Anwen Windham smiled at him, a dark-haired kilted fellow at her side. Both brought an air of mischief with them into the foyer, as if they’d just got away with tippling in the library.

  The kilted fellow looked familiar, suggesting Sir Fletcher had crossed paths with him in some drawing room or other.

  “Miss Anwen, good morning. I don’t believe I know your guest.” All the kilted barbarians tended to look the same, which was doubtless why they distinguished themselves with different plaids—a family motto woven in fabric for the illiterate.

  “Actually, you do know me,” the fellow said. “We served together in Spain, and were introduced at Her Grace of Moreland’s. Captain Lord Colin MacHugh, at your service, Sir Fletcher.”

  Ah, yes. The younger MacHugh, the one who’d nearly got his brother killed by the French, court-martialed by the English, and canonized by the Scots.

  Instinct prodded Sir Fletcher’s memory for more than a vague recollection of army days and a prank gone awry where Captain MacHugh was concerned, but why sort through that garbage—most of it preserved in bad wine—when a lady needed a call from her most devoted admirer?

  “You have the right of it, Lord Colin,” Sir Fletcher said,
charming smile at the ready. “I stand corrected. A pleasure to renew my acquaintance with you. Miss Anwen, I’d hoped to see your parents off on their journey, and to pay my respects to Miss Megan.”

  Sir Fletcher beamed at her as sweetly as a smitten swain ever did beam.

  She wrinkled a nose a tad on the unfortunate side. “Megan isn’t at home, I’m afraid, and Mama and Papa have already departed. You just missed them.”

  Damn and blast. Manners forbid inquiring as to whether “not at home” was a euphemism for “not at home to you.”

  “I don’t suppose your parents left their direction? I can wish them a safe journey by post.”

  “I’ll send an address ’round once we’ve removed to Moreland House. So much upheaval involved in changing households, you know.”

  Miss Anwen needed to work on her gracious smile, for her expression had rather a lot of teeth to it and not much warmth.

  “I’ll bid you good day,” Sir Fletcher said, casting a hopeful look up the main staircase. He couldn’t very well chase Megan down across the nearest ballroom, not until he’d replenished his exchequer.

  “Good day,” Lord Colin said, taking Sir Fletcher’s walking stick and hat from the butler and holding them out. “Enjoy the lovely weather.”

  The butler held the door open, and Sir Fletcher had no choice but to saunter back the way he’d come. What did it mean, that Lord Anthony had decamped for Wales—Wales, of all places—without giving permission for an eminently worthy suitor to pay addresses to Megan?

  Though his lordship hadn’t forbidden Sir Fletcher to spend time in Megan’s company either, a heartening realization. Sir Fletcher swung his walking stick, decapitating the tallest specimen from among a bed of orange flowers.

  Permission to court a lady was a formality, nothing more, and Megan would see that permission was granted directly. Puget would muster the coin needed to placate the greediest of Sir Fletcher’s creditors, and soon, all would come right.

  Sir Fletcher was halfway back to Grosvenor Square before he realized he might stray across Puget and Pammy making calf’s eyes—heifer’s eyes in her case—in public. That disagreeable thought sent his steps veering south, toward St. James’s Street. Few would be about in the clubs at such an early hour and a fellow could always put a meal on his account.

  Perhaps the bumpkin from Cumberland would be on hand and available for a quiet word regarding Pammy’s many vices … except Puget had neglected to mention the bumpkin’s name or title.

  A pity, that. A rotten shame. Just another example of how the smallest details could send the course of true love top over tail right into the nearest reeking ditch.

  “His Grace is entirely too pleased with himself,” Westhaven remarked. “Somebody’s parliamentary bill is about to be defeated, somebody’s canal drained. Whose turn is it to deal?”

  The Windham menfolk gathered for cards at least weekly if no other familial gatherings took precedence. They met not at any club but in Westhaven’s library. The card parties had become the social highlight of Keswick’s week and he suspected his brothers-by-marriage viewed it similarly.

  “Having our lady cousins underfoot means Her Grace is in alt,” Rosecroft said. “If Her Grace is happy, His Grace is happy.”

  “And if Their Graces are happy, the kingdom must be secure,” Lord Valentine muttered, appropriating the deck from Westhaven. “Unless, of course, one’s children are teething, colicky, or fretful, or the baby won’t sleep through the night, or—”

  “—the housemaids are feuding,” Westhaven added.

  “Or your daughter has to write letters every day to her damned dog and her damned pony,” Rosecroft said. “Valentine, you’ve shuffled the deck enough.”

  “Up past your bedtimes, the doddering lot of you,” Lord Valentine said, dealing cards with the dispatch of a man who claimed a wealth of manual dexterity. “What’s this I hear about Megan taking a fancy to the waltzing Scotsman?”

  Glances were exchanged around the table, though Westhaven—ducal heir that he was—merely watched the cards piling up before him.

  “Megan has taken a fancy to the Duke of Murdoch,” Rosecroft said. “He’s not what I would have chosen for our Megs.”

  Keswick glowered at his cards, though he held a decent hand. “Who would you choose for her?”

  Keswick didn’t know Megan Windham well, but he liked her. She was sensible, loyal as hell to her family, and patient with children and dunderheaded cousins. More to the point, Keswick’s countess, Louisa, was fond of Megan.

