by Unknown
IF YOU GIVE A DUKE A DUCHY
Or,
LOVE’S SAVAGE WHIPLASH
(NOT YOUR TYPICAL REGENCY ROMANCE)
Being a Tale of Panting Passion wherein a Disaffected Duke runs away to Sea to become a Pirate and ends up becoming Love Slave to a Ninja Queen, whilst at home he is replaced by a Nefarious Highwayman and ne’er-do-well who is, in turn, Ultimately Redeemed by his love for a Poor but Virtuous Governess.
By
The Nine Naughty Novelists
ISBN
978-1-880370-14-8
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Nine Naughty Novelists
Published by Nine Naughty Novelists
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One: The Importance of Being Ornithological by P.G. Forte
Chapter Two: The Duke Takes a Powder by Meg Benjamin
Chapter Three: Pirate versus Ninja by Kelly Jamieson
Chapter Four: The Dread Highwayman...Colin? by Skylar Kade
Chapter Five: The Ninja, the Pirate, Her Katana and His…Urges? by Kinsey W. Holley
Chapter Six: Mistress and Commander: The Far Side of the Nursery by Kate Davies
Chapter Seven: The Ninja Most Naughty by Juniper Bell
Chapter Eight: Lady Chastity’s Lover…Or Perhaps Not by Erin Nicholas
Chapter Nine: Mutiny on the High Seas by Sydney Somers
Chapter Ten: The Highwayman's Runaway Bride by P.G. Forte
Chapter Eleven: A Conspiratorial Interlude by Meg Benjamin
Chapter Twelve: A Glutin-y Mutiny by Skylar Kade
Chapter Thirteen: The Wedding Night by Kelly Jamieson
Chapter Fourteen: Out of the Mouths of Parrots by Juniper Bell
Chapter Fifteen: Divulging the Duke’s Deception by Kate Davies
Chapter Sixteen: Siblings Reunited, The Forces of Phisicks O’erturned by Kinsey W. Holley
Chapter Seventeen: The Death of a Parrot and Other Surprises by Erin Nicholas
Chapter Eighteen: Happily Ever After? by Sydney Somers
ABOUT THE AUTHORS:
Juniper Bell
Meg Benjamin
Kate Davies
PG Forte
Kinsey W. Holley
Kelly Jamieson
Skylar Kade
Erin Nicholas
Sydney Somers
Chapter One: The Importance of Being Ornithological
In which a Disastrous Failure to Communicate occurs, resulting in a young Peer of the Realm suffering a Sudden and Egregious Change of Station
By P.G. Forte
Netherloin Park, seat of His Grace, the Duke of Earl, twenty years previously…
The Ninth Duke of Earl was most decidedly not having a good day. Despite its being the fifth anniversary of his birth, at present that esteemed young gentleman could be found lying stretched fully out upon the floor of his bedchamber drumming his feet against the boards and loudly bemoaning his fate
Fate, in the person of his valet—and the loathsome flowered silk waistcoat that the Duke had been given to understand must be put on, tout de suite, if he ever wished to be allowed to join his twin brother for tea—was unmoved by the Duke’s distress. A dour Frenchman who went by the name of Lumière, the Duke’s valet was mostly deaf and possessed of very little English and was thus largely unmindful of the vulgar imprecations currently being flung at his head by his young charge. To be called a jingle-brained, chuckleheaded fatwit meant less than nothing to Monsieur Lumière.
“I demand to be told the reason for this bloody racket,” the Duke’s uncle insisted, appearing at the doorway in a state of slight déshabillé. As usual, his arrival exerted a strange effect on the Duke’s pet parrot, Pemberley, a venerable, lavender coloured creature who’d been passed on to the current Duke, along with his title, his valet, and sundry items, on the occasion of his father’s demise.
“Murderer! Murderer!” the bird repeated, squawking loudly. It was a call he gave only when in the presence of the Duke’s uncle and guardian, the Honorable Mr. Willoughby Wickham the Fourteenth, and only since the death (under somewhat mysterious circumstances) of Mr. Wickham’s sister and brother-in-law, the late Duke and his lady.
