by Sophia Nash
“Do you want him?” Barry murmured so quietly James could barely hear him.
“I should say no,” she whispered.
“You should,” he assured her, and then glanced at Lady Mary Haverty, whose expression was filled with equal parts shock and happiness.
James’s chest finally expanded with relief. Calliope gurgled until Amelia elbowed her, unseen.
Isabelle finally smiled. “Please, go on, darling.” She nodded to James.
Darling . . . She had said darling. The most beautiful word in the English language.
And before half of the ton, James Fitzroy broke his word repeatedly, quite thoroughly, and with great love, for there was one thing above all that he had promised Isabelle’s father, the thing that trumped all else . . . He had promised to protect her. Protect her from all harm. And to ensure her happiness. And that this moment allowed him the happiness that might have eluded him—marriage to the only woman whom he would ever love—was merely a miraculous benefit.
“Your Graces,” the archbishop insisted, with a baritone that carried to the back of the gathering, “shall we not carry on in private. Follow me. Good day everyone and may—”
James rushed forward to guide Isabelle toward the annex behind the hanging pulpit, forgetting everyone and everything in his wake. He had to have her in his arms. He had to make certain this was real. He pushed and shoved at an enormous tapestry beyond the coved annex until they were shrouded in semidarkness.
There, he grasped her forearms. “I’m so very sorry, Isabelle, my love. Will you forgive me? Will you love me, have me? Despite all?”
“Why now?” she asked, with such tenderness.
“A certain Miss Calliope Little. And Sussex . . . my—hell, he knows. He pointed out something quite correct. I just have to be good, not right.”
Without another word, Isabelle went into his arms, and James Fitzroy knew happiness. Tasted happiness with every fiber of his being.
Yes, paradise . . .
And all the while, a rotund gentleman known as His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, stood in the same annex of the church, unseen. He smiled. He loathed weddings. Abhorred them entirely. His own being his chief complaint. But this morning? Why, he might just reverse his opinion. Ah, yes, love was in the air.
He had accomplished the impossible: five dukes in parson’s mousetrap in less than six months.
It must be a record.
And all it had taken was a little hint of revolution. A little soupçon of trickery. A little taste of . . . Oh, how tiring this entire pairing off of dukes could be on one’s nerves. Art, architecture, gambling, cuisine, and war were far more intriguing.
The Prince Regent darted a glance about him, and then partook from his glittering gold snuff box.
The entire collection of assorted, bejeweled witnesses of the most outrageous goings-on of the century poured out of St. George’s Church, uncertain if they wanted to dash off to report the outrageous or partake in a non-wedding breakfast to celebrate something, of which they were not certain.
A single crow flew overhead, darted through the bell tower, cawed twice, and made its way to an ancient oak tree, where the rest of his murder roosted. His mate cocked her sleek head and tucked her head against his for a moment. Their fellow raven-jacketed friends cackled with joviality.
And much like the starkly handsome duke with his future bride at his side exiting the church below only to be surrounded by a swarm of laughing people, this crow was home.
And now a sneak peek at the first book
in the Royal Entourage series,
BETWEEN THE DUKE
AND THE DEEP BLUE SEA
Available in print and e-book
from Avon Books
A new duke always had hell to pay.
Oh, it had been all well and good when Alexander Barclay, now the newly minted ninth Duke of Kress, had walked into White’s Club in Mayfair and been pounded on the back by a blossoming number of friends a fortnight ago.
And it had been very good last week when he had met his new solicitors and removed from his cramped and moldy rooms off St. James’s Street to palatial Kress House, Number Ten, St. James’s Square.
However, it had gone from the first bloom of bonhomie with the crème de la crème of the most privileged societal tier in the world to near pariah status overnight. Alex’s avalanche from grace had all started last eve at the Prince Regent’s Carleton House, where he provided the spirits to toast His Grace, the Duke of Candover’s last evening as a bachelor.
His own induction into the circle that same night, he could not remember.
