“Oh.” Miss Hutting looked from Miss Wilkinson to her brother.
Wilkinson’s face had turned beet red. “Now, Jane, don’t be silly—”
“Silly? Silly, Randolph?” Miss Wilkinson jabbed her finger at him. “You know how sick I am of keeping house for you. I want a place of my own. I want the Spinster House.”
“But, Jane, please consider . . .”
“No, you consider, Randolph. You look through the document. I assure you I have. There are rules. There are procedures. There are steps you must follow.” She folded her hands. “So follow them.”
Oh, hell. Clearly Marcus was not getting out of Loves Bridge today.
Chapter Five
April 20, 1617—Rosaline thinks I’m going to have my heart broken, and Maria agrees, but they are just jealous. I know the duke loves me. Or he will love me soon, if his mother doesn’t interfere. I cannot like the woman.
—from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
“Read the relevant part, Wilkinson.”
They’d all—the duke, Randolph, Jane, and Cat—taken seats in Randolph’s office. The duke was scowling, clearly making Randolph nervous.
Blast it all, why did Jane have to want the Spinster House, too?
“I think you’ll find the paragraph on page three,” Jane said.
Randolph glared at Jane, straightened his spectacles, and then shuffled his papers to find the section she’d mentioned.
Cat could see how it would be annoying to live with Randolph, but Jane had never complained before, not even when Cat and Anne had teased her about all the time she spent working for her brother. Jane was usually quiet, almost shy.
She did not look the least bit shy now. She looked like she wished to carve Randolph’s heart out with a penknife and feed it to Farmer Linden’s pigs.
“Ah, yes. Here it is.” Randolph cleared his throat and read: “‘Spinster House Vacancy. Whenever a vacancy arises, it must be announced to the entire village so that all interested spinsters may apply. If there is only one applicant, the Duke of Hart may award the tenancy to her at once. However, if there is more than one, each applicant must be given an equal chance to win the position.’”
The duke shifted in his seat. “Has there ever been more than one applicant, Wilkinson?”
Randolph glanced at Jane before he answered. “No, Your Grace, there has not.” He pointed to a ledger book. “I have gone through the records very carefully.”
“There is always a first time,” Jane said, “and this is it.”
Cat clenched her teeth tightly to keep from screaming. Jane didn’t need the house as much as she did. Jane might have to live with her brother, but at least she had her own room, her own bed. And while Randolph could be irritating—was irritating—Jane’s predicament was largely her own fault. She should have stopped being so accommodating years ago. Perhaps then Randolph would have found himself a wife.
And where would that have put Jane?
Lud! Cat blew out a short, annoyed breath. There was no point in thinking about something that had never happened. Better to focus on something that was about to happen. “So how is His Grace to decide between us, Randolph?”
The duke held up his hand. “A moment, please, Miss Hutting. Before you answer that question, Wilkinson, tell me how the Spinster House vacancy must be properly announced. I don’t wish to run afoul of the rules.” His lips twisted. “The consequences could be, ah, very bad for my health.”
Randolph mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “Yes. Quite right, Your Grace.”
Good God! Randolph was a solicitor. He dealt in facts, not fairy tales. “You don’t believe that silly curse, too, do you, Randolph?”
Randolph shot her a very harassed look. “I—”
Jane didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Whether the curse is real or not, the duke has to follow the provisions of the legal agreement.” She glared at her brother. “As Randolph well knows.”
Randolph glared back at Jane. “Yes. Indeed.” He straightened his spectacles again and returned his attention to the document. “‘Proper Announcement. Within seventy-two hours of discovering the Spinster House to be vacant, the duke must post notices inviting all spinsters living in Loves Bridge to apply to be the next Spinster House spinster. The notices must be posted on the Spinster House door, at Cupid’s Inn, at the church, and anywhere else spinsters gather.’”
Randolph looked over at the duke. “I shall draft those up as soon as we finish here, Your Grace.”
