The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

Fifty yards ahead, the Earl of Keswick sat upon his horse as if posing for a statue. He’d wait for Miss Megan until high summer.

  “You love Hamish, don’t you?” Colin asked, though he only dimly grasped what it might mean, for a woman this fierce to love his brother. Trouble for Hamish, but good, long overdue trouble.

  “I love him with all my heart, and I always will. Bear that in mind if you refuse me a few simple truths now, Lord Colin.”

  “I think you’d best dispense with the lord business, and call me Colin when we’re private.”

  Her ladyship petted her mare’s shoulder. “Colin, then. So tell me what happened, please.”

  The sun rose higher in the sky, and the laughter of children joined the quacking of the ducks and jingle of carriage harnesses beneath Hyde Park’s towering maples. As dawn stretched toward a lovely morning, Colin told Megan Windham about the time Hamish MacHugh had chosen death over dishonor and lived to regret it.

  “The trades must be paid. The books must balance.”

  Hamish muttered those words, which had been among his father’s favorite admonitions. Most of the afternoon had been spent tending to finances, and while Hamish’s hand had been writing bank drafts, and his mind totaling figures, his heart had been aching.

  How was Megan faring, and how could Hamish assure her that he’d been working diligently to find a means of thwarting Sir Fletcher? A hint of gossip, a thread of dishonor, a disgruntled tradesman, anything …

  “Are you still at it?” Colin asked, appropriating the chair across from Hamish’s desk. “I take it you’re abandoning us again this evening? Leaving all the bowing and smiling to me, all the escorting and cavorting?”

  “Cavort with caution, little brother,” Hamish said, rubbing his eyes.

  And that made him think of Megan too.

  “Have you given up socializing forevermore?” Colin asked. “Half the matchmakers in London will go into a decline.”

  “While all of the fortune hunters will rejoice. Have you met any young ladies who catch your eye, Colin?” Hamish picked up the last of the tradesmen’s requests for payment rather than study Colin’s expression.

  The bill was the one for an exorbitant amount of boot-making, from Puget and Sons. Hamish had put off paying it, at first because nobody in the family had purchased nearly enough boots to justify this much expense. Moreover, no one in the extended family spread out over various London trades—not a second cousin, not an in-law, not a great-auntie—had ever heard of the establishment.

  “I thought you were on the verge of offering for a young lady, Hamish.” Colin’s gaze held accusation and quite possibly pity.

  “I was, Colin, but circumstances have changed. You’re sure this isn’t yours?”

  Colin snatched the invoice away and set it aside. “I don’t want to talk about pence and quid, Hamish. Megan Windham cares for you, and you’ve turned your back on her. Not well done of you, and no kind of example for me.”

  “You’re scolding me?” How novel, and how heartwarming.

  Colin rose, braced his hands on the desk, and leaned forward so his nose was inches from Hamish’s.

  “Yes, I am scolding you. All I can think is that you’ve found some other way to be a noble martyr, and I’m sick of it.”

  Colin looked like Papa just then. Nobody had done a better rendition of fierce and deadly than Papa.

  “I’m not a noble martyr,” Hamish retorted. “Not unless you’re referring to the expenses I’m paying for my sisters. I’m a Scottish upstart cursed with a title, and I’ve got a wee bit above myself where Miss Megan is concerned. I treasure her dearly, and if I’ve abandoned escort duty it’s to ferret out ammunition to use against those who’d trouble the lady.”

  Hamish hadn’t meant to reveal that much, but Colin looked relieved. He sat back down and picked up the boot bill.

  “Somebody’s making trouble for Miss Megan?”

  “Not somebody, Sir Fletcher Pilkington. The lady has refused his suit, and he’s trying to force her to reconsider.” Accurate enough, as far as it went.

  Colin brushed the folded invoice across his lips. “So that’s why Sir Fletcher has been spreading all manner of talk against you in the clubs. I thought he was just jealous of your title.”

  “You didn’t call him out. I’m proud of you, Colin. Let him say what he will, and eventually I’ll find something to use against him. Give me back that blasted invoice, lest I’m hauled into debtors’ prison because you’ve taken my payable for a bookmark.”