Alex should have known better. Had not the sages throughout history warned to be careful of what one wished? Barons, viscounts, marquises, and earls would have given up their last monogram-encrusted silver spoon for entrée into the prince’s exclusive circle, and all for naught as one had to be a duke of England to be included. For two centuries, the dukes in the peerage of Scotland had pushed for inclusion in the royal entourage to no avail. And one did not speak of the Irish dukes’ efforts at all.
Yes, well. Being a duke was anything but entertaining right now. More asleep than not, Alex shivered—only to realize his clothes were wet, and even his toes were paddling circles in his boots. Christ above, he would give over a large portion of his newfound fortune if only someone would lend him a pistol to take a poorly aimed shot at the birds singing outside like it was the last morning the world would ever see.
Sod it . . . What on earth had happened last night? And where in bloody hell was he?
The fast clacking of heels somewhere beyond the door reverberated like a herd of African elephants. A sharp knock brought stars to the insides of Alex’s eyelids before the door opened.
“Hmmm . . . finally. Thought we’d lost you,” shouted a familiar feminine voice.
Footsteps trampled closer and Alex pried open his eyes to find a blurry pair of oddly golden peepers and coils of brown hair floating above him. Ah, the young Duchess of March, the only female in the prince’s entourage. Alex wished he could make his voice box work to beg her to stop making so much noise.
“Although, you,” she continued, looking at Alex’s valet stretched out on a trundle bed nearby, “are not Norwich. Come along, then. The both of you. Prinny is not in a mood to wait this morning—not that he ever is.” Isabelle displayed the annoying habit of tapping her foot as she stared at Alex.
When he did not move, Isabelle had the audacity to start pulling his arm. Dislocation being the worse of two evils, Alex struggled to regain full consciousness and his feet as his man did the same with much greater ease.
Ah, at least he had one question answered. They were still in the prince’s Carleton House. Thank the Lord. Any debauchery that might have occurred had at least remained within the confines of these gilded walls. There had been far too much gossip lately of the immoderation of their high-flying circle.
“Look, if we’re not in His Majesty’s chambers within the next two minutes, I cannot answer as to what might happen,” the duchess urged. “Honestly, what were you and the rest thinking last night? There must have been quite a bit of devilish spirits to cause . . .”
He held up his hand for her to stop. Just the thought of distilled brews made him wince.
“Must have been the absinthe,” his valet, Jack Farquhar, said knowingly. “Englishmen never have the stomach for it.”
“You’re English,” Alex ground out, his head splitting.
“Precisely why I never imbibe. But you . . . you should be half immune to that French spirit of the devil incarnate.”
Isabelle Tremont, the Duchess of March, had a lovely warm laugh, but right now it sounded like all the bells of St. George’s at full peel.
“We must go. You too.” She nodded to Jack Farquhar, before she continued. “Kress, do you have the faintest idea where Norwich is? Were you not with him during the ridiculous bachelor fete? You two are usually inseparable.”
The effort to cross the halls to the Prince Regent’s bedchamber felt like a long winter march across Europe to St. Petersburg. Alex looked sidelong toward his soon-to-be dismissed valet. “Absinthe, mon vieux?”
“ ’Twas the only thing in your new cellar . . . eighteen bottles. Either the last duke had a partiality for the vile stuff or his servants drank everything but that—in celebration of his death.”
To describe the pasty-faced, hollowed-eyed jumble of gentlemen strewn around the royal bedchamber as alive was a gross kindness. Four other dukes—Candover, Sussex, Wright, and Middlesex—as well as the Archbishop of Canterbury formed a disheveled half-circle before Prinny’s opulent, curtained bed where the future king of England reclined in full shadow.
“Your Majesty would have me recommence reading, then?” The pert voice of the duchess caused a round of moans. “I’m sorry, but Norwich and Barry cannot be found, and Abshire is, umm, indisposed but will arrive shortly.” She blushed and studied the plush carpet. “As His Majesty said, there should be no delay in a response to these outrageous accusations.” She waved a newspaper in the air.
