The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  And get Megan in trouble with her uncle? Hamish remained silent, while Moreland snapped off an early white rose and twirled it in his gloved fingers.

  “My duchess claims you’re a decent man, for all you sport about in that ridiculous skirt. That you don’t incriminate Megan will save me the trouble of calling you out.”

  “My apologies for abusing your hospitality, Your Grace. My thanks for your discretion.”

  Moreland’s posture became militarily upright. “You presume to compliment me on my discretion, young man. Allow me to instruct you on that topic. If you harbor any regard for Megan at all, you will not creep about in darkened gardens, but rather, limit your adoration to venues such as crowded ballrooms, well-lit terraces, and proper carriage parades. Half the purpose of courting a woman is to prove publicly that you hold her in the highest regard.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Moreland’s visage was stern in the moonlight. As the silence grew, Hamish considered confiding all in the duke, but again, disclosure would reflect poorly on Megan.

  “You’ve nothing more to say, Murdoch? Not ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ or ‘It will never happen again, Your Grace’?”

  “My sincere apologies, Your Grace.”

  Moreland snorted. “Be off with you, and don’t let me catch you within ten feet of Megan unless you’re in public and she’s acknowledged you before others. Sir Fletcher has asked to speak with me privately, and that does not bode well for your suit, Murdoch.”

  The duke disappeared into the shadows, the white rose marking his progress back to the house.

  How in the hell was Hamish to communicate with Megan now, when she’d have to risk Sir Fletcher’s attentions at any social event?

  Hamish helped himself to the only other white rose gracing the trellis, lobbed it onto Megan’s balcony, then slipped away into the night.

  “Esther, remind me never to question your instincts.” Percival punctuated his sentiments by passing his duchess the little white blossom he’d retrieved from the garden. “Murdoch was stumbling around in the gardens, smiling the most fatuous, glorious smile. I regret to inform you that our Megan has been entertaining at unusual hours.”

  Her Grace took a seat at her vanity, laid the rose down, and began pulling pins from her hair. She had strong Teutonic features, and age had gilded her loveliness with wisdom. Her hair remained golden blonde, and her figure perfection—in her husband’s eyes.

  Percival stilled her hands and took up the task she’d begun.

  “I like Murdoch,” the duchess said. “I do not like Sir Fletcher. If you ever tire of being a duke, I will write you a glowing character as a lady’s maid, provided you seek your first post with me.”

  “I like Murdoch as well. He refrained from impugning Megan’s judgment, and when I did my best impersonation of the Duke of Outraged Propriety, Murdoch knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He’s canny, as the Scots say. I insulted his national dress, and still, he would not be goaded.”

  Esther beamed at her husband in the mirror. “You were naughty, Percival. I adore your capacity for naughtiness. At least you didn’t threaten to call the poor man out.”

  “I’ve every respect for the faster reflexes and damnably good aim of the seasoned soldier. Have you always used this many pins, my dear?”

  “My hair is in need of a trim,” Her Grace replied. “So did you spank Murdoch’s conscience and send him quivering and apologizing on his way?”

  That was the standard response when an overeager suitor was caught in the garden, provided the suitor was the young lady’s choice. Percival removed the last pin and started on the unbraiding. Esther had looked quite elegant this evening, but then, she usually did.

  “Why doesn’t Murdoch offer for her, Esther? Sir Fletcher has asked for an audience with me, and I must oblige him eventually. I can’t think of a reason to refuse him, if he asks for permission to court Megan. Sir Fletcher’s father would take it amiss if I discouraged Sir Fletcher, and the old boy is tedious enough as it is when I need his vote.”

  Esther’s hair flowed in long, silky skeins down her back. She passed Percival the brush, and took up the rose.

  “Why not consult our sons?” she asked, twirling the blossom. “Westhaven and Valentine move in the same circles as Sir Fletcher, and they have some acquaintance with Murdoch. If you cannot make sense of a situation, Percival, then you’re not in possession of all the facts. Megan approves of Murdoch passionately, to all appearances, and she barely tolerates Sir Fletcher.”

  “Right or left?” Percival asked.

  “Left, please.”