The duke nodded. “Splendid. Now that you mention it, I do remember signing papers when I was last here and going round posting them with my uncle and cousin.” He smiled. “That is, I remember chasing my cousin on the green and having our game repeatedly interrupted by my uncle to post some annoying paper.”
Which is exactly what Henry or Walter would have done had they been forced to dance to Isabelle’s tune. The poor duke had been just a boy, dragged to Loves Bridge—
It was none of her concern. The duke was a man now, and this was her golden opportunity to get free of the crowded, chaotic vicarage so she could finally write.
“How long do we have to wait for people to apply, Randolph? Not that anyone besides Jane and I will do so.” Cat looked over at Jane. “Can you think of anyone else who’d want to live in the Spinster House?”
“No. Everyone else is married.”
The duke’s right eyebrow arched up. “Everyone, Miss Wilkinson?”
Jane frowned. “Well, perhaps not everyone, Your Grace, but everyone else who isn’t married wishes to be.”
Cat looked at Randolph. “So how long do we need to wait?”
Randolph blew out a long breath and glanced at his sister. “Three days after the notices are posted.”
Three days! And she’d thought she’d be moving in tomorrow. “And once the three days have passed?”
“Yes, Wilkinson, what happens then? As I remember, my uncle conducted a very short interview with Miss Franklin at the Spinster House. I’m not certain he asked her more than one or two questions.” The duke shrugged. “Or they might simply have discussed the weather. I didn’t pay attention. Do your papers include a list of qualifications I need to look for, besides an antipathy for the married state, of course?”
“N-no.” Randolph scanned the document. “It says: ‘When more than one spinster applies, they shall meet with the duke together—’”
“Together? Why together?” Jane scowled at her brother. “I should think the interviews should be held individually.”
That was odd, but it wouldn’t make any difference. Surely Cat would win the house. Jane might wish to escape her brother, but Cat wished to escape four brothers and three sisters—Mary still counted until she tied the knot and moved out. And Isabelle was Cat’s distant relative. Anyone—except Jane—would agree the Spinster House should go to Cat.
“Good God, Jane,” Randolph said. “I don’t know. None of this makes sense.”
Cat snorted. “What do you expect from something purporting to include a curse?”
“There is no purporting about the matter, Miss Hutting.” The duke drummed his fingers against the chair arm, clearly eager to be done with this. “I’m sure Miss Dorring wasn’t in her right mind when she wrote these instructions. She’d been very badly used by my disreputable ancestor, so she must have wished to exert as much control over my family as she could, even from the grave. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d required the Duke of Hart to stand on his head during the proceedings.”
It really was too bad that he was being put to all this trouble. His ancestor might have been a blackguard, but this duke seemed perfectly pleasant. Well, once he chose her, he’d be done with the matter and could get back to London.
“So does that document tell me what I’m supposed to look for in a candidate, Wilkinson?”
“No. The meeting isn’t actually an interview, Your Grace.”
“It’s not?” Cat leaned forward, all the arguments sh
e’d been marshalling to support her claim on the Spinster House dissolving. Surely Randolph was missing something. “Then how will the duke choose?”
“The duke doesn’t choose. The spinsters draw straws—”
“Draw straws?” This was all going to come down to luck? No! That couldn’t be right.
Jane leapt up to snatch the offending page from her brother. “I didn’t see that when I looked.”
She held the paper up—and then moved it away from her. Her arms weren’t quite long enough. “Blast it, I left my spectacles on my desk.”
“Let me.” Cat plucked the document from Jane’s fingers and found the relevant language. “‘The spinster who draws the short straw,’” she read, “‘shall be the one to live in the house.’” She threw the paper back on Randolph’s desk; Randolph grabbed it before it went sailing onto the floor. “I can’t believe it all comes down to luck. Why wouldn’t Isabelle have the duke choose?”
