Regency Hearts Boxed Set

by Jennifer Monroe

  “Your Grace?”

  Lucas turned to find his butler at the door, a silver tray in his hand. “Yes, Goodard? What is it?”

  “A letter has arrived for you,” the older man said as he presented the tray to Lucas.

  “It is from Albert,” Lucas said after opening the document and looking at the closing. His eyes read over the letter. “What is this?” he asked, unable to believe what he was reading. His breathing became harsh as his temper rose. “How dare he!”

  “Your Grace?” Goodard asked in alarm.

  “I believe Albert is cheating me!” he shouted. “In fact, I know he is.”

  “Shall I send word that you require his presence?” Goodard asked, his posture as rigid as his voice. He always did take anything that happened to Lucas as if it were an affront to himself.

  Lucas thought for a moment. “No, that will not be necessary,” he replied finally. “My ledgers will be arriving today, and I will have too much to do to deal with him.”

  Goodard offered him a smile. “Very well, Your Grace.” He paused. “There is another matter to discuss.”

  Lucas sighed. Of course there was. “What is it?”

  “While I was in the village this morning, I had the honor of speaking with Lady Paulette Mathers. She spoke highly of your party last evening and asked that I relay what a splendid time she had.”

  Lucas snorted. “She ate and drank enough,” he said with disgust as he thought on the eldest daughter of Baron Mathers. “I am certain she has nothing about which to complain. Any other messages?”

  The old man smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Lady Paulette also said she looks forward to coming to dinner this Friday. Have you found a woman for your arm?”

  If any other man had spoken to Lucas in such a manner, he would have thrown him out on his ear. What business was it of a servant to ask such a question? However, Goodard had been a friend for years, despite his position. If it had not been for his support, Lucas was uncertain if he would have remained as sane as he was.

  Then guilt hit him. Why had he been so harsh with Louise, a woman who had been in his household as long as Goodard, but gave Goodard certain allowances? Well, it did not matter; he was the duke and could treat any servant any way he chose.

  Ignoring the thought, he said, “Lady Paulette is a beautiful woman. However, she seems as dense as the sheep in the fields.”

  “Most women are, Your Grace,” Goodard replied with a light chuckle. “And, indeed, she is beautiful, which would make her a more than suitable bride. As long as you are happy in her presence, that is what matters.”

  Lucas considered the old man’s words. Lady Paulette did have a beauty about her, but even so, he felt nothing for her. How could he? The woman had to be one of the most boring women he had ever encountered, her conversational topics revolving around what events were taking place and who would be attending. Any topics of any substance were pushed aside almost immediately. Lucas knew he would have to marry one day, but that day was not today, and especially not to one such as Lady Paulette.

  “Marriage is a long way away,” Lucas replied. “Leave me, Goodard. I have much to consider.” The butler bowed and left him alone.

  Lucas returned to the letter and his anger returned. It was not only the possibility of being cheated that made his ire grow but his inability to keep his own books. Try as he might, numbers confused him and therefore, he had been forced to keep the bookkeeper his father had used before his death.

  Sitting back in his chair, his mind wandered to Lady Paulette once again. He supposed it was time he found himself a wife, yet no woman had caught his eye nor piqued his curiosity. Women of the ton tended to be shallow in thought and held little interest for him, but there had to be a woman out there who would be a compatible addition to his household.

  Sighing, he picked up the letter and read it again. He had other concerns at the moment much more pressing than concerning himself with a bride he had yet to meet.

  ***

  Numbers might have been a constant annoyance to Lucas, but as he ran his finger down the columns, he saw that something was terribly wrong. According to the sums, he was losing nearly two hundred pounds a month, and that did not sit well with him. The loss of even the smallest amount was concerning, but the amount he was seeing? Outrageous! Lucas rubbed his temples. First, it seemed Albert had been cheating him, and now, another man, a marquess no less, had been doing the same!

  “These numbers are wrong,” he said, looking up from the ledgers and glaring at the man standing before him. “Your name again?”

  “Stephen, Your Grace,” the man said with a bow of his head. The man was older, and Lucas thought he knew him from somewhere, but he could not place where. “I do believe they’re correct, Your Grace.”

  Lucas slammed his fist on the table, his voice bellowing,” Do not tell me that the mistake lies with my own recordkeeping!” He rose from the desk, and the man trembled. “Did you go over these numbers?”

  “I did, Your Grace,” the man croaked. “Double and treble checked them.”

  “Why has Mr. Barrington passed off my work to you?” Lucas asked, reaching across the desk to grab the second ledger from the man’s hand. “Does he have more important clients than me?” He slammed the ledger on top of the other, stood, and walked around the desk. “Answer me! Does he believe he is better than me?”

  “N-no, Your Grace,” the man stammered. “No one would upset the Duke of Storms!” The man slammed his jaw closed and his eyes flew open wide.

  “What was that?” Lucas asked, peering into the man’s eyes. “The Duke of Storms, is it?”