Sadly, this most curious behaviour on the part of the bird had, as of yet, completely failed to excite the interest of any member of the Duke’s family. Had it been otherwise, we might have had a far different story to tell.
Undeterred by the parrot’s outburst, and determined to be heard above the bedlam, Mr. Wickham bellowed louder. “Lumière! What is the meaning of this noise?”
“It is Monsieur le Duc,” Lumière answered in measured tones, disdaining to raise his voice in so ill-bred a fashion. However, to illustrate his point, he gestured at the boy, still lying prone upon the floor, even though it seemed impossible to imagine that his uncle could have missed either seeing or hearing him. “’e eez refusing to stand up so that I may aseest him in donning ‘iz new waistcoat.”
“Well, if he won’t stand up then pick him up off the floor yourself and put the bloody garment on him! I want my tea and I don’t wish to have it held up any longer.”
“Tres bien,” Lumière replied, sighing resignedly. Already he was envisioning the punishment his tender shins were sure to receive from the Duke’s vicious little heels. “Eef you inseest.”
“I do inseest. Er, I mean, insist.” Somewhat flustered, but confident that his orders would be obeyed forthwith, Mr. Wickham turned to leave the room. The jeers and catcalls of the parrot, still ringing in his ears, brought him back again. “And, Lumière, when you’ve finished here, do something with that blasted duck!”
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” Lumière replied in somewhat justifiable confusion. “Do something with le Duc?” While it was true the valet understood only a modicum of English, he certainly could tell the difference between a parrot and a duck. The latter was frequently delightful when served a l’orange. The former was, culinarily speaking, neither comme il faut nor a la mode.
Unfortunately, the honorable Mr. Wickham was a product of a first-rate public school education. As such, while he knew quite a bit about a variety of subjects—notably horse racing, ballroom dancing and how to cheat at cards—he knew next to nothing about most others, ornithology included. As far as he was concerned, one bird was the same as the next; jolly good fun to hunt, but of no earthly use whatsoever otherwise. And certainly not the sort of thing one expected to find in a proper gentleman’s bedchamber.
“What more do you wish me to do with ‘eem?” Lumière inquired, feeling very much ill-used. He had time off coming to him this afternoon and plans involving one of the upstairs chambermaids, a carpet beater and a length of rope.
“Toss him in the river,” came the answer. “I dare say a nice swim is just the thing to put the creature in better humour. Just see that he’s removed from this house before the hour is out.”
“Nom d’un nom d’un nom,” Lumière muttered, as Frenchmen of his station were wont to do, though not a one of them could likely tell you what the expression was supposed to mean. “Toss le Duc into zee rivair?”
All in all, it seemed a very odd request for the young man’s guardian to be making, but what could one expect of the English who were, after all, a savage and unmannered race. Perhaps the exercise was intended to effect an improvement on the Duke’s moods? Lumière supposed anything that would reduce the boy’s lamentable propensity for throwing tantrums was worth a try.
And so it was that the Duke soon found himself bundled in his warmest clothes (in deference to the unseasonably cool weather) being dragged across the lawn by his manservant. The parrot accompanied them, flying overhead and inexplicably intoning in sepulchral tones, “Nevermore, nevermore.”
“Bon voyage,” Lumière called as he pushed the child into the swiftly moving water. He watched the Duke’s progress from the riverbank until the boy’s head bobbed out of sight. “Enjoy your swim, mon petit. Take care you don’t catch cold.”
A short while later, a thoroughly waterlogged boy was pulled dripping from the river several miles from the Duke’s estate. “Why, what have we here?” his rescuer, an obvious rakehell, exclaimed, as he crouched in the grass beside the small form. “Speak up. What were you doing in the water?”
The boy lay limply on the cold ground and gazed back at him in silence, too exhausted to speak, or perhaps too frightened; the man’s clothing and manner clearly marked him as a dangerous and nefarious highwayman.