  Colin peered at the document in his hand. “This is the bill that makes no sense. I wonder if these people are poor relations of the Earl of Plyne? The family’s huge, which is why so many Pugets bought their colors.”

  The back of Hamish’s neck prickled, though the afternoon was mild and sunny. “There’s a problem with that bill, Colin.”

  “I didn’t buy any boots from this establishment and neither did you.”

  “Two problems, then. Look at the signature.”

  Colin had good eyesight, and yet he rose to take the bill over to the window. “This is not your signature. Close, but not yours.”

  “Sir Fletcher has forged letters that he claims are from Miss Megan, and now I see a forged bill among those I’m to pay. I realized shortly after lunch why I was reluctant to pay the damned thing, and now the coincidence—forgery creating difficulty for both me and Miss Megan—troubles me exceedingly.”

  “Something is rotten in Mayfair,” Colin said, bringing the offending document back to the desk. “There’s a direction on this bill. Now will you let me pay a call?”

  Everything in Hamish rebelled against allowing Colin to take risks on his brother’s behalf. “You’ll follow me if I go alone, won’t you?”

  Colin gestured toward the door. “I never thanked you for getting captured by the French. Let me thank you now.”

  A month ago, Hamish would have fought, argued, blustered, and pulled rank to keep Colin safe at home. Across Spain, into France, and again at Waterloo, Hamish had kept Colin safe, but Colin was no longer a green Highland lad eager to see the world. He’d become a soldier and a brother to be proud of.

  Days of solitary reconnaissance had yielded Hamish nothing in the way of leverage against Sir Fletcher, and now this forged invoice had fallen into his hands.

  Colin had bested the French when they were intent on murder. Surely he’d be able to handle himself on one innocuous stroll around the neighborhood?

  Megan had missed her friends and relations when they’d gone off to war. Worse, she’d missed Sir Fletcher and prayed nightly for his safety.

  She should have been praying for her own safety.

  And yet, none of that anxious, worried waiting for soldiers to come home compared with how badly she missed Hamish, even knowing he dwelled only a few streets away. He might as well have been on the far slopes of the Pyrenees, for all Megan had seen of him in the past week.

  In part to avoid Sir Fletcher, and in part because Megan was weary to death of putting on a show of conviviality every evening, she’d given herself an evening to stay home. Anwen had hugged her and winked, and nobody had looked askance at her decision.

  More than a week of Hamish’s ceasefire had gone by, and Megan had heard nothing from him. Hamish would never desert, never waver in the face of enemy fire, but he was a fearfully practical man, and every commander blew retreat at some point.

  She took herself up to her bedroom, though sleep lately had eluded her.

  A difference was discernible before she’d even closed her bedroom door. The air was fresher, more scented with greenery, possibly because the balcony doors had been opened recently.

  More likely because Hamish MacHugh had once again fallen asleep in her bed.

  Megan undressed in silence, locked both the sitting room door and the bedroom door, then climbed into bed beside her beloved.

  “You’d make an excellent intelligence officer,” Hamish said, his arm coming around her shoulders.
“Slipping about, stealthy as a cat. I didn’t intend to do this again.”

  Megan didn’t intend to let him out of the bed. “I’m glad you’re here, and I’ve missed you awfully.”

  Lest he mistake that sentiment for a platitude, Megan rose up on her elbow and kissed him.

  Already, their kisses had become a form of communication. Hamish had something to tell her, and yet, he’d missed her too. His kiss said all of that. His sigh said the news wasn’t good.

  “Tell me,” Megan said, settling along his side, pillowing her head on his shoulder. “As long as Sir Fletcher hasn’t started crying the banns, I’ll bear it.”

  As long as Hamish kept stealing into her room and taking her in his arms.

  “Sir Fletcher claims to have forged copies of your letters, though copying every letter word for word would have been a tedious and demanding task, if they’re forgeries rather than copies.”

  Lying beside Hamish, Megan could apply her mind to her situation, not merely worry and fume.

  “Sir Fletcher claims he’s matched my signature exactly. I took that to mean he matched my penmanship as well.”