Alex swiveled his head and met the glassy-eyed stare of the bridegroom, the Duke of Candover, who turned away immediately in the fashion of a cut direct.
“Uh . . . shouldn’t you be at St. George’s?” Alex would have given his eyeteeth for a chair.
“Brilliant observation,” Candover said under his breath.
“Late to the party, Kress.” The Prince Regent’s voice was raspy with contempt. “Haven’t you heard? Candover has been stood up by his bride on this wedding morning. Or was it the other way around, my dear?”
“It appears both, Your Majesty,” the duchess replied, scanning the newspaper with what almost appeared to be a hint of . . . of delight? No, Alex was imagining it.
“Lady Margaret Spencer was tucked in an alcove of the church, but her family whisked her away unseen when Candover did not appear after a ninety-minute delay,” Isabelle read from the column.
“Why wasn’t I woken?” Candover grasped his wrenched head in obvious pain.
“James Fitzroy,” the duchess replied, disapprobation emanating from every inch of her arched back, “you should know. Your sisters and I woke to find every servant here on tiptoe. You, and the rest of you”—her eyes fluttered past the prince in her embarrassment—“commanded upon threat of dismissal or, ahem, dismemberment that you were not to be disturbed.”
“I remember that part very well,” inserted Jack Farquhar.
In the long pause that followed, Alex imagined half a dozen ways to dismember his valet. He was certain that every duke in the room was considering the same thing.
“Continue reading, Isabelle.” The royal hand made a halfhearted movement.
“Let’s see,” the duchess murmured, her eyes flickering over the words of the article. “Uh, well, the columnist made many unfortunate assumptions and . . .”
“Isabelle Tremont, I order you to read it,” ground out the prince.
“Majesty,” she breathed. “I—I just can’t.”
John Spence, the Duke of Wright, who at seven and twenty was the youngest of all the dukes, chose that moment—a most opportune one—to sway ominously and pitch forward onto the future king’s bed. Without a word, the Duke of Sussex hauled Wright off the royal bedclothes and laid the poor fellow, who was out stone cold, on the floor.
Alex strode forward and grasped the edges of the paper from the pretty duchess’s nervous fingers.
“Ah, yes, much better,” the Prince Regent said sourly. “Might as well have the man”—his Majesty’s hand pointed to him—“who is to blame for the ruin of us all, read it.”
Head pounding, Alex forced his eyes and mouth to work. “ ‘In a continuation of the regular obscene excesses of the Prince Regent and his royal entourage, not one of the party made an appearance at St. George’s earlier this morning, with the exception of our Princess Caroline, darling Princess Charlotte, and Her Grace, the young Duchess of March. His Majesty’s absence and that of the groom and groomsmen caused all four hundred guests to assume the worst. And, indeed, this columnist has it on the very best authority, partially one’s own eyewitness account, that not only the august bridegroom, His Grace, the Duke of Candover, but also seven other dukes, one archbishop and the Prince Regent himself, were seen cavorting about all of London last eve on an outrageous regal rampage. Midnight duels, swimming amok with the swans in the Serpentine, a stream of scantily clad females in tow, lawn bowling in unmentionables, horse races in utter darkness, wild, uproarious boasting, and jesting, and wagering abounded. Indeed, this author took it upon himself to retrieve and return to White’s Club their infamous betting book, which one of the royal entourage had had the audacity to remove without even a by your leave. In this fashion we have learned that the Duke of Kress lost the entire fortune he so recently acquired with the title, although the winner’s name was illegible . . .’ ” Alex’s voice stumbled to a halt.
“Happens to the best of us,” the Duke of Sussex murmured as consolation. That gentleman was as green about the gills as Alex felt.
“And the worst of us,” mumbled the Duke of Middlesex, as he finally gave in to the laws of gravity and allowed his body to slide down the wall on which he was leaning. He sunk to the ground with a thud.
