Mr. Warren owned a literal herd of mules, of course.
The cart rattled along to the back of the cottage, and Hortensia halted at the door without any prompting from Mac.
“Good mule,” Mac said, climbing down. He came around to assist Julianna, but she hopped down on her own.
“Let’s hurry. If the rain doesn’t start in the next two minutes, the children will come pelting up the lane, and their help isn’t to be endured.”
“Children, bah. Locusts, sent from the devil to plague adults and innocent mules. Horty agrees with me.”
Julianna grabbed a pair of coarse sacks from the back of the cart. “Sometimes, I agree with you, but we’ll let that be our little secret.”
In the course of “assisting” to bring in the weekly haul from market, the children could drop, misplace, sample, hide, and damage half the goods Julianna had haggled away her morning procuring. Thank the gods of Yorkshire weather, or the charms of Mr. Hucklebee’s summer natural sciences academy, Julianna managed to get the produce properly stored in the pantries and larders before any little feet thundered through the back doorway.
The rain was almost as accommodating, though on the last trip to the cart, Julianna felt the cold slap of an impending downpour against her nape. She paused for a moment, face turned to the sky. If the children were out of doors, downpours could mean colds, colds meant sitting up with a sick child, and sitting up with a sick child meant…
“Please take Hortensia around to the stable,” Julianna told Mac. “She’s earned a few oats for her efforts.”
“Oats, in summer? You’re daft Julianna Marie MacKinnon St. Bellan.” Then, more gently as he grabbed the mule’s bridle, “C’mon along, princess. The mule, I’m allowed to spoil. The lady of the house must work herself to exhaustion.”
As must the man of all work, muttering all the while.
“You can cut some fresh roses when you’re done with Horty,” Julianna said, for Mac was getting on, and Julianna had to find ways to make him rest occasionally. He’d been getting on for as long as Julianna could recall, but like the sturdy stones that formed her home, his looks never changed. He and Hortensia were the twin pillars of Julianna’s independence, and without them…
Maurice Warren’s self-satisfied smile rose in Julianna’s imagination.
So she sent Mac to pluck roses rather than let him work all afternoon in the barn. Instead of sitting down herself, she started on the stew that would have to do for dinner that night. The meat—a brace of lean hares Mac had caught the previous day—was sizzling in the pan, vegetables chopped and ready for the pot, when Mac tromped into the kitchen, a bouquet of thorny roses in his hand.
His expression promised that, as usual, he had bad news. “Miss, there’s a set of fancy travelin’ trunks on the front porch. Doubtless, they’re full of goods we can sell over in York. Every cloud always has a silver lining, my ma used to say.”
Trunks? “We’re not expecting guests.”
They never expected guests, thank God. Guests ate, they required bed linens, they interfered with household routines. How many times had dear Cousin Marie threatened to visit, and how many times had Julianna put her off?
“The trunks are mighty fine, miss. Shiny brass hinges, stout locks, though a bullet or two judiciously aimed at the—”
“You will not assassinate trunks belonging to somebody else,” Julianna said, trading her apron for a plain brown wool shawl. “Nor will you sell goods we cannot claim as ours, lest the king’s man take you up and my entire property fall into ruin.”
“Not stolen,” MacTavish said, crowding after Julianna as she mounted the stairs. “More like inherited, miss. Anybody can inherit or find abandoned goods.”
“Mac, have you been at the whisky again?”
“I’m never far from my flask, but that’s the rest of it, ye see. The good news is we have trunks on the porch, fancy trunks such as a nob might stash out of the rain. The bad news is…”
Julianna marched to the front door, Mac on her heels.
“Out with it, Mac. If the duchess has finally made good on her threats to visit, we’ll simply have to endure the expense.”
And the shame. Julianna hated taking charity, and for her wealthy relation, Julianna had painted a rosy picture of life in Yorkshire. According to her letters, she thrived on embroidery, she went for long walks in the beautiful countryside, enjoyed the regular company of friends, and was sliding into the cheerful embrace of spinsterhood amid a cloud of contentment and genteel, well-read solitude.