  “How?” Hamish asked, turning on his side to face Megan. “Forgery is an art, though a felonious one. I’ve asked myself that question over and over. An earl’s son isn’t likely to have dealings with felons, but then I received a bill from a bootmaker, Puget and Sons, and my signature had been forged on the documentation supporting it.”

  “The Earl of Plyne’s family name is Puget,” Megan said. “I’ve seen Garner Puget in company with Sir Fletcher on many occasions. Never looking very happy, but then, what impoverished—”

  Hamish was absolutely correct. Forgery was an art. “Garner Puget is a talented artist,” Megan went on. “He’s done portraits of his parents that are worthy of the Royal Academy. He’s not considered a fortune hunter, but neither is he highly eligible. Her Grace says the oldest Pilkington sister pines for him.”

  Hamish kissed Megan, lingering at the corners of her mouth. “I knew we needed to compare maps. Of course, you’d be familiar with the circumstances of every bachelor in every ballroom in Mayfair. You confirm what I’ve learned about the not-so-honorable Garner Puget.”

  Megan had to kiss Hamish back, though she also wanted to know what he’d learned. Several passionate minutes later, Hamish—who’d shifted over her and lost his shirt somehow—pulled back.

  “I’ll forget my name if we keep this up, Meggie, my dear, and I didn’t come here to further risk your reputation.”

  Megan locked her ankles at the small of his back. Hamish was aroused, though he still wore his kilt.

  “Tell me the rest of it, and then I’m taking you captive, Hamish MacHugh. I’ve missed you more than I can bear. Every time I walk into a ballroom and you’re not there, I’m worried that Sir Fletcher will trap me with a public proposal. He’d love that, forcing my hand while all of polite society smiles and nods at his good fortune.”

  “Puget might well have forged your letters,” Hamish said. “I received a fraudulent invoice payable to the address of Puget’s landlady, right around the corner from the rooms he keeps in Knightsbridge. I sent a bank draft as payment, and when Puget picks it up, I’ll have grounds to lay information against him. As I see it, that gives us options.”

  Us and options went very nicely in the same sentence. “Get your kilt off, Hamish, please.”

  He sat back and got busy unpinning his kilt. “One option is to wrest a confession from Puget, but Sir Fletcher will claim innocent dismay. There’s another problem with pursuing a confession.”

  “I’m listening.” Megan was also glorying in the firelit beauty of Hamish’s bare chest, his arms, the join of his neck and shoulders. She could not see details, but she could make out contours, she could feel the warmth and shape of him, and she could watch his kilt go sailing to the floor in a flutter of fine wool.

  “You’re driving me daft,” Hamish said, bracing himself on all fours over her. “God, ye smell good, lass. I’ll be the first man in Perthshire to have his own lemon trees.”

  Hamish smelled better, all clean and heathery.

  “Is Puget planning to elope with Sir Fletcher’s sister?” Megan asked. “Maybe that’s why he tried to steal from you. In his shoes, I’d do nearly anything to get away from Sir Fletcher.”

  Hamish settled closer, resting his cheek against Megan’s. “You count Puget as another of Sir Fletcher’s victims, rather than a willing accomplice. Why?”

  Fairly soon, Megan would not be able to count to three. “Because that’s what Sir Fletcher does. He backs good people into bad situations, like your soldier boy who was nearly starving. Like me. I was inexperienced, infatuated, and heedless, but no worse than any other young lady unwise about the greater world.”

  Megan could see that, now that Hamish was willing to hold Sir Fletcher accountable. Her crime had been innocence, nothing more. Unless Hamish could find Puget and wring a confession from him—a confession implicating Sir Fletcher—she might pay for her folly with the rest of her life.

  “You were too innocent for your own good,” Hamish said. “More English foolishness, to bring up a young lady in ignorance. If I can find Puget, I’ll make sure he implicates Sir Fletcher thoroughly. If Sir Fletcher was willing to use a forger to trap you, and bilk funds from me, then he’s likely been using Puget in other capacities as well.”

  Megan arched up into Hamish’s warmth, because she craved as much closeness with him as she could beg, borrow, or reave.