  He arranged her hair to accommodate a single plait over her left shoulder. “You’ve put your finger on the problem, as usual. I must not be in possession of all the facts. I did warn Murdoch that in future, his attentions to Megan will be limited to public venues and acceptable locations. One doesn’t like to think that Gladys and Tony’s first grandchild might be a seven months babe.”

  Her Grace sat very tall. “Our first child was born seven months after the wedding. Gladys and Tony’s was. Westhaven’s heir was a seven months child, so was your late oldest brother. Have you no respect for tradition, Moreland?”

  Percival had endless respect for his wife, and for the foolishness of young people in love.

  “If I see Murdoch climbing our garden walls again, I’ll turn you loose on him,” he said, kissing his wife’s crown. “I’m still considering your observation that I haven’t all the facts.”

  “We’ll alert the children,” Esther replied, passing Percival a hair ribbon. Blue, her favorite shade because it was the same color as his eyes, she claimed. “If there’s more to the situation than we know, we’ll soon learn the whole of it. I must put this flower in water before we retire.”

  “I’ll do it,” Percival said, taking the blossom from her grasp. “Matchmaking is tiring work, and we have three more nieces to go.”

  Esther rose and put her arms around Percival. “But then, my love, we can look forward to starting on the grandchildren. Rose and Bronwyn will set Town on its collective ear, and Bridget is nothing short of beautiful. I can hardly wait.”

  Percival could wait. Young people got into the silliest scrapes, and yet, something about Megan’s situation didn’t feel silly at all.

  “Nothing,” Colin said. “Not a whisper, not a peep. Not a hint or a suspicion. I’m sorry, Hamish.”

  Hamish tipped his hat to some countess or other—spending time in a few ballrooms had helped him sort the courtesans from the countesses—and paused on the steps of Lord Westhaven’s townhouse.

  “You tried,” he said. “The men have tried, but I should have known a lot of former infantry wouldn’t hear much about where an earl’s son might lay low.”

  That Hamish’s former subordinates would try, so long after mustering out, meant a lot.

  “What are we doing here?” Colin asked, eyeing the potted heartsease adorning the steps.

  “I sent a note to the Earl of Keswick asking for an hour of his time. He suggested we meet here.”

  “You’ll ask a litter of titled Englishmen for help finding Puget?” Colin demanded, fists on hips.

  Why were the MacHughs doomed to brawl in public? “I would beg Lucifer’s climbing boys for help if it would secure Megan’s peace of mind. Any day, Sir Fletcher will call on Moreland and ask for permission to court her. Any evening, Sir Fletcher might announce to all of Mayfair that he’s so hopelessly smitten he must go down on bended knee in the middle of some damned ballroom. I’m out of time, Colin.”

  But Hamish could not stop hoping. He’d thought himself immune to hope, beyond its sticky clutches. A life of responsible contentment punctuated by only an occasional nightmare had been the sum of his aspirations.

  Then he’d been gifted with Megan Windham’s trust, and his ambitions had multiplied like stars filling the night sky.

  “So you’ll turn to the English officers who ridiculed you?” Colin pressed. “The very men who ma
de sport of us both, spread talk, and mocked your bravery?”

  “Colin, I can’t do this alone. We can’t do this alone. Puget is the son of an English lord, and so to English lords I will turn. You can leave me here, and I’ll understand.”

  Hamish didn’t want Colin to go, though. In fact, if Hamish had been able to bring Eddie and Ronnie along, he would have.

  Colin shoved Hamish hard enough to make him take a step back. “As if I’d leave my own brother to face this pack of jackals and no loyal henchman at his side.”

  Hamish shoved him back, for form’s sake, and because embracing his little brother on the street would mortify Colin.

  “I see we’re treating polite society to a fine display of Scottish manners.”

  Hamish knew that voice, and yet, it wasn’t Moreland’s. The Moreland heir stood two yards away, turned out in finest morning attire, his walking stick in hand.

  “Westhaven, good day. You know my brother Lord Colin MacHugh.”

  Westhaven bowed. “We can stand here showing off our tailoring, or join my brothers before my entire store of marzipan is decimated.” He gestured toward the steps, and Hamish led the way into the townhouse.