  “Beggin’ your forgiveness, Your Grace,” the man whispered. The hand holding his hat in front of him trembled. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

  Lucas narrowed his eyes at the man. “And it could be a costly one,” he said, seething. He knew the moniker had been assigned to him because of his temper, and he loathed it. He knew some of the stories told about him; some were true while others were not, but he had yet to hear them from someone who did not know him directly. “What have you heard about me?”

  The man swallowed hard. “N-nothing, Your Grace.”

  Lucas took a step closer. “Do not lie. Tell me what you have heard.”

  The hesitation disappeared and the man’s voice came clear and quick. “That you’ve been known to call down lightning from the sky. They say there’s thunder in your footsteps that sends the animals of the forest running.”

  Although anger still boiled in Lucas, he could not help but laugh. “Call down lightning?” he asked incredulously. “As though I am a deity of the Greeks of ancient times?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. That exactly.”

  Lucas shook his head. “The foolery of the ton runs deep,” he murmured.

  “Not the ton,” Stephen said. “In fact, from the youngest of children to farmers, everyone knows about…” His voice trailed and he cringed, as if he expected Lucas to strike him down where he stood.

  Lucas turned and picked up the ledgers. “Tell me,” he growled, “what do you see wrong with the column on the last page?”

  Stephen took the ledger with a shaky hand and flipped through to the last page containing writing. He scanned over it for a moment before looking up and replying, “Nothing, Your Grace. It’s accurate.”

  Lucas scrunched his brow. “Are you certain?” he asked. The book was upside down.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Stephen replied. “All is in order. In fact…”

  With a growl, Lucas grabbed the book from the man. He now knew who this man was, why he was so familiar. “You are old Stephen the Drunk. You cannot read or write, can you?”

  In the distance, thunder rumbled as the first spits of rain tapped against the window behind him. The man did not need to answer as memories flooded Lucas’s mind. When he was ten, he remembered the town drunk, a man who stumbled out of a public house and bumped into Lucas. The man had apologized and then promptly f
ell over on his face, apparently succumbed to the drink. And now, this same man was viewing his personal records? The idea was a direct insult to his station!

  “Your Grace, if you’d allow me to…”

  The wind began to howl outside the window, and rain now pounded on the panes.

  “Quiet!” Lucas said. The rumors were false, and yet Lucas felt he could control the storm outside. How he wished he could send lightning down and burn the man in front of him from his sight! “Is Mr. Barrington in his office today?”

  “N-no, Your Grace,” Stephen whispered. “He’s gone to London. But his daughter’s there.”

  “His daughter?”

  “Y-yes, M-Miss Emma,” the man stammered but then gave Lucas a toothy grin. “Such a kind woman, Miss Emma. One who is both charitable and…”

  “I did not ask after her character,” Lucas snapped as he returned to his desk. He took a seat and pulled the ledger to him once again. “Is his daughter minding the man’s office?”

  The man’s grin widened. “More than that, Your Grace. She’s in charge of everything!”

  The realization of what had happened came crashing in on Lucas. With her father away, the woman thought she was capable enough to run his business. It explained why the numbers were off and why the fool in front of him had been tasked to deliver the ledgers.

  “The madness of people never ceases to amaze me,” he mumbled. “It is no wonder so many of the ton are finding themselves without a home.” He looked up at the old man again. “You may leave, but give this Miss Emma a message from me.”

  “Yes, of course,” the man said with eagerness. “What’ll I tell her?”

  “Tell her that the Duke of Storms is not happy.”

  Chapter Three

  Thunder rumbled as Emma looked out onto the empty street. Streams of water rushed along the ruts in the mud, dark clouds blocking out the sun that would have been on the western horizon. If only she could enjoy the pinks and oranges of the sunset.

  “Miss Emma?”

  Emma jumped. She had not heard Stephen return. She took one last look at the downpour and sighed. “How did it…” She stopped when she saw the look of the older man.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sniffling. “If he means to hang anyone, let it be me. It was my big mouth and not being able to read that made him angry.” He pulled out a dirty kerchief and wiped his nose. “He’s right. I’m nothing but an old drunk.”

  Emma was surprised at the bloodshot eyes and the sadness on Stephen’s face. “You might have been a drunk before, but you are now my friend. You will be a good businessman if I have anything to say about it.” This made the old man’s face lighten. “And I, for one, am proud of how far you have come in the past year.”

  “Thank you, Miss Emma,” he said with another sniff. “It’s because of you and your father, you know. You’ve been so good to me. No one else would talk to me, but you did.”

  She smiled, for his words were true. For years, she had seen the old drunk around town, oftentimes mumbling to himself and acting the fool. However, Emma had reached out to him. She needed help in the office, she had told him, but he had to promise to quit his drinking. Although he was old and illiterate, he had made good on his promise and became more than an assistant but a dear friend, as well.

  Stephen grasped his hat in his fists. “Without a friend like you, I don’t think I’d make it.”

  “I feel the same, my friend,” she replied with a warm smile. “And no, you will not be hanged. No one will. I will speak to the duke myself when he arrives.”

  Thunder boomed, much closer this time. Was it an omen of things to come? She shook her head. What nonsense! She was never one for believing in omens or other superstitions, and she would not begin now.