“Do you not have a name then, boy?”
“Duke of Earl!” a large, lavender parrot called from the branch of an overhanging tree. “Duke, duke, duke of Earl.” But, as was usual, the bird was completely ignored.
“So, you’re a mute, are you?” The highwayman gazed thoughtfully at the boy, noting that his clothing was of exceptionally good quality and cut. It should bring in a pretty penny when sold. “Oh, well, I suppose there’s no harm in that. Children should be seen and not heard in any event, so your silence does not signify in the slightest. I have not the patience to deal with rattle-pates and gabsters anyway. As it happens, I need a quiet, well-behaved servant boy to do my bidding. I imagine you’ll serve quite nicely in that regard. I shall call you Westley.”
“But my name’s not Westley,” the Duke (for it was indeed he) exclaimed, finally finding his voice. “And if you please, sir, I’m not a servant, I’m a duke.”
The highwayman smirked, not believing the boy for an instant. “Are you really? How splendid!” Standing, he executed a deep bow. “I am, of course, honored to meet you, Your Grace. But, as to the other matter, I’m afraid you’ve not much choice. I’ve saved your life, you see. Therefore, whatever you were before, you belong to me now. So, enough of this lazing about. Come along. We’ve a coach to rob.”
“You’re a highwayman, aren’t you?” the boy asked excitedly as he, too, climbed to his feet. “Am I to be one as well?”
“Indeed you are. For I am the Dread Highwayman Roberts and you, if you live long enough, may one day take my place.”
The boy fell silent for a moment as he turned the idea over in his head. “May I still keep the parrot?”
“What, that old thing?” The highwayman gazed critically at the bird, wondering what price it might bring. “Does it have much life left in it?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” answered the Duke. “It’s been in the family for ever so long. Ages, really.”
“And does it know to keep quiet when you tell it to?”
“Not hardly. He squawks all the time, particularly when my uncle’s about.”
The highwayman smiled. “Then it wouldn’t be a very good pet for a highwayman to keep, now would it? Besides, only pirates have parrots—everyone knows that. But if you’re a good lad and do as you’re told, perhaps I’ll get you a ferret one day. How’d you like that?”
The duke shrugged. “I don’t know. Never had a ferret.”
“Oh, they’re all the crack,” the highwayman promised. “Top of the trees, they are, and quite the height of fashion. Best of all, they never tell your secrets.”
As one might expect, the honorable Mr. Wickham was a good deal distressed when news of the Duke’s disappearance and apparent demise was brought to his attention. Why, for the first half hour or so the gentleman was quite beyond the reach of consolation, his spirits absolutely sunk in the very depths of despair.
After all, he stood to lose not just his nephew, and his position as conservator of the young man’s estate (along with a large annual stipend and the prestige that went with said position) but also quite possibly his life, should his part in this regrettable tragedy ever come to light. His deliverance from the worst and most unpleasant of these consequences was due in no small part to his late sister’s efficiency in having presented her lord and master with both an heir and a spare at one stroke.
The Duke’s twin brother, Colin by name, although he was possessed of a much more amiable temperament, bore a more than passing—indeed, some might even have termed it remarkable—resemblance to his noble sibling. There was, in fact, only one sure method by which the brothers might be told apart and that was by way of the matching birthmarks they displayed on extremely sensitive portions of their anatomy (i.e., upon the left buttock cheek of one brother and the right cheek of the other). It may also be worth noting that when the two boys stood side by side these curious and improbable marks lined up in such a fashion as seemed to present a very rude picture—that of two ducks engaged in illicit congress. Even more remarkable (although, of course, completely unrelated to our tale) is the fact that this very same image also appeared on the ducal crest.
Due to the boys’ tender age, they had not yet been presented at Court. It was, therefore, not widely known that the Duchess had given birth to twins. Indeed, it would have been considered quite scandalous to even speak of such matters in Polite Society. And so, as Mr. Wickham was quick to perceive, in his nephew Colin he had the means to effect a most Infamous Switch without anyone ever being the wiser.