  The butler greeted his lordship with word that the gentlemen were in the library, and her ladyship had asked for trays to be sent along.

  As if tea cakes and two sips of overly sugared gunpowder would solve the problems Hamish faced?

  The gentlemen included Lords Keswick, Valentine, and Rosecroft.

  “Look who I found on my front steps,” Westhaven said. “Two titled, wealthy bachelors without the sense to take a sister or two along for safety.”

  “You’re daft,” Hamish said. “My sisters have acquired battalions of friends, all of whom are eager to marry. The debutantes lurk in doorways, and pop out of sweet shops if my sisters are along. If it’s only Colin and myself, we’re left in relative peace.”

  “He contradicted Westhaven,” Lord Valentine said. “Her Grace would approve.”

  “That’s Worsthaven to you,” Rosecroft replied.

  “And that’s enough out of you, Rosebud,” Westhaven shot back. “Shall we be seated? Keswick, you called this meeting, and if your formidable wife could not solve whatever problem plagues you, then it must be quite the thorny issue.”

  They took chairs around a circular table that would have sat eight comfortably. Westhaven got down a tin from the mantel and offered it to Keswick, who sat on his right.

  “The sweets in this household are always fresh,” Keswick said, helping himself, then passing the tin to Lord Valentine. “Never will you see grown men taking such delight in ruining their suppers as in Lord Westhaven’s household. It’s disgracefully juvenile.”

  “Have another,” Lord Valentine said, waving the tin under Keswick’s nose.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Leave some for our guests. We needn’t be entirely without manners.”

  Apparently consuming forbidden sweets in the library was some ritual known only to titled Englishmen. Colin took a sweet and passed Hamish a nearly empty tin.

  “Keswick,” Westhaven said. “You have the floor.”

  “My thanks. I’ll be brief.”

  “That’s not how Louisa describes you,” Lord Valentine muttered. Rosecroft smacked his lacey lordship on the arm, and Colin took another treat from the tin Hamish was still holding.

  “I will be succinct,” Keswick said. “Murdoch must locate Garner Puget, one of the Earl of Plyne’s younger sons. The matter is urgent. Puget has behaved badly, probably in service to Sir Fletcher, who might well have coerced Puget into forging documents of an unfortunate nature.”

  “I know Puget,” Rosecroft said. “He was a regimental scribe, for want of a better term. Had a lovely hand, and was always willing to write a note home for the men incapable of doing it themselves.”

  “Which means,” Keswick went on, “Puget might also have drafted the occasional dispatch, requisition, or meticulous facsimile of same. Has anybody seen him in the past week?”

  A general discussion followed, of where Puget might be found, and who might best look for him. Westhaven made a list of gentlemen’s clubs Puget belonged to, somebody volunteered the name of his tailor, somebody else agreed to chat with his landlady. To Hamish, that good woman would have been hard-pressed to spare the time of day. For the English aristocrats at the table, she’d dip her best curtsy.

  Hamish put a piece of marzipan in his mouth without thinking, and was surprised at the richness and intensity of the flavor.

  Rather like the surprise of finding out that Megan’s titled cousins were, in fact, gentlemen. Aid was being rendered without a lot of questions, and the relief of that was tremendous. Hamish would not have known which clubs Puget frequented, or to whom he’d given his sartorial custom.

  “Are you hoarding the last of the treats?” Colin asked.

  Hamish passed him the tin, and the meeting broke up shortly thereafter. A footman brought Westhaven a note, which his lordship barely had time to scan before Rosecroft plucked it from his hand.

  “Moreland has summoned us,” Rosecroft said, passing the note to Lord Valentine. “He wants to consult with us on a matter of some delicacy.”

  Westhaven snatched the note back. “Why he’d involve you two louts in a discussion of a delicate matter, I do not know.”

  “I’m likely the matter in need of discussion,” Hamish said. “His Grace came upon me delicately prowling across his garden at an awkward hour.”

  Conversation stopped, and four English lords all found it necessary to study the molding, the wainscoting, the books shelved in abundance along two walls. Doubtless, their children would be born as a result of divine intervention, so delicate were their lordships’ sensibilities.

