The man I love.
“I cannot have a mincing dukeling vexing the woman I love with threats of marital servitude.”
Genie sat up and situated herself in Adam’s lap, her arms around him. For a long, lovely moment, Adam reveled in their mutual declarations. His breeding organs clamored to celebrate the occasion intimately, but first he must conclude the strategy session.
“You have kindly given me the means to make the truth of my father’s situation known to all and sundry,” Adam said. “I need only execute the task I dread most in the entire world—other than losing you—to see the plan put in motion.”
Genie left off teasing his earlobe with her tongue. “What task is that?”
“I must give aid to a duke and ask him to aid me in return.”
* * *
“A bear in morning attire is pacing about in the formal parlor,” Anne, Duchess of Tindale, said. “I like the looks of him.”
Augustus more than liked the looks of his duchess, a circumstance which weeks of marriage hadn’t changed. Anne passed over a silver salver with a single card on it.
“I intercepted Jenkins,” she said. “He would not have offered this visiting bear tea. What manner of ducal household fails to offer hospitality to all who call?”
“One recovering from years of priggish posturing. Shall you join me in receiving”—Augustus glanced at the card—“Mr. Morecambe?”
“He’s an architect. I’m not in need of any buildings or renovations, while you own property in six counties and the City. I’ll leave you to it.”
She sashayed from the room, grinning over her shoulder as she passed through the doorway, because of course, Augustus had watched her departure with a worshipful devotion that only grew the longer they were married.
He tucked Mr. Morecambe’s card into his pocket, buttoned his morning coat, and prepared to set down a presuming fellow who should have made an appointment rather than stormed the ducal residence. Augustus appreciated initiative wherever he found it, though, so he’d at least hear the bear—the fellow—out.
Anne hadn’t exaggerated regarding Morecambe’s appearance. He was large, dark, and possessed of shoulders worthy of a blacksmith. His countenance was far from refined, and his blue eyes held not a hint of deference.
“Mr. Morecambe.” Augustus bowed. “I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
Morecambe bent from the waist. “I’m madly in love with your cousin by marriage. We can discuss that later.”
Being a duke was tedious. One wasn’t to brawl, not physically, not verbally, not financially, not ever, and as Mr. Morecambe turned an imperious glower on his host, Augustus realized how much he’d missed brawling.
“We’ll discuss it now, sir. Who the hell are you to fall in love with the Dowager Duchess of Tindale?”
“I’m the man who will get her free of Lord Dunstable’s clutches, and you are the man who will listen to what I have to say before you summon footmen to do what you yourself don’t dare attempt.”
“Toss you out on your presuming ear?”
“Attempt to lay hands on me. I’m not very toss-able, Your Grace. I suggest you take my word on that, for your duchess doubtless values the present arrangement of your features.”
Augustus nearly burst into whoops, but he was learning to be a duke—to be Anne’s duke. “Before I return the favor and rearrange your features, would you care for some tea, Mr. Morecambe?”
“No, thank you. I’d care to enlist your aid in ensuring that Lord Dunstable is shamed for his presumption.”
“You have a pretty way of asking for help.”
Morecambe smiled, and his resemblance to a large, hungry, wild beast was complete. “The Dowager Duchess of Tindale finds my ways pretty enough.”
Genie hadn’t thought to warn Augustus of Mr. Morecambe’s call. She must finally be recovering from her marriage to Charles.
“The dowager duchess was gracious to me when the rest of my family barely acknowledged me. Trifle with her, Morecambe, and I will kill you.”
“As well you should. Lord Dunstable is attempting to trifle with her, but she won’t let me call him out. A fate worse than death is to live with dishonor, and I’d like to sentence Lord Dung-stable to at least that.”
Augustus held out his hand. “Welcome to the family. What have you in mind?”
Morecambe’s grip was crushing, though Augustus knew that Genie’s pet bear would be the soul of tender delicacy with her. Anne would be so pleased, and Augustus was damned happy for Genie too.