“Don’t stop now, Kress. You’ve gotten to the only good part.” Candover leaned in wickedly.
Alex had never tried to avoid just punishment. He just wished he could remember, blast it all, what his part had been in the debacle. He cleared his throat and continued, “ ‘Even the queen’s jewels were spotted on one duke as he paraded down Rotten Row. Yes, my fellow countrymen, it appears the English monarchy has learned nothing from our French neighbor’s lessons concerning aristocratic overindulgence. As the loyal scribe of the Fashionable Column for two decades, you have it on my honor that all this occurred and worse. I can no longer remain silent on these reoccurring grievous, licentious activities, and so shall be the first plain-speaking, brave soul to utter these treasonous words: I no longer support or condone a monarchy such as this.’ ” Alex stood very still as the last of the column’s words left his lips.
At precisely the same moment the other dukes cleared their throats, and one valet tried to escape.
“If any of you leave or say one word, I shall cut off your head with a . . .”
“Guillotine, Majesty?” Isabelle chirped.
In the silence, a storm brewed of epic proportions.
Thank the Lord, the chamber’s gilded door opened to divert His Majesty’s attention. The Duke of Barry, a Lord Lieutenant of the 95th Rifle Regiment, stepped in, almost instantly altering his unsteady gait with expert precision. Only his white face and the sheen of perspiration on his forehead gave him away. Mutely, he stepped forward and laid a dueling pistol on the foot of the cashmere and silk royal bedclothing.
“Dare I ask?” His Majesty’s voice took on an arctic edge.
Barry opened his mouth but no sound came out. He tried again. “I believe I shot a man. He’s in your billiard room, Majesty.”
The Duke of Abshire entered the royal chamber behind Barry with the hint of wickedness in his even, dark features marred by a massive black eye. Known as the cleverest of the bunch, good luck had clearly deserted him on this occasion.
“I thought you were leaving, Abshire. Or do you need me to show you out?” Candover’s usually reserved expression turned thunderous.
Alex leaned toward Sussex, and almost fell over before righting himself. “What did I miss?”
“Trust me,” Sussex whispered. “You do not want to know. You’ve got enough on your dish, old man.”
Alex raised his eyebrows at Sussex
and missed Abshire’s dry retort directed at the premier duke, Candover. There was no love lost between those two. Then again, Candover’s remote, holier-than-thou manner grated on just about everyone.
Middlesex, still on the floor, tugged on Alex’s breeches and Alex bent down to catch the former’s whisper. “I heard a lady shouting in chambers next to mine, then two doors slammed, and Candover came out rubbing his knuckles.”
Alex shook his head. Could it get any worse?
The black-haired duke, Abshire, clapped a hand on the shoulder of the most respected and most quiet duke of the circle, Barry. “Is he dead?”
“Yes,” Barry replied.
“Are you certain?” Sussex asked, eyes wide.
“I think I know when a man is breathing or not.”
“But there are some whose breath cannot be detected,” Middlesex croaked.
“Rigor. Mortis,” Barry replied.
An inelegant sound came from the duchess’s throat.
“Please forgive me, Isabelle,” Barry said quietly. “Your Grace, I do not know the man.”
“Just tell me you locked the chamber when you left it,” the prince said dryly. When Barry nodded, the prince continued darkly. “I had thought better of you, Barry. What is this world coming to if I cannot count on one of England’s best and brightest?” The prince, still in full shadow, sighed heavily. “Well, we shall see to the poor, unfortunate fellow, as soon as I am done with all of you.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Barry replied, attempting to maintain his ramrod posture.
“Now then,” His Majesty said with more acidity than a broiled lemon. “Does not one of you remember what precisely happened last night?”
“I remember the Frenchified spirits Kress’s man”—the Duke of Sussex looked toward Jack Farquhar with pity—“brought into His Majesty’s chamber.”
“I must be allowed to defend . . .” Farquhar began and then changed course. “Yes, well, since three of you locked me in a strong room when I voiced my concern, I cannot add any further observations.”