The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  “Sir Fletcher, I’m afraid His Grace is unavoidably detained on a matter of pressing business. He’s closeted with no less than three of my cousins,” Miss Windham said. “I’d be happy to inspect the roses with you.”

  Good God. The roses were barely blooming. Sir Fletcher knew this because Geneva had demanded he bring her a rose to apologize for not taking her riding.

  “I’d like nothing better than to enjoy the fresh air in the company of a pretty lady,” Sir Fletcher said, rising and offering Miss Windham his hand.

  “To the garden, then.” She ignored his glove before her nose, snatched the last piece of shortbread off the tray, and led the way through the French doors. If this was the example Megan’s older sister set, no wonder the poor darling had no idea how to go on.

  When they’d marched past rows of thorny bushes, admired the lilacs, and otherwise wasted half an hour of Sir Fletcher’s day, Miss Windham took a shady bench beside a small fountain. The sculpture in the center was a swan, trapped in a perpetually graceful progress across the water.

  “Do you think you can make my sister happy, Sir Fletcher? Please do have a seat.”

  Sir Fletcher complied. If he tarried long enough, he was bound to catch sight of Megan. With Puget having gone to ground—and all sources of income having disappeared with him—announcing an engagement had become a pressing necessity.

  “I hope I can make Miss Megan more than happy.” He’d ensure she was obedient, with child, and kept busy making his home a pleasant, commodious place. What more could a woman want, after all, than children, a roof over her head, and the protection and guidance of a man who knew what he was about?

  “How will you undertake the challenge of making her more than happy?” Miss Windham broke off a corner of the shortbread she’d purloined from the tea tray and crumbled it onto the paving stones before the fountain. Two pigeons were soon boldly pecking away at an unexpected feast.

  “Married to me, Megan will have a household of her own, children if the good Lord allows, a place in society, and the protection of a well-respected name. I will cherish Megan to the best of my humble ability.”

  More crumbs were tossed to the mannerless birds.

  “Just the usual, then,” Miss Windham said. “You don’t speak of love, Sir Fletcher.”

  Women and their infernal sentimentality. “Nor would I raise such a tender emotion in what is essentially polite conversation, madam. I esteem your sister greatly, above all other women. Many a sound marriage has been launched on less regard between bride and groom.”

  Sir Fletcher esteemed Megan’s settlements and her ducal connections. She composed a fine love letter too, but her taste in sisters was sadly lacking.

  “You’re right, of course,” Miss Windham said, rising. “Megan has a keen appreciation of the honor you do her, or will do her, assuming Uncle Percy gives you leave. I’m sure if you call again later in the week, he’ll be more than happy to receive you.”

  Well, damn the luck. Fortunately, the Countess of Hazelton’s ball was scheduled for that evening, and Megan would not miss an event at which one of her cousins was hostess. The countess was Megan’s oldest lady cousin, and the entire Windham family—including His Grace of Moreland—would doubtless be in attendance.

  “I’ll bid you good day,” Sir Fletcher said, again bowing over Miss Windham’s hand. She dipped a curtsy and murmured something about wishing him luck.

  He didn’t need to rely on mere luck, not when he had forgeries of Megan’s letters. By this time tomorrow, Sir Fletcher intended to be a happily engaged man.

  “I’m inclined to burn London to the ground,” Hamish said as he and Colin waited for a hackney to trot through the intersection.

  “Somebody already tried that back in 1666,” Colin replied. “You might flush Puget from his covert, but we’d not live to catch him.”

  They’d spent the day checking every club, shop, brothel, and park bench in Mayfair and beyond, and still they had neither word nor whisper of Puget, not even in the coffeehouse off Grosvenor that claimed his regular patronage.

  “Let’s try again tomorrow,” Colin said. “I’ll spend the evening at Jackson’s, and that will put me on my mettle—and might yield us some gossip about our missing forger.”

  The streets were busy, the season reaching its peak, and the sun having sunk low. Hamish’s mood had sunk low as well.

  “Tomorrow could be too late. Tonight’s ball is given by one of Megan’s cousins, and Megan dare not stay home yet again. Sir Fletcher will know that, and seize his opportunity.”