“The trunks are right lovely,” MacTavish said, darting around to stop Julianna from passing through the front doorway. Mac could move faster than a guilty eight-year-old boy when motivated. “Did I mention there’s bad news too?”
Julianna put both hands on her hips. “There’s always bad news too.”
Mac peered at the bouquet he still held. “As to that, seems that in addition to a set of fancy trunks on your porch, somebody came by and left a dead man on your swing.”
* * *
“He’s good-sized,” a man growled in a Border Scots accent. “His clothing will fetch a pretty penny, though bloodstains are the very devil to get out.”
Con’s brain refused to function. Impressions came to him in a disjointed and curiously pleasant mosaic. The fragrance of roses in the rain, the sensation of embroidery pressed against his cheek, the scent of hearty fare simmering over a nearby fire.
“He’s not dead, MacTavish. Shame on you, and I’ll hear no talk of selling his clothing.”
“Likes of him won’t miss the occasional waistcoat, miss.”
A gentle hand brushed the hair back from Con’s brow, though the fingers were callused. “Please return to the kitchen, MacTavish. The children are due back any moment, and I’ll want them at the table, cramming their bellies with bread and butter while I deal with this… this gentleman.”
The vowels were broad and lilting, the register feminine.
Heavy boots stomped off. A door closed.
Another gentle caress to his brow. “Sir, can you open your eyes?”
Con wasn’t a sir, he was a Your Grace, though something told him that wasn’t important right now. His eyes did not want to open. For the lady with the soft voice and the soothing touch, he made the effort.
She was pretty and her face was near his. Hair a lustrous red—not carroty, not quite auburn. Eyes the blue of a summer sky on a still, sunny day. Features… strong, sharp-drawn, a few years past the dimples and softness of girlhood.
Mouth… Con was not exactly a candles-out, bayonet-at-the-ready sort of fellow between the sheets, and yet, a young, single duke consorted only with women who knew what they were about. They didn’t expect much bedroom flummery from him, but this woman’s mouth was… flummerous in the extreme. Full, rosy, eminently kissable.
He’d linger over the pleasure of acquainting himself with those lips, though at present the mouth they belonged to was also… worried.
“Are you ill?” she asked, ruffling Con’s hair.
He shook off the pleasure of that touch and the longing for more of it.
“Flummerous is not a word.” Con’s mouth was dry, which reminded him that he’d been dosed with the poppy. “A mouth cannot look worried.”
She withdrew her hand. “Perhaps you’ve suffered a blow to the head? Can you sit up?”
Her question alerted Con to the fact that he was toppled over on his side, on a porch swing, in the wilds of York-Godsaveme-shire. Reality came galloping at him from several sides, though, of course, he could sit up.
“Almighty, perishing, bloody devils,” he said as fire lanced up from his wounded buttock. “I have not been struck on the head.”
“It’s only your manners that have been injured?” the lady asked, sitting back on her heels. “Then explain the bloodstain at your hip.”
Not his hip, his arse, though in this position… the pain was substantial, which hardly signified. What did signify was that a
duke did not offer explanations, much less produce them on demand for housekeepers or servants of any stripe.
“I’m looking for Jules MacKinnon. I’d appreciate it if you would please alert him to the arrival of a kinsman.”
The woman—who might herself be slightly deficient in the brainbox—plunked herself down beside Con.
“What business have you with Jules MacKinnon?” she asked.
Servants could be more protective than siblings. Con had had occasion to appreciate this very quality. Moreover, he was in the countryside—deep in the countryside—where households were a good deal less formal.
“I am a cousin,” Con said. “MacKinnon and I have never met that I can recall, but our households have corresponded for years. I was in the area, my coach developed a problem, and I am at my cousin’s mercy for hospitality over the next two weeks.”
That was rather good, if Con did say so himself. Having the coachman kicking his heels elsewhere qualified as a problem, and the rest was pure fact.