Chapter Nine
* * *
Genie’s nerves were in a state, balanced between hope and despair. She received her guests with the Duke and Duchess of Tindale at her side, for she’d appropriated the ducal town house in Brighton for her ball.
Her guest list had skimmed the cream of summer Society from the seaside towns, and no less personages than the Duke and Duchess of Seymouth had bestirred themselves to accept her invitation. Dunstable had called upon her nigh daily, while Adam had taken himself back to London with every appearance of having ended their association.
“You have the document?” Augustus asked during a lull in the receiving line.
“Adam sent it by express earlier today,” Genie replied.
“And where is your Mr. Morecambe?”
“On his way.” Though Genie had no idea if that was the case. Construction at the club had been plagued by the usual sorts of delays and setbacks, and cold weather would arrive without regard to an architect’s schedules. Horses went lame, coaches overturned, and plans went awry.
“I saw the house you purchased for your architect,” Augustus said. “Lovely property.”
“The ceilings,” Anne murmured. “I want those ceilings. Tindale, you are warned.”
“Our ceiling renovations will start in the bedroom.” Augustus and his duchess exchanged a look that confirmed where the couple spent most of their time when at home.
“The eighth biblical plague approaches,” Genie said, pasting her own darling-duchess smile in place and curtseying to Her Grace of Seymouth. “Your Grace, welcome. So glad you could join us.”
Genie endured the same sniffy perusal she’d been treated to a thousand times before, a copper heiress’s lot when she aspired to become a duchess. Now, though, she was a duchess, and she was soon to become Mrs. Adam Morecambe.
She returned the older woman’s rudeness.
“Dunstable told us to expect an announcement,” the older woman said. “I’d best not have spent three hours in a coach only to learn one of your protégés has snagged a mere honorable, madam.”
“We assure you,” Augustus said, “this evening will figure in your memories for years to come.”
The greetings proceeded at the pace of a turtle navigating a sandy beach, with Dunstable all but licking Genie’s glove, and still, no Adam. The time came to open the dancing, and fortunately for Genie, the Tindale dukedom had nearly a century’s precedence over the Seymouth dukedom, or she would have been forced to dance with Dunstable’s papa.
“This feels right,” Augustus said as he escorted Genie to the center of the dance floor. “I danced with you at your presentation ball, and now you dance with me at my first formal appearance in Society as a ducal host. Where the hell is Morecambe?”
“Adam will not fail me,” Genie said, sinking into the requisite curtsey, “and Dunstable has already appropriated my supper waltz, exactly as planned.”
The next two hours were spent in the usual fashion for Genie—matching wallflowers with bachelors, diffusing spats among the ladies in the retiring room, monitoring the punch and those who partook too often from the men’s bowl.
Dunstable’s gaze followed her everywhere, and when Genie spent a few minutes visiting with the Duchess of Anselm, a friend from the days of Genie’s court presentation, Dunstable went so far as to stand in Genie’s line of sight and pat his pocket.
Wherein a ring doubtless nestled.
The suppe
r waltz arrived, and nothing would do but Genie must dance with Dunstable.
“Do I mistake the matter, my dear, or are we to make an announcement when our guests have sampled the buffet?”
His gaze dropped to Genie’s décolletage; she tramped on his foot.
“I have not the gift of seeing into the future, my lord, but I do hope Augustus will make an announcement by the end of the evening.”
“I suppose His Grace of Tindale is the host, though Papa does a fine job of commanding the attention of a large company. I thought we’d make our wedding journey to Paris, but then, everybody goes to Paris.”
“You have creditors waiting for you in Paris, and they will seize your coach and horses, if not my jewels, to settle the debts you’ve run up.” Adam had passed that tidbit along. Dunstable’s situation in London wasn’t much better, which explained his weeks by the sea sponging off of Lord Luddington.
Also his desperation to plunder Genie’s fortune.