  “Moreland caught you beneath Megan’s balcony, and yet, you lived,” Rosecroft murmured, after what might have been a respectful silence. “His Grace is growing sentimental on us.”

  “Perhaps the delicate matter is what to tell Sir Fletcher regarding his matrimonial aspirations?” Keswick suggested.

  “Regardless,” Hamish said, shoving to his feet. “Ask the duke if he knows where Garner Puget has got off to. I have the sense Moreland knows more than God, and his duchess more than Moreland and God put together, at least about the doings of polite society—and their own family.”

  Westhaven stared at nothing for a moment, then shook his head. “Involving His Grace is like involving the heavy artillery. No telling exactly where the ordnance will land or upon whom the shrapnel will explode. We’ll casually inquire if His Grace knows of Puget’s whereabouts. Any more pointed questioning risks ducal meddling, which is about as helpful as an outbreak of plague, cholera, and typhus all at once.”

  Amid murmurs of agreement from the other Windhams, Colin rose, taking one last piece of marzipan. Hamish assayed a glower, but Colin popped the sweet in his mouth and winked.

  Keswick joined them on the walkway, apparently spared from the ducal summons. “They’ll find him, Murdoch. Between the Windham gentlemen, their in-laws, their friends, and the people who owe them favors, Garner Puget is as good as found.”

  No, he was not. “There’s a ball tonight,” Hamish said. “I want you and Lord Valentine to stay with Megan at all times, even if you have to alternate sharing dances with her.”

  “I cannot possibly dance half the dances,” Keswick snapped. “I’d be lame for a week, and everybody would remark the spectacle of Megan Windham limiting her partners to her cousins.”

  “I can dance with her,” Colin said.

  “You’ll be with me,” Hamish replied. “If Sir Fletcher can’t get to Moreland privately, he might try to accost the duke in the card room or the men’s retiring room tonight. Westhaven and Rosecroft can stay with Moreland, and run Sir Fletcher off if that happens.”

  “I’ll have Deene and the rest of the in-laws stand up with Megan,” Keswick said. “But if Sir Fletcher asks her to dance, she’ll have to accept.”

  “W
hy?” Colin asked.

  “Because a lady either dances of an evening, or she doesn’t,” Hamish said. “She isn’t supposed to pick and choose among the gentlemen, rejecting this one, accepting that one.” Megan had explained that to him, which had made sense of a lot of die-away glances from the young ladies, and odd pairings on the dance floor.

  “Damned silly if you ask me,” Colin muttered.

  “My countess uses stronger language than that,” Keswick said. “She maintains if a man can’t endure being turned down for a waltz, he’s not much of a man.”

  Hamish was growing to like Keswick’s countess, sight unseen. He did not like that even the best informed scions of fashionable society hadn’t heard a whisper regarding Puget’s whereabouts.

  He didn’t like that at all.

  Sir Fletcher didn’t like being made to wait, but at least he was being made to wait by a duke. The Windham guest parlor was lovely, with bouquets of fresh lilacs in both windows, and plenty of light bouncing off mirrors, gold-flocked wallpaper, and gilded furniture.

  The room was pretty, in other words, which tempted Sir Fletcher to put his boots up on a cushion or overturn the ink bottle on the escritoire.

  “Sir Fletcher, good day.” Elizabeth Windham offered him a curtsy and a smile sporting too much intelligence and not enough simper.

  “Miss Windham,” Sir Fletcher said, bowing over her hand. “I am awaiting a moment of your uncle’s time, and perhaps a turn in the garden with Miss Megan. May I offer my compliments on your ensemble? That shade of chocolate is luscious.”

  “Thank you. Shall we have a seat? The footman will arrive with a tea tray shortly, and I’m happy to pour out for you. How are your sisters?”

  The woman excelled at small talk. Sir Fletcher was compelled to recite at length regarding his sisters, his stepmother, his older brothers, and his plans for the autumn.

  The butler interrupted and had a discreet word with Miss Windham by the door, leaving Sir Fletcher to the dubious comfort of shortbread and gunpowder. Because the clubs kept punctilious track of every morsel a fellow consumed and every drop he drank, Sir Fletcher did justice to the offerings on the tray.