  They tramped along past Bond Street establishments, most of which they’d visited earlier in the day.

  “Then you ought to attend the ball too,” Colin said. “Ronnie and Eddie will never forgive you if you show up dressed as you are.”

  Hamish was appropriately attired for poking about London in search of a scoundrel. To appear at a fancy gathering in his boots and everyday kilt would be the undoing of several weeks of good behavior, at least.

  “We keep looking,” Hamish said. “I have promised Megan—”

  He halted, because the back of his neck was prickling, the same way it had when he’d been searching for his brother in the foothills of the Pyrenees years ago.

  “You have that, ‘I smell a French foot patrol’ look in your eye,” Colin said, glancing around. “Angelo was an Italian, though.”

  They stood across the street from the famous fencing establishment named for its founder. The grandson, Henry Angelo, operated the place now. Hamish had been inside occasionally on his way north on leave. Jackson’s boxing salon, which sat next door to Angelo’s, had never interested him.

  “Puget might frequent an establishment such as Angelo’s,” Hamish said.

  “If he were honing his skills in anticipation of a duel?”

  Hamish was already crossing the street. “If he were looking for artistic commissions for sporting portraits, or simply seeking to stay out of sight for a while. The former officers tend not to frequent the place, but the dandies and younger sons do.”

  Those who could regard violence as entertainment, in other words, and those who fancied having themselves immortalized with an idealized portrait.

  “Hamish, you can’t just barge into a fencing salon, and—”

  Hamish barged in. “Captain Garner Puget,” he said to the attendant. “Fetch him to me now, if you please.”

  The attendant was a thin, blond fellow with delicate features. “Whom shall I say is calling, sir?”

  “God almighty,” Colin muttered.

  The attendant looked from one brother to the other.

  “The Duke of Murder,” Hamish replied. “And company.”

  “Don’t call yourself that,” Colin said as the attendant scurried off. “Duke of Mayhem, I can believe, but not murder. Never that. Possibly the Duke of Manners, now that Miss Megan has got you by the sporran.”

  Hamish was prepared to commit mayhem at least. “You should leave this to me, Colin. What I have in store for Puget won’t be polite at all.”

  Colin took up a lean against the paneled wall and crossed his arms. “Get as unmannerly as you like, Hamish. It’s about time, if you ask me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “My thanks.”

  Garner Puget, looking rumpled and the worse for lack of sleep, joined them in the foyer. His cuffs were turned back, and his right hand was streaked with yellow pigment. The attendant, wisely, had not escorted Puget to greet his callers.

  “Your Grace, Lord Colin, greetings.”

  Hamish drove his fist into Puget’s gut. “Greetings yourself, on behalf of a lady whom you’ve wronged. If you don’t want the same sentiments conveyed to your face, you will accompany me now.”

  The blow sent Puget sagging into Colin, who kept the slighter man on his feet until he could stand upright unaided.

  “I’m happy to meet you on the field of honor, Murdoch,” Puget said, “but I’ll delope. I have failed in my duty as a gen
tleman, and my only defense is that I was cozened by a greater scoundrel than I. Excessive fondness for the scoundrel’s sister blinded me to honor’s demands.”

  “Is this Drury Lane?” Colin asked nobody in particular. “I thought we were on Bond Street.”

  “You’re not the first man whose cock ran off with his common sense, Puget,” Hamish said, “but your foolishness has devolved to the misery of a woman I value greatly, and you will make amends.”

  Puget rubbed his belly with the hand bearing the yellow stain. “You’ll not kill me?”

  “You used the word devolved, Hamish,” Colin said. “You sounded very ducal about it too.”

  “I’ll do worse than kill you,” Hamish said. “If you survive what I have planned for you this evening, then your sentence shall be to immure yourself in the north at the seat of a certain dukedom, and steward the damned property so I need not trouble myself managing English land. Lady Pamela’s father ought to look with favor on your suit should you offer for his oldest daughter, for his family is about to be embroiled in significant scandal.”