“You’re lying,” the woman said, though she sounded as if she often heard lies. Weary, half-amused, half-disappointed. “Polite lies, probably well intended even, but you have no direct acquaintance with Jules MacKinnon, even by letter.”
“What I am, madam, is in pain from an injury that could well become infected, and unless you want me expiring on your porch, you will inform Mr. MacKinnon that a relative needs the favor of the household’s hospitality for the next fortnight. Tell him… tell him Connor Amadour has come to call.”
The name apparently meant little to her. That full, rosy mouth firmed.
“What is the nature of your injury? Were you set upon by highwaymen?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying again. I cannot have you—”
An aging kilted giant stepped onto the porch from the front door.
“Beg pardon, miss. Children are home and at their bread and butter. Where shall I put the trunks?”
The fellow struck Con as a specimen of human geology, all craggy jaw, white eyebrows like flying rowans on a cliff face of a profile, a raptor’s gaze peering from faded blue eyes. That face was inhospitable country, with plenty of muscle and meanness as well.
Con rose, though moving after inactivity made his injury scream. The courtesy of offering his hand to the lady was instinctive—to him.
Not to her.
His gloves had come off at some point and lay on the worn carpet. She gazed at his hand, then peered at his face.
“The trunks go in the blue bedroom, Mac. Thank you, and tell the children I’ll be along shortly. They are to fold the towels before they come upstairs.”
With no more effort than if the trunk had been a sack of feathers, the old fellow hoisted the largest of the three to his shoulder and disappeared into the house.
The lady rose without taking Con’s hand. “I cannot abide dishonesty, mendacity, prevarication, or any of their cousins. Every member of this household eschews mendacity, or he’s not welcome. Tell me the truth: Why are you here, and how were you injured, Your Grace?”
Chapter Two
* * *
If Cousin Marie’s sketches hadn’t given him away, if the signet ring fitted to his smallest finger hadn’t give him away, his choice of pseudonym would have. No less person than Coinneach Callum Amadour Ives St. Bellan, ninth Duke of Mowne, stood in wrinkled finery on Julianna’s porch.
Bloody, wrinkled finery.
“I was injured when the highwaymen fired upon my party,” he said, looking exactly like Harold when the boy told a great bouncer. All bravery about the posture, but uncertainty in his green eyes.
“Do dukes typically flee the scene when set upon by brigands, such that injury is suffered to the posterior? Your mother claims you never travel with fewer than two armed grooms, two footmen, a coachman, and two outriders.”
Julianna could not imagine this arrogant beast fleeing anything, except perhaps an honest day’s work. His very bearing shouted privilege, while his features invited lingering study. Dark red hair—a coincidence, for he and Julianna were not blood kin—height, military bearing, and features that could define male beauty for the angels of portraiture.
His looks made Julianna both angry and unaccountably sad. She wanted to sketch him. She must get rid of him.
The rain intensified, and thunder shattered the heavens immediately overhead.
“Come inside,” Julianna said, for Roberta was terrified of storms, and the boys teased her when on their bad behavior. Folding laundry often provoked bad behavior.
“That is how you greet a guest? Come inside?”
Julianna marched to the door and held it open. “Come inside, Your Grace. Now, before you develop a lung fever to go with your injured nether parts.”
He was probably trying to strut, but his injury—he’d bled a narrow, dark streak through his breeches—doubtless accounted for an uneven stride. Handsome breeches they were too. Mac could tell Julianna to the penny what they were worth.
The duke—for this was Mowne, no mistake about it—paused before the open door and peered down at Julianna. Most men other than Mac were not tall enough to peer down at her. She met their gazes eye to eye and made sure the fellow was the first to look way.
“How is it you know of the title?” He had the effrontery to even smell like a duke, all sandalwood and spice, clean soap, and fresh laundered linen. His lashes were as long as a new calf’s, and Julianna knew how soft that dark hair was.
“Your mother is ever so proud of you. She’s sent dozens of sketches, described the longing glances of hundreds of debutantes and legions of their scheming mamas. Artists beg for the favor of your annual portrait, and any self-respecting rose drops its petals in your path.”