To be sure, the knowledge that he was, without doubt, behaving in an ungentlemanlike manner did cause Mr. Wickham a moment’s pause. But only the one moment, and then he was over it. Since his duplicity would serve—and quite neatly too, if he did say so himself—to save his aristocratic bacon (to say nothing of his neck!) he chose not to refine upon it overmuch.
And so begins our story.
Chapter Two: The Duke Takes a Powder
Wherein the Duke, upon finding himself in Dun Street, opts for a Daring and Adventurous solution to his monetary embarrassment.
By Meg Benjamin
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Duke attempting to avoid his guardian must be in possession of a Very Good Excuse.
“Oh hullo, Uncle,” Colin Darcy, Duke of Earl, stammered as he stepped into the drawing room (where he’d had good reason to believe his uncle was not present), “I was just going…um…hunting. Yes, hunting. For, well, foxes. Or possibly rabbits. Maybe pheasants.”
“Sit down,” Uncle Willoughby growled.
“Actually, I heard there was a wolf in the neighborhood,” Colin continued. “The tenants will undoubtedly expect me to take care of it.”
“There are no wolves in Shropshire,” his uncle snapped.
“We live in Shropshire?” Colin’s forehead furrowed appealingly. “I thought it was Kent.”
Uncle Willoughby waved a negligent hand. “Whatever. It’s time we had a talk, boy. Sit down.”
Colin’s heart fell. This was going to be another of those Talks, wherein Uncle Willoughby informed him of bad news that he, the Duke, would be expected to do something about. But since he wasn’t really the Duke yet in anything but name, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it except worry. And he hated worrying.
“Really, Uncle,” he tried once more. “Is this truly necessary?”
His uncle merely raised an eyebrow, pointing steadfastly at the carved wooden chair in the corner. Of course, he’d chosen the most uncomfortable seat in the room. Sighing, Colin subsided against the sharp points of the Battle of Hastings engraved on the chair back.
His uncle clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth in front of him. “My boy, as you approach your majority, it’s time you understood some hard facts about your situation.”
Colin wondered how he could be a majority when there was only one of him, but he decided not to interrupt. Perhaps his uncle would reach whatever point he planned to make more quickly that way.
“To put it plainly,” Uncle Willoughby continued, “the estate is penniless.”
Colin frowned. Thinking always involved frowning. “No pennies, eh? What about the pounds? And the…er…shillings. And so forth.”
Uncle Willoughby paused, staring. He did that frequently when he talked to Colin, for some reason. “We. Have. No. Money,” he said slowly.
“Oh.” Colin blew out a breath. “Well, that’s a problem then, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” his uncle said between his teeth, “it’s a very definite problem. One which you, as Duke, must take steps to solve.”
“Me? How am I to solve it? I mean, we can’t exactly sell anything, can we? The estate’s all entailed and what not.”
“You will solve it in the traditional way in which dukes have always solved money problems. You will marry a rich heiress.” Uncle Willoughby was back to growling again.
“A rich heiress?” Colin frowned again. “I’ll have to find one, won’t I? Suppose I’ll have to go to London for the Season. Don’t know any right off.”
“I’ve already found one for you.” His uncle resumed his pacing. “Lady Chastity Feelsgood of the Devonshire Feelsgoods. She’s rich as Croesus and she’s young enough to supply you with an heir. Everything you need in a wife.”
“But.” Colin frowned more ferociously. “But I don’t know her. I’ve never even seen her. Shouldn’t one at least meet one’s intended before agreeing to marry her?”
Uncle Willoughby gave an explosive snort. “Nonsense. You’re a duke, boy. Marriage is just another business transaction. You’ll meet Lady Chastity when you sign the marriage contract. Plenty of time for a conversation or two. Now go and tell that frog valet of yours to spruce up your courting clothes.”