  “I’d prefer an Englishman,” Westhaven said. “Scotland is too far away.”

  “I second that motion,” Lord Valentine said, finishing the deal. “I also would have thought Megs better suited to a soft-spoken fellow, one who favors books, plays the violin, and smokes a pipe. Not some Highland warrior who wears a skirt and barely knows proper forms of address.”

  “We weren’t all born into ducal families,” Keswick observed. “Are we here to play cards or matchmake?”

  “Matchmake, of course,” Westhaven replied, arranging his hand. “Does anybody have an objection to Murdoch? I thought Sir Fletcher Pilkington had caught Megan’s eye, but my countess informs me I am in error.”

  “Countesses do that,” Rosecroft muttered. “Valentine, why can’t you deal a fellow any decent cards?”

  “Because I’m after your pin money,” Lord Valentine said. “My sisters expect me to keep you lot in line, and that thankless task requires that I relieve you of your valuables. Keswick, however, is apparently holding a decent hand.”

  The door opened, admitting Lucas Denning, Marquess of Deene, whose privilege it was to be married to Eve, the youngest of the ducal Windham children.

  “Bring the decanters over,” Rosecroft said as the players made room for an extra chair. “And condole dear Valentine on the impending loss of his last groat to his elders.”

  “Your arrival interrupted an interesting discussion, Deene,” Westhaven said, topping up each man’s drink as Lord Valentine dealt a fresh hand. “Cousin Megan has taken a fancy to the new Duke of Murdoch. We’re wondering if Sir Fletcher’s charms have paled, or if she’s trying to bring Sir Fletcher up to scratch by showing favor to a competitor.”

  “Murdoch?” Deene considered his cards. He was looking a bit harried, as a new father will. “I can’t say as I know him.”

  “You knew him as Colonel Hamish MacHugh,” Rosecroft supplied. “Is that jam on your cravat, Deene? Valentine has apparently started a new fashion.”

  “It’s the blood of the last man who suggested I’d disgrace my marchioness with anything less than perfect turnout before her brothers. Keswick, shall you lead?”

  Keswick tossed out a card. “Somebody has to.”

  “Hamish MacHugh was the fellow held by the French,” Deene said. “Could not have been a pleasant experience, but then he probably wasn’t a pleasant fellow to have as a captive, if the gossip is to be believed.”

  “What gossip?” Westhaven asked.

  “Play a bloody card,” Rosecroft muttered.

  Westhaven flicked his wrist, and a card went sailing to the exact center of the table. “What gossip?”

  Rosecroft set a card on top of Westhaven’s. “The gossip that said MacHugh was of such a violent disposition even the French interrogators didn’t want him underfoot. He had a reputation for acquitting himself well in battle, but then one hears he led his own men into an ambush at some godforsaken bridge.”

  Keswick collected the cards. “He was considered a brute. Witnesses saw him snap an unarmed man’s neck without batting an eye. Not the done thing, even on the battlefield, and some say MacHugh’s own brother was among those jeopardized by the colonel’s disregard for orders. Others have suggested gossip is in error. Might we change the subject?”

  “What flavor jam is that on your cravat?” Rosecroft inquired of Deene. “Raspberry stains worse than strawberry, I’ve found.”

  Deene glanced down at his crava
t. “I don’t know. Evie will lecture me into next week, but what’s a fellow to do when he’s acquired a lapful of smiling cherub, and nobody warns him the cherub has been at the jam?”

  “Change his cravat?” Westhaven suggested. “Wash the cherub’s little paws with one of the three handkerchiefs no self-respecting papa is ever without? Hand the cherub off to the nursemaids with a lordly scowl, muttering about decorum in the nursery?”

  “Ha!” Lord Valentine chorused from across the table. “Decorum in the nursery is an oxymoron once you get past the first child, rather like a good night’s sleep.”

  And thus, Keswick mused, did grown men while away an evening, alternately taking a respite from the rigors of domestic bliss, and wondering how their ladies and offspring fared at home. The gathering broke up promptly at midnight, with Rosecroft suggesting that pouring boiling water continuously on any evidence of raspberry preserves might rescue a cravat from a fresh stain.

  “Walk with me?” Deene asked quietly as hats and gloves and walking sticks were parceled out.

  “Of course,” Keswick replied. “Rosecroft, you’ll join us for a breath of fresh air?”

  “Somebody has to see that Deene arrives home safely, or Evie will lecture me into next week.”

  Keswick had needed patience and subtlety, but he couldn’t consider the evening wasted if the family’s three veterans of the Peninsular campaign found the privacy necessary to discuss another former soldier. As they walked along, carriages rattled past, and linkboys and footmen held lanterns for the fashionable parties.

  “MacHugh was rumored to be only half-sane,” Deene said. “War doesn’t exactly bring out the best in a man, but is that the sort of fellow Megan ought to consort with?”

  “We were all half-daft by the time we crossed the mountains into France, and matters did not improve at Waterloo,” Rosecroft said. “MacHugh’s record includes insubordination, disciplinary proceedings, absence without leave, conduct unbecoming an officer, and all manner of disgraces. Moreland must not be aware of Murdoch’s military record.”