He glanced around at the roses embowering the porch, as if botany had abruptly become his true calling.
“You are Cousin Jules.”
This revelation did not please him, and in that moment, Julianna hated all those debutantes. “Those are my roses, Your Grace. You will note each rose petal remaining affixed to its blossom, despite your uninvited presence.” That the duke, the nominal head of Julianna’s family, should see what a once gracious country manor had become in her care stung bitterly.
He plucked a white blossom poised to fade and shook it before Julianna, so the petals fell on the dusty toes of her half boots.
“I need a place to convalesce in peace and quiet, cousin, a place where nobody will hear of His Grace of Mowne being shot in the backside, and bruit the news about in every ballroom and men’s club in the realm. Will you allow me that sanctuary under your roof?”
Several of the rose petals had fallen on his lace-edged cravat. Nobody but a duke could get away with that much delicacy about his dress. Julianna brushed the petals away.
“I cannot afford to turn you away. Your mother’s pin money provides necessary cash to support my household, though her charity—”
Another crash of thunder sounded, suggesting God himself was trying to blast the farmhouse to pebbles.
“Let’s take our squabbling inside,” Mowne said, gesturing as if the premises belonged to him, which they nearly did. “You may scold me for my mother’s charity at length, and while you are, of course, impervious to the elements and disease both, I am not dealing well with the ruin of another pair of my breeches.”
That wet, dark streak on his flank had grown longer. Something in his gaze had shifted too. Julianna could read little boys as accurately as she could recite her Book of Common Prayer, but she could not read the man bleeding on her porch.
He’d find neither peace nor quiet under this roof, though Julianna refused to be ashamed of the racket healthy children made. She swept into the house and let the duke close the door.
“We need to get you out of those breeches.” A fresh stain had a prayer of coming out, even from soft leather. A dried stain was a more difficult proposition, though little Roberta had a miraculous way with a gum eraser.
“H
ave you any idea how imperious you sound?” the duke asked, limping after Julianna. “My mother would envy you the angle you achieve with those marvelous eyebrows. The headmaster at Eton needed your skill with an eyebrow.”
“Don’t flatter my eyebrows,” Julianna snapped at the foot of the steps. “You are indirectly family, and one cannot turn away family. Even if you are not family to me by blood, you are kin to the duchess, and her generosity is all that stands between the children and the poorhouse. We’ll provide this sanctuary from gossip that your pride requires, but don’t expect London hospitality.”
He braced himself against the newel post, which came off in his hand because too many small children had slid down the banister, their little bums smacking into the polished maple orb with gleeful velocity.
Julianna snatched it from him and set it on the sideboard, though it rolled right off and hit the faded carpet with a thud.
“All I need,” Mowne said, “is discretion from you, dry sheets, and a bit of toast with my morning tea. In two weeks, I’ll be on my way, and you can forget I ever darkened your door. You will please introduce me as Mr. Connor Amadour, distant cousin on the St. Bellan side of the family, if you must introduce me at all. My coach has suffered a mishap, and I’m biding here while the repairs are made, also catching up with my kinfolk and enjoying the fresh country air.”
“Such a busy fellow.” While he would, in fact, do nothing but stand about ruining his breeches and flattering Julianna’s eyebrows. “As it happens, we have a spare bedroom, and I’m competent with minor wounds. Your tea will be weak, and you’ll come downstairs to dine in the morning. I simply haven’t the help to accommodate a duke.”
“Not a duke,” he said, following Julianna up the stairs. “A distant cousin, late of… Kent, on the way north to do some shooting. Who is your pet Highlander?”
“MacTavish is our man of all work, and you cross him at your peril. He’s the reason this farm hasn’t fallen to wrack and ruin, and I treasure him beyond words. Between him and Hortensia, we have a crop, we have gardens, we have stout walls to keep in the sheep and shelter our fruit trees. You malign MacTavish—”
Dukes In Disguise Page 2