“If Tindale has been looking into my finances, then I must assume he has raised no objection to our match. I thought a special license would suit, so that we can be married at Seymouth House.”
He tried to twirl Genie under his arm and ended up clipping her on the jaw with his elbow. The blow stung, not her first in the course of a polite waltz, and he had the grace to look horrified.
“Too much punch,” he said. “I do apologize.”
“If it happens again, Augustus will doubtless provide you instructions on how to properly stand up with a lady, though by the conclusion of his lesson, you will be hard put to stand without assistance yourself.”
The waltz came to an end, and Dunstable clamped his hand around Genie’s. “Tindale doesn’t plan to be an interfering sort of relation, I hope.”
“You know how fond I am of Cousin Augustus,” Genie said. “I expect if I remarry, he’ll be very much in evidence until he’s satisfied the union is happy. I did the same when he and his duchess were courting. Family looks after family, you know.”
“Any more looking after you with close embraces on secluded stairways after we’re married, and His Grace will become an outcast, his duchess with him.”
You will become the outcast, God willing.
They took their places in the buffet line, though Genie had no interest in the food. The Duke and Duchess of Seymouth were looking bored and impatient—also tired—and Augustus was nowhere to be seen.
Anne, however, caught Genie’s eye over the offerings of soufflés à la vanille and smiled like the cat who’d devised how to open the canary’s cage.
“He’s here,” she whispered.
Genie wanted to dump her plate over Dunstable’s head, but instead comported herself like a duchess, nibbling this and that, tasting none of it. All the while, Dunstable chattered about Continental destinations he’d never seen and sat so close his knee constantly bumped against Genie’s.
She felt sorry for him, despite his bullying and arrogance, for he’d very likely be living in one of those far-off cities unless his papa agreed to again pay off his debts.
At the top of the steps, the herald was consulting with a late arrival, a tall man with broad shoulders, his evening attire accented with a red rose boutonniere.
“I have a late-arriving guest,” Genie said, setting her plate aside. “Perhaps you’d like to greet him with me?”
Dunstable stuffed another strawberry into his mouth and rose. “Of course. My duchess is the soul of graciousness, and then we can find some library or parlor and get the bended-knee bit over with. Paid a damned fortune for the ring. Had to sell my Brighton property because the jeweler would only take cash.”
Good for the jeweler.
Adam smiled faintly as she approached.
“I don’t recognize him,” Dunstable said. “Looks familiar, though. Probably got some of his blunt at the gaming tables. Are you sure he was invited?”
“He is the guest of honor,” Genie said, gaining the top of the steps. “Mr. Morecambe, a sincere pleasure to see you here tonight. Have you met Lord Dunstable?”
Adam sketched a bow. “I have had that honor. My lord, good evening.” Adam was breathtaking in his formal clothing, and the mere sight of him settled Genie’s nerves.
“Morecambe. Suppose you’ve come for the free food and drink. Don’t bother the women, or this will be the last ball you attend.”
“Do you promise?” Adam asked, taking Genie’s hand and tucking it over his arm. “To be spared the tedium of Society balls would be a great blessing.”
Dunstable looked like his cravat had abruptly grown too tight.
“Shall we repair to the formal parlor?” Genie suggested. “Mr. Morecambe has some news to pass along to you, my lord.”
“Mr. Morecambe’s news had best not take long,” Dunstable said, starting down the corridor. “I have plans for that formal parlor that do not include him and his clumsy attempts at flirtation.”
Adam bent close to Genie. “You are well?”
“I will be. The letter is in the parlor, and I hope Augustus awaits us there with Their Graces.”
“Two dukes, a duchess, and a presuming disgrace of a lordling. Promise you’ll not abandon me in such company, Genie.”
“Never.”
“Then all shall be well.”