  “You’d do that for me? Offer me a post?”

  “I’d do that to you, assuming the evening doesn’t see you drawn and quartered, but first we need pen and paper.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were back on the street, marching directly for the Countess of Hazelton’s ball.

  Chapter Twenty

  He’s here,” Anwen said. “I’ll stay with you, and Charlotte and Elizabeth will keep Sir Fletcher in sight at all times.”

  Everybody was in evidence at the Hazelton ball, including Megan’s cousins, her aunt and uncle, the in-laws, and—drat the luck—Sir Fletcher.

  But no Hamish, not even Colin and the MacHugh sisters, though they’d been sent an invitation.

  “You can’t stop Sir Fletcher from approaching me,” Megan said. “I should leave.”

  Though Megan had hoped she might catch a glimpse of Hamish among the dancers. No less person than the Duchess of Moreland had made it clear that Megan had used up her entire season’s quotient of evenings at home.

  Megan either met Hamish here, or she had to risk another outing in the park, which Sir Fletcher might learn of all too easily.

  “What is Sir Fletcher wearing?” Megan asked.

  “The usual formal attire,” Anwen replied. “His waistcoat is burgundy with gold embroidery.”

  “And have you seen Garner Puget, by chance?”

  Anwen took the cup of punch Megan had been holding. “How many men are courting you?”

  “Officially, none.”

  “Sir Fletcher is coming this way,” Anwen said, setting the glass on the tray of a passing footman. “What should we do, Megs? Sir Fletcher has extricated himself from conversation with Elizabeth and Charlotte, and he’s headed this way. Where is the watch when we need—?”

  “Megan, I believe your quadrille belongs to me.” Not one of Megan’s cousins, but Lucas Denning, the Marquess of Deene, a cousin-in-law, offered a bow.

  “Deene, good evening. Is it the quadrille already?”

  “Indeed it is. Anwen, do you await a partner?”

  “Certainly not. When you conclude your quadrille, you will bring Megan directly back here to me.”

  “And then,” his lordship said, wiggling blond brows, “I will partner you for the minuet. Try to contain your enthusiasm until that happy moment.”

  Deene escorted Megan to the dance floor, which afforded her an opportunity to look about for a tall, auburn-haired man in a kilt.

  “Murdoch isn’t here,” Deene said. “Your duke is searching for one Garner Puget, whom I knew in passing on the Peninsula.”

  The other dancers were assembling as a string quintet and pianoforte tuned up. “Is Lord Colin MacHugh in attendance?”

  “Haven’t seen him. Relax, Megan. If Sir Fletcher approaches Moreland, then Westhaven will intervene. If Sir Fletcher approaches you with anything other than perfunctory civilities, I will kill him.”

  The introduction began, which meant all conversation would soon cease, for the dance required couples to form a square, and to dance both with and around each other.

  “You will not kill Sir Fletcher,” Megan said as she curtsied to Deene. “That privilege should belong to me.”

  Deene treated her to the smile that had won him a reputation for raking prior to his marriage, and then the dance began. The quadrille was relatively new, but Megan had danced it enough to be confident of the steps.

  She was not confident of this plan to keep her from Sir Fletcher’s company. He was wily and shrewd, and persistent as a rash. She dared not venture so far as the women’s retiring room, or even the card room, lest he accost her.

  “Smile,” Deene murmured as he turned her in a circle. “Dance now, murder later.”

  Not murder, precisely, but as Megan chasséd, jetéd, and pliéd, she battled a growing impulse to seek Sir Fletcher out and confront him, come what may. Colin MacHugh had put Hamish’s military career in perspective for her, and if anything, the information had increased her determination to thwart Sir Fletcher’s schemes.

  “Where is Sir Fletcher?” Megan whispered on the next turn.

  “Two squares down.”

  Close enough that he was probably watching Megan’s every step. She’d always regarded her poor eyesight as a nuisance, not a curse, but for once, she wished she had the vision of an eagle.

  The never-ending quadrille eventually concluded, and Deene escorted Megan off the dance floor.

  “Who is to partner you for the minuet?” Deene asked.