  “What’s the problem with wringing a confession from Puget?” Megan asked. “He should be relieved to be free of Sir Fletcher’s schemes, assuming you don’t alert the authorities.”

  Hamish gave her the first, gratifying hint of penetration and went still. “The problem, Meggie, is that I can’t find Puget. He hasn’t been seen at a polite entertainment since last you and I spoke. If he’s on his way to Gretna with the lady of his choice, nobody is breathing a word of it.”

  Scotland was days and days of travel away, and Sir Fletcher’s patience was at an end. All over again, despair swamped Megan.

  For a moment, she didn’t move. She remained not quite joined to her beloved, and endured the possibility that Sir Fletcher might win after all. He had forgeries of her letters, his accomplice was nowhere to be found, and Megan’s choices were fast narrowing to either ruin for her and her sisters or marriage to a scoundrel.

  And yet, Hamish had come to her. Hamish had not given up, and he would not. Megan wrapped her arms around him and completed their joining.

  “We have another problem, Hamish.”

  “Meggie, my heart, right now, I haven’t a problem in the world. I have the woman I love in my arms, and that’s miracle enough for the moment.”

  The woman I love. How brave he was, how worthy.

  Pleasure welled, welcome and luxurious. “I love you too, Hamish MacHugh, but we still have a problem.”

  “Tell me this problem, Meggie, though if you love me, and I love you, there’s nothing we cannot surmount together.”

  Colin had told Megan more of Hamish’s battle history. Standing resolute was Hamish’s nature, while skulking and scheming was Sir Fletcher’s. That she’d been duped by Sir Fletcher’s charm and pretty looks was not her fault, but oh, she regretted it more with the passage of time, not less.

  “Meggie?”

  Megan cast the last bit of caution to the wind, and cast the last of her heart into Hamish’s keeping.

  “My courses are late.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hamish lay in Megan’s bed far longer than he should have, felled by emotions too complicated to name. Wonder coursed through him such as he’d never thought to feel, for he and Megan were very possibly to have a child.

  Worry chased close on the heels of that mighty sentiment, along with determination. Under no circumstances would Hamish allow Megan, much less their child, to endure the future Sir Fletcher had planned.

  Fear tried
to wedge a foot into Hamish’s thoughts, but he shut and locked all portals against that demon. Megan was counting on him, and though it might require all manner of ugliness on the battlefields of Mayfair’s social season, Hamish would not accept defeat.

  He stole from the bed, pausing to kiss his beloved’s cheek and tuck the covers around her. The dear woman had loved him witless, and he’d responded as best he could. Never had tenderness and passion colluded so forcefully and well.

  Love had not muddled Hamish, but rather, had allowed him to see clearly.

  He eased over the balcony railing, while in the darkened streets beyond the garden wall, polite society was returning from its latest revels.

  Hamish, by contrast, was going to war. He’d inspect every gambling hell, drover’s inn, sponging house, and brothel in London to find Garner Puget, and he’d do it in the next few days.

  The garden below was dark, but Hamish got to the ground easily. He blew a last kiss in the direction of Megan’s balcony, said a silent prayer that Garner Puget hadn’t left the country, and was halfway down the terrace steps when a voice stopped him.

  “Steal off into the night if you must, Murdoch, but if you have stolen Megan Windham’s virtue, you are a dead man.”

  The tone was pleasant, which made the menace all the more believable. Hamish turned slowly, hands at his sides, to face the Duke of Moreland. His Grace’s hair glinted golden in the moonlight, and he wore evening finery that would have cost Hamish more than one of Eddie and Ronnie’s rampages at the modiste’s.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” Hamish said, bowing.

  “Murdoch.” No bow, not even a nod. “Do you know why my children have dubbed that chamber the courting bedroom?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Because whoever sleeps there is courting folly. The balcony is visible from the apartment I share with my duchess. My children, brilliant though they are, don’t seem to have realized this.”

  His Grace gave away nothing—not ire, certainly not humor, and not forbearance—so Hamish kept his own counsel too.

  “Please assure me, Murdoch, that your call upon my niece was at her invitation.”