* * *
Disaster had struck, in the form of bad eel pie served at the pub nearest to the club’s construction site. For most of a week, Adam had had barely half a crew at barely half strength. He’d carried hod, he’d laid brick, he’d wielded saws, mallets, and hammers, while Tindale had passed along each debt and bet Dunstable owed money on.
The sum was astounding and showed a capacity for industry, albeit mischievous industry. Adam ached in every particular as a result of the past week’s exertion, but sore muscles and scraped knuckles faded from his awareness at the sight of his Genie.
He’d never seen her in a ball gown, and the shimmering russet velvet showed her off exquisitely. She’d chosen rubies for her jewels—fittingly precious—and gold settings. By candlelight, she glowed, while Dunstable looked pallid and effete.
When Adam arrived to the formal parlor, Augustus had served the Duke and Duchess of Seymouth glasses of wine. A missive sat on the escritoire’s leather blotter, the red seal unbroken. Augustus was looking severe, while Her Grace of Seymouth was looking dyspeptic.
“There you are,” she said when she caught sight of Dunstable. “Have you an announcement to make? I came all this way, braved the dust of the road and the heaving of that dreadful coach, because I was promised by your father that the evening would result in cheering news. The sea air does not agree with me, I can tell you that straightaway, young man, so you’d best be about your business.”
“Lord Dunstable will appreciate his parents’ support, I’m sure,” Adam said, withdrawing a folded paper from his pocket. “He’s considering paying his addresses to the dowager duchess, but sought to compel her agreement to his proposal by force.”
The Duke of Seymouth was on his feet in the next instant. “Who the hell are you, and what gives you the right to make any accusations against a ducal heir?”
“I am the lady’s intended,” Adam said. “I make no accusations, I state facts. This is a list of your son’s debts, Your Grace. If you ask him, he’ll tell you he sold his Brighton property to satisfy a few of his creditors. In fact, he spent a pittance with the jewelers on Ludgate Hill, then gambled away the rest.”
Dunstable sank into a chair. “Every gentleman has debts. His Grace knows that, and the Brighton property was falling in on itself.”
Dunstable’s mother glowered at Adam. “The Brighton property was an eyesore, which you’d know if you’d ever set foot inside it. Nothing was done as it should have been, because the architect was a cheating scoundrel who thought to ill-use his betters. Be off with you, whoever you are, and don’t think to show your face among polite society again.”
Adam bowed. He did not withdraw. “I am Adam Morecam
be, son of the man who designed, financed, and oversaw the building of your Brighton property, madam. My father died in penury and disgrace because he was cheated, lied to, and taken advantage of by a pair of high-born scoundrels whose perfidy will soon become common knowledge. If Your Grace of Seymouth will please read the letter awaiting you on the escritoire?”
Seymouth stalked over to the desk and slit the seal. “To whom it might interest,” he began…
I have had the pleasure of recently examining the dwelling located at the corner of Monmouth and Exmoor Streets, Brighton, which dwelling first became known to me when a late associate in the architectural profession, one Peter T. Morecambe, consulted with me on plans for the building more than fifteen years ago. My inspection was undertaken in anticipation of the sale of the property by Lord Dunstable to a dear acquaintance of longstanding, the Dowager Duchess of Tindale. Though the house was in want of a thorough cleaning, I found all appointments carried out exactly according to the plans signed for by the late Mr. Morecambe, which plans I did examine in detail prior to visiting the premises.
A better example of domestic elegance on a tasteful scale does not come to my mind, and several of the innovations—plumbing on the upper floors, speaking tubes to accompany the bell system, a solar on the uppermost floor—have been incorporated into my own subsequent designs.
I cannot fathom why such a lovely and commodious home suffered so many years of disuse and neglect, but I hope that in future, the prospective owner will do justice to this jewel of architectural art.
John Nash, Architect to King George IV
Seymouth tossed the letter onto the desk. Tindale took it up.
“What do you want of me, Morecambe?” Seymouth asked. “The house has been sold. Your father is long dead. Take the matter to court, for all I care, but don’t expect me—”
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