What to Do with a Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

  Emmett was wrong. He must be, but . . .

  An odd bubble of what felt like excitement formed in his chest. Could he be right?

  No. The real reason his mother hadn’t contacted him was that she was too busy enjoying herself. If she’d been a country mouse when his father had married her, she was one no longer.

  “What about the Italian count?”

  “The Italian count?” Emmett’s brow wrinkled. “What Italian count?”

  “The one my mother married. And don’t tell me there isn’t someone supporting her. As long as I’ve been in charge of her funds, she hasn’t drawn a single penny.”

  Emmett was still giving him a puzzled look. “Yes, it’s true she remarried, but her husband is neither Italian nor a count. She returned to Ireland once she’d recovered from your birth and, after several years, met and wed an Irish physician. She lives in Dublin now and has three sons.”

  I have half-brothers.

  He looked away from Emmett to collect his thoughts and found himself regarding the third duke’s portrait. He itched to snatch the painting off the wall and ram his fist through the bloody hellhound’s face.

  “So you are in contact with her?” He was able to keep his voice level.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Due to my friendship with her aunt and uncle and the rather, er, emotional time surrounding your birth, I’ve come to look upon her as the daughter I never had.”

  “I see.” He picked up a round, brass paperweight. It was good to have something solid to hold. His thoughts were spinning.

  I have half-brothers.

  “How old are her sons?”

  “Oh, they are grown now. I believe the youngest is twenty.”

  “And the oldest?”

  “Twenty-four. She waited a number of years to remarry.”

  I have relatives I never knew about. Irish, not Italian. Those both begin with I. Could I have got the story confused?

  Impossible.

  “Very well, Mr. Emmett. Thank you. That will be all.”

  I need to talk to Nate, find out if he knows the truth of Emmett’s tale.

  Emmett slowly pushed himself to stand. “And the drainage problem, Your Grace?”

  Oh, right. He’d forgotten about that. “I’ll take a look at it tomorrow, but . . .” How to say this gently?

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I value your knowledge, Mr. Emmett, but perhaps it would be better . . . that is, perhaps it would help me gauge the knowledge of your assistant if I took Mr. Dunly with me.”

  Emmett laughed. “And you’re afraid to ride out with an eighty-year-old man.”

  “I don’t mean to—”

  Emmett held up his hand—his visibly shaking hand. “No, you are quite right, Your Grace. I can still ride, but I know I could never keep up with you. Take Theo. He understands the problem perfectly. When should I tell him to be ready?”

  “Shall we say at eight in the morning?”

  “Very good.” Emmett bowed and turned to leave, but stopped with his hand on the door latch. “Oh, I almost forgot, Your Grace.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “This came for you from the vicarage just before our meeting. Henry, the vicar’s oldest son, brought it by. Said it was an invitation to dinner tomorrow for you and Lords Haywood and Evans.”

  Marcus took the paper. “Thank you. I’ll ask my friends and send a reply.”

  Emmett chuckled. “You can send it with Theo. He’s wearing out his poor horse going between the castle and the vicarage. Young love is something, eh?”

  “Er, yes, I suppose it is.” Not that I’ve experienced the emotion, he thought as Emmett closed the door behind him.

  The door had barely latched before it swung open again, and Nate and Alex walked in.

  “We saw Emmett leave,” Nate said, “and wondered if you’d like to go riding with us.”

  “It would do you good to get out of this fusty old room”—Alex inclined his head toward the third duke’s portrait—“and away from that fellow’s unpleasant stare.”

  Marcus glanced up at the painting. “I should pull him off the wall and consign him to the farthest, dustiest corner of the attic.”

  Nate nodded. “An excellent idea.”

  “Nate, Emmett just told me an incredible story. He said my mother married an Irish physician and lives in Ireland.”

  Nate’s brows shot up. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. My parents—and the ton—believes she wed an Italian count.”

  “Yes.” Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “But Emmett was quite convincing. He even told me I had Irish half-brothers.”

  Alex gave a long, low whistle. “The fellow is quite elderly. Perhaps his mind is going. Remember Childwich?”

  “Lord, yes. The count who could speak ‘canine,’” Marcus said. “I was there when he told the Countess of Fontenly that her pug’s greatest wish was to be an opera singer. But Emmett isn’t as bad as that. He was completely lucid about the estate’s drainage issues.”

  “So was Childwich about anything but conversing with dogs.”

  Nate was frowning. “I’d say the situation bears watching, Marcus. At least you’ve got Mr. Dunly ready to step in if Emmett falters too much.”

  “Yes.” Emmett must be confused—and yet his story had been so detailed.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “Come for a ride with us instead. Breathe some fresh air; feel the sun on your face. Remember: All work and no play makes Jack”—he grinned—“or, in this case, Marcus, a dull boy.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” Marcus leaned back in his chair and stretched. He felt an odd mixture of disappointment and relief. Disappointment that he didn’t have a family of half-brothers in Ireland, but relief that he hadn’t grown up believing a lie. And Nate was right—he did have Dunly in place if Emmett needed to be relieved of his duties.

  He stood—and saw the invitation lying on his desk.

  “If you want to get out of the castle,” he said, “we’ve been invited to dine at the vicarage tomorrow.”

  Alex’s brows went up. “Doesn’t the vicar have ten children?”

  What did that have to say to the matter? “Yes, though two of them are married.”

  “They will probably come and bring their progeny.” Alex pretended to shudder. “You and Nate go ahead; I think I will skip that chaos.”

  “Alex is right, Marcus. It does sound very uncomfortable. I believe I’ll pass as well. Why don’t you send your regrets?”

  Because Miss Hutting will be there.

  No. That was not his reason. Definitely not.