  Walking over to Stephen, she straightened the collar of his coat. It was as old and tattered as he, but it was clean. They had fallen on hard times, much like most in the village, and it would take an abundant amount of luck to climb from the depths in which they found themselves. “Now, I would like you to return home and rest for the evening. Take pride in knowing you have done nothing wrong.”

  “Thank you, Miss,” he said, sniffling as she pulled him in for a light embrace. “I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”

  She walked him to the door. “See that you are,” she said with feigned fierceness. “Having a duke angry with us does not change the fact we have work to do.”

  He gave her one of his wide grins and then he was gone.

  As she went to close the door, a familiar carriage trumbled by. The daughter of a butcher, Susan Thompson had been a friend before she married a wealthy man and had become Mrs. Rumsfeld. Now that she was of the gentry, the woman had no time for the likes of Emma, or anyone else of the working class.

  As Emma thought on her old friend, she realized that all of Emma’s friends were now married, many with children of their own. Emma, on the other hand, had remained unattached, not even courted by a man, and instead had stayed to help her father with his business. With the business now in decline, she found she had no time for parties or gatherings. Nor friends, for that matter. One by one, they went on with their lives while she continued in hers. And so the wheel turned.

  It was not as if she did not enjoy helping her father, for she did. However, she could not stop the dreams of meeting a kind man, one who would love her and, even more, understand her. For the burden she carried was great, one of which no one but Stephen was aware. To share a burden with a friend was not the same as sharing with a husband, or so she imagined. A man to hold her, to cherish her, and to allow her to share that which was on her heart.

  The thunder rattled the panes of the window, a deep booming that made Emma start. Then the door opened, and a man with long, dark hair entered the office. Although she had only seen him once in her life, his presence made her fearful, for it was none other than the Duke of Storms.

  “You are Miss Barrington, I presume?” he said in a rough, yet sophisticated voice as he glared down at her with his strong blue eyes. Although he was intimidating with his broad shoulders and thick chest, she could not help but notice he had a handsomeness about him with his defined jaw and perfect cheekbones. “Are you deaf?” he demanded.

  “No,” Emma replied as she lowered herself into an unpracticed curtsy. She had few occasions to use such diffidence; she would have to practice if she was made to interact more with clients of this man’s station, something for which she had not planned. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It is an honor to have you in our office.”

  He gave a quick glance around the room and crinkled his nose. “My stables are better decorated,” he said.

  She felt a surge of anger begin to rise in her. That is, until he turned and their eyes met. Perhaps the weather was making her ill, for her vision swam for several moments. It was strange, somehow, for his eyes reminded her of a roiling sea, bold and beautiful in their majesty.

  “But I am not here to discuss your office. I assume you know why I am here.”

  “Yes,” she replied, focusing her thoughts on the matter at hand. “If you would give me a moment to explain…”

  “No!” he barked, and the wind pelted the rain against the window creating an eerie clamor. Or was it perhaps simply the duke’s presence that produced such a sound? “You will listen. I have been gracious enough to allow your father to attend to my books.” He closed his eyes and sighed before walking over to a small painting that hung on the wall. He reached up and traced along its frame. “And what do I receive in return? A woman?”

  Emma made no comment. What could she say? Most men thought the same whenever they were forced to meet with a woman for business. Why would this man be any different? As he turned, she thought of the rumors she had heard about the Duke of Storms. Would he call down the lightning to strike her? He certainly appeared as though he could.

  “A woman,” he repeated, harsher this time. “What does a woman know of bookkeeping? Or of business, for that m
atter? Tell me the answer to this riddle, for it eludes me.”

  Emma nodded, swallowing the retort that rose inside her. Although her fear was great, she replied, “Since I was a child, my father taught me his business. I have been under his tutelage for more than a dozen years, and I know what needs to be done as well as he.”

  The duke snorted. “That is why you allow a drunk to assist you?” he demanded.

  “Stephen is no drunk,” she snapped back. How dare this man call attention to a man who had worked so hard to strip away his past! “Stephen has stopped his foolery. Besides, he does not attend to the books; he only delivers them. That does not take more than the ability to carry something from one place to another.” She halted, realizing how forceful her voice had become. “I am sorry for speaking so harshly. It is the storm; it keeps me on edge.” She glanced at the window and returned her gaze to the duke. His coat was the color of his eyes, and she noticed the way his muscles pushed at the sleeves as he straightened his cravat.

  “Do not do it again,” he said. “But that is irrelevant at the moment. My books are off, and I will not stand for slovenly work.”

  Emma was taken aback. How dare this man accuse her of poorly executed work! “I assure you,” she replied, doing everything she could to keep her tone even, “they were completed properly.”

  “Your father did the work himself, then?”

  “No,” she said, pulling herself up straighter. “I completed the work.”

  For a moment, he only stared at her, but then he pulled his head back and barked a loud laugh. “Yes, I can see the problem now.” He walked over and stood not a hand’s length away, and Emma found her heart pounding against her chest with a wildness that made breathing difficult. “A woman cannot conduct business, nor can she keep books for such occasions.”