  “I don’t know. Anwen is keeping track for me. I’m partnering with only family tonight, though I’ve half a mind to approach Sir Fletcher and let him make a cake of himself.”

  “Not wise, Megs. When there’s talk, it always redounds to the lady’s discredit. If you don’t care for Sir Fletcher, then leave it to Moreland to send the brave knight packing.”

  “Redound to a lady’s discredit,” Megan muttered. “What does that mean? That the talk haunts her, as Sir Fletcher has made a pest of himself to me? That gossip reflects upon her, as impetuous behavior has reflected on me, even years later?”

  A flash of golden hair, dark evening attire, and burgundy went by on her right. Deene shifted so he blocked Megan from Sir Fletcher’s view, and Megan wanted to shove his lordship aside.

  If Sir Fletcher was to ruin her future, let it be ruin on her terms. Megan’s sisters had agreed with her on that point, and as for what Their Graces thought … Megan loved her aunt and uncle, but she loved Hamish more.

  And she was heartily sick of being held prisoner by Sir Fletcher’s threats.

  “One forgets how fierce the Windham womenfolk can be,” Deene said. “But now is not the time or the—”

  A commotion erupted at the far end of the ballroom, when the dancers ought to be assembling for the minuet.

  “What is it, Deene?”

  “I can’t tell. Perhaps a footman fell on the steps to the minstrel’s gallery, or somebody’s having an argument.”

  Deene was tall, but the Hazelton gathering was very well attended, so the crowd was considerable.

  Megan unwound her arm from his. “Go assure yourself that your wife has not come to harm. I’ll find Anwen, and you can meet us by the punch bowl.” Megan would find Sir Fletcher first, and give him the set down of his handsome, arrogant, conniving life.

  The stir and murmur from the corner of the ballroom hadn’t let up. If an argument were in progress, the crowd would have gone silent, the better to catch every word.

  “Anwen is right where we left her,” Deene said. “Sir Fletcher’s back is turned. Off you go, and I’ll see what’s afoot.”

  He loped away, very likely intent on finding his lady wife, or offering aid to the host and hostess in the event something untoward was in progress.

  Megan scanned the ballroom one last time in hopes she’d catch sight of Hamish, then realized it might be better if he were absent. Sir Fletch
er needed to know that Megan spoke for herself, and had made her own decisions.

  Megan had needed to know that too.

  In the next moment, Megan found herself staring at embroidered burgundy and white lace, the combination putting her in mind of a wound bleeding through its bandages. As if her thoughts had conjured him, Sir Fletcher—amid a cloud of attar of roses—stood before her.

  “My dearest Megan, good evening. Your escort seems to have deserted you. How fortunate that I’ve come to your rescue.”

  He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “Fortunate, indeed,” Megan said, though the menace in his tone had her knees wobbling. “Shall we enjoy the terrace?”

  The terrace would have to do—more private than the middle of the ballroom, though on such a mild evening, not deserted by any means. More to the point, half the Windham family would see Sir Fletcher escorting her there, and stop him from any scandalous behavior.

  He kept her hand in his, his grip uncomfortable through Megan’s gloves.

  “The terrace? As I recall, you disdained to share the out of doors with me not long ago. For what I have to say to you, a crowded ballroom will do nicely. A moment, please, while I review the speech I’ve prepared. Do try to look pleased when I get to the business about until death do us part, won’t you?”

  Hamish had tried to be discreet, but none of the footmen were willing to ask the Duke of Moreland to step out of the ballroom. Colin had located Moreland up in the minstrel’s gallery, which was only slightly less public than the middle of the dance floor.

  “The talk will never cease,” Puget said as Hamish led him to the steps in the corner of the ballroom. “This is the social equivalent of housebreaking, MacHugh. You insult your host and hostess—”

  Hamish stopped on the steps, which put him appreciably higher than Puget. Behind Puget, all of polite society was gawking and whispering, simply because three guests had arrived underdressed to the ball. Meggie was somewhere in that crowd, but so was Sir Fletcher, likely with a damned ring in his pocket.