“I have no idea, Miss Hutting,” the duke said. He was standing now, too, since she and Jane were; he seemed even taller, his shoulders broader, in the confines of Randolph’s office. “But I am delighted—and very relieved—she did not.” The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “It would take a braver man than I to choose between you and Miss Wilkinson.”
Jane ignored the duke. “Are you certain you read that correctly, Cat?”
“Yes. The words aren’t difficult, but do get your spectacles and see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“All right, I will.” Jane dashed into the other room; when she came back, she snatched the paper off Randolph’s desk.
Randolph’s brows slammed down. “Jane, please. You’re being—”
Jane jerked her eyes off the paper to glare at her brother. “Don’t tell me what I’m being, Randolph.”
“But His Grace—” Randolph’s mouth flattened into a thin line, and he looked at the duke. “I must apologize for my sister. I—”
“Don’t, Wilkinson. Apologize. Unless you wish to feel your penknife between your shoulder blades.”
“What?”
The duke inclined his head toward Jane. “Miss Wilkinson looks as if she would like to skewer you.”
Jane snorted. “You can see why I want to live in the Spinster House, Your Grace.”
“Jane! What will His Grace think?”
“I don’t care what he thinks, Randolph.” Jane shook the paper in her hand. “Especially now that it appears his opinion has no bearing on who wins the Spinster House. I—”
Jane’s brain finally caught up with her mouth. She flushed. “Please forgive me, Your Grace.” She glared at Randolph again. “I have a hard time controlling my temper when my brother treats me like a child.”
“And I must treat you like a child when you behave like one, Jane.”
Did Randolph indeed have a death wish? Cat had always thought him pompous and annoying, but she’d never seen him behave this badly.
Jane’s eyes widened, and she drew in a deep, slow breath, obviously preparing to tell Randolph exactly what she thought of him. Fortunately the duke spoke first.
“Your sister merely needs to assure herself that all is aboveboard, Wilkinson. I quite understand.” He gestured at the paper. “Have you discovered anything else about the selection process, Miss Wilkinson?”
Jane flushed. “No. It is exactly as Cat read.” She frowned as she put the paper back on Randolph’s desk. “I can’t understand what Isabelle could have been thinking to leave it all to chance like this.”
“I don’t understand what she was thinking about any of it,” Randolph said. “Spinsterhood is an unnatural state for a woman, after all.” He tugged on his waistcoat and looked at the duke. “Women need a man’s guidance, don’t they, Your Grace?”
Jane made a noise that sounded like a growl. Cat couldn’t see her expression—she was looking through her own red haze of anger.
“Wilkinson,” the duke said, “I believe there are two women in this room who would happily have your guts for garters.”
Marcus paced the length of the castle’s study. Thank God Nate and Alex were out. He might snap their heads off if they tried to talk to him now.
He’d like to tear something apart. Or throw something. He eyed the heavy inkwell on the large desk. No, too messy. Perhaps the suit of armor standing guard by the globe of the world? Kicking over that metal monstrosity would make a very satisfying clatter.
And would likely have even palsied old Emmett running to see what was amiss. No, much as he wanted to take his spleen out on such a satisfying target, he would restrain himself. But, good God, it was almost impossible. He’d thought he’d be free of this blasted village in a matter of hours, and now he was trapped here for days. And for what purpose? Wilkinson could hold the straws for the ladies as easily as he.
He made another circuit of the room and stopped in front of a full-length portrait of a man in old-fashioned garb. The fellow wore an enormous lace collar that made it look as if his head was on a platter, an elaborate doublet with ridiculously full hose, embroidered stockings, and high-heeled shoes with large black pompons. What a popinjay!
He was young, at a guess five or six years younger than Marcus, with a short beard and mustache and a rather cocky expression. He’d seen his sort in London, young lordlings who thought the world and everyone in it existed for their personal enjoyment. Who was he?
It looked as if the portrait had been painted here in the study. The curtains and rug were the same, though in the painting their colors were much brighter. The fellow must be an ancestor.
Marcus leaned closer to read the small bronze plate in the frame: MARCUS, THIRD DUKE OF HART.
The blackguard.
The London house had long ago been stripped of all paintings of the scoundrel, as if banning the fellow’s image from the walls could also wipe him from the family tree. Ha. Not likely. But his own dear mother had ensured that, no matter what else happened, he could never forget the dastard.
Nate’s parents had said his father, in his last moments of lucidity, had insisted his son be given the third duke’s Christian name, though that made no sense. He was already burdened with the title and its curse. Why give him more to carry? No, he felt certain it was his mother who’d thought saddling him with the bounder’s full name would be a splendid jest.
He studied the fellow’s face more carefully. He didn’t see evil or dissipation or cruelty in his eyes. Well, likely the painter had chosen to flatter the man. An artist knew from whose pockets his fee was coming.
“There you are,” Nate said, entering the room with Alex. “You were gone longer than we expected. We finally gave up waiting and went for a ride without you.” He frowned. “Everything all right?”
“Everything is, regrettably, more complicated than I had hoped.” Blast it, Alex had come over to stare at the portrait.
“Marcus, this could be you, you know”—Alex grinned—“except for the facial hair and the outlandish clothes. Which relative is it?”
Bloody hell! Marcus examined the third duke’s face again. There was an uncanny resemblance.
Alex read the inscription and let out a long, low whistle. “It’s the evil duke. You’re named after him.”
“Yes.” God, he wished he could leave this infernal place in the morning, but thanks to Isabelle Dorring, he was trapped here for several days. He went over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a healthy dose of brandy, and took a larger swallow than he normally would. The liquid burned going down, but it created a comforting warmth when it reached his belly. He held up the decanter. “Brandy, anyone?”
“Of course.” Alex looked once more at the painting before walking over. “I still don’t see why you let this curse business bedevil you.”
Miss Hutting had said something similar. She’d laughed, her reddish gold hair gleaming in the sun, green eyes and lovely porcelain skin—
No. The decanter clinked against the glass as he poured Alex’s brandy. He sho
uld not be feeling this . . . excitement. He shouldn’t be feeling anything for the woman. She had no desire to wed.
And he had no desire to die.
“I believe my family history adequately proves the curse’s existence,” he said, as he handed Alex his drink.
Alex shrugged. “Five deaths. Very sad, but I still think they must be merely coincidence. Or perhaps if you believe something will happen, you’ll act in such a way as to make it come true. Don’t you think so, Nate?”
“No.” Nate scowled as he took his brandy from Marcus. “For the last two hundred years, every single time the Duchess of Hart is increasing with a male child, the duke dies before the baby is born. That is far more than coincidence. And, as Marcus said in London, his father didn’t believe in the curse, yet he died, too.” Nate glared down at his glass. “My mother lost her father and her brother to it. She made me promise to keep Marcus safe for as long as I could.”
Blast. “Nate, you are not my keeper.”
Nate transferred his glare to Marcus. “Someone needs to keep you from dragging women into the bushes.”
“I did not drag Miss Rathbone anywhere. If anything, she dragged me.”
“You two are squabbling like children,” Alex said.
Marcus struggled to control his spleen. He wasn’t normally so emotional.
Hell, I hope this isn’t more evidence of the curse.
“We were brought up together,” Nate said. “I consider Marcus my brother.”
But brothers have to let each other live their lives—no matter how short that life might be.
Alex nodded. “Yes, I see that. In any event, even if there is a curse—”
“Which there is,” Nate snapped.
Alex gave Nate an exasperated look, but just continued, “Didn’t you say you can break it by marrying for love, Marcus?”
“Yes.” Marcus sounded cynical to his own ears, but hell, it would be easier to find a unicorn at Almack’s than a woman of the ton he could care for.
What to Do with a Duke Page 7