  “Surely the children will eat in the nursery. The vicar is an important man in the village. Weren’t you two just telling me I should become more involved here?”

  “But not at the expense of your stomach, Marcus,” Alex said. “Go to services if you must—not that I plan to accompany you there, either—but don’t court indigestion.”

  Marcus looked down at the invitation again. It seemed wrong to decline. “I think my stomach will survive.”

  It was his heart—and another organ—that concerned him more.

  Chapter Ten

  May 20, 1617—The witch has left for London, so Hart can finally spend more time here. He slips in the back door—we don’t want to get the gossips’ tongues wagging. The duchess has ears everywhere.

  —from Isabelle Dorring’s diary

  Apparently the vicar did not believe in relegating his children to the nursery for the evening meal nor in following any sort of etiquette in seating arrangements. Marcus took his place on the vicar’s right, and then everyone else sorted themselves out however they pleased. Miss Hutting was directly across from him with one of her four-year-old brothers on her left. The other twin was on his right.

  He’d never been around children. None of his acquaintances had them, not that they would have trotted them out for company in any event. And, well, one would think the vicar might conside
r how uncomfortable and, ah, painful a family meal would be for him, given that his chances of having a family himself were close to zero.

  He felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down at . . . which one was this?

  “Mikey, don’t pull on the duke’s coat,” Miss Hutting said.

  Well, that answered his question.

  Mikey ignored his sister. His large brown eyes looked up into Marcus’s. “What’s your horse’s name, dook?”

  “George.”

  A boy’s face is so much softer than a man’s.

  In a few years this child’s rounded cheeks would vanish under sharp cheekbones, and his smooth, fine skin would weather. His nose would lengthen, his chin would sprout whiskers, and his sweet innocence would be lost to disappointment and disillusion.

  “George?” The other twin wrinkled his nose. “That’s no name for a horse.”

  “It’s a fine name,” Mr. Hutting said. “It’s the king’s name, Tom, as well as the Regent’s. Here, Your Grace, have some peas. And would you mind spooning some out for Mikey? If he does it himself, we’ll have peas all over the floor.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Marcus took some peas for himself and then turned to serve the boy.

  “Not many, dook,” Mikey said. “I don’t like peas.”

  “I think you should call him . . .” Tom was still on the topic of his horse’s name. The boy wrinkled his brow. “Rex or Thunder or Peg . . .” He looked at his father. “You know, Papa. The flying horse.”

  “Pegasus.” The vicar smiled at Marcus. “Thomas and Michael love Greek and Roman mythology, Your Grace.” He offered him another bowl. “Have some buttered prawns. Our cook’s buttered prawns are very good.”

  “I like it when Cook leaves the heads on,” Mikey confided as Marcus put some prawns on his plate. “But Sybbie and Pru think it’s repul-pul . . .” His small face screwed up.

  “Repulsive?”

  “Yes.” The boy grinned at him. “That’s the word.”

  “Tom and Mike like the stories because they don’t have to spend hours translating them,” Henry said. He was sitting on the other side of Michael.

  The vicar’s brows rose. “And you wouldn’t have to spend hours, either, if you applied yourself more, Henry.”

  “I don’t need to know Latin or Greek to be a cavalry officer.”

  “You’re not going to be a cavalry officer,” Mrs. Hutting said. She was at the far end of the table with Dunly on her right and Mary on her left. Prudence and Sybil, Miss Hutting’s younger sisters, sat between Tom and Dunly and were staring at Marcus as if he were a god of ancient mythology.

  He smiled at them; they blushed and looked down at their plates.

  Marcus felt another tug on his sleeve.

  “Does George bite, dook?”

  “No, indeed. George has excellent manners.”

  Mikey grinned. “That’s good. Mr. Barker’s horse bites.”

  “And does your cook make good biscuits?” Tom asked.

  How had biscuits entered the conversation?

  “Thomas, I’m sure His Grace has no interest in his cook’s biscuits,” Miss Hutting said.

  Marcus would swear she sounded nervous. Why?

  “Actually, I’m rather fond of sweets.” He smiled at Thomas. “So I can tell you with certainty that Mrs. Chester is an excellent baker. Isn’t that so, Mr. Dunly?”

  Dunly tore his eyes from Mary’s. “Yes, indeed.” He grinned at Tom. “She makes splendid seedcakes, too, Tom, and plum cake and all sorts of treats. And she’s always urging you to have another.”

  “By Jove,” Walter, on the other side of Henry, said. “That’s capital!”

  “Yes.” Tom nodded enthusiastically and then looked at Marcus. “So would you marry Cat, dook?”

  Miss Hutting made a strangled sound while the rest of the table, except for the twins, gasped—or giggled.

  Michael tugged on Marcus’s sleeve again. “Yes, dook. I like you much better than Mr. Barker. His horse bites, and his cook makes nasty, dry biscuits.”

  “And his mother looks like a witch,” Tom said. “She even has a wart on her nose.”

  He could certainly agree with that assessment. The woman looked and acted like an evil old crone.

  “Michael, Thomas, you must not say such things to His Grace,” Mrs. Hutting said.

  “But, Mama, you want Cat to have a husband, and dook doesn’t have a wife”—the boy looked back at Marcus—“do you?”

  He should be furious, but how could he be angry at this little boy who looked so angelic and sincere? “No, I don’t have a wife.”

  Michael beamed at him. “Then would you marry Cat, please, dook? I know she’s old, but she’s nice.”

  “Michael!” Miss Hutting’s face was bright red, her expression an interesting mix of mortified, horrified, and furious. “You cannot ask His Grace to marry me.”

  “Then you ask him, Cat,” Thomas said. “You must like him better than Mr. Barker.” The boy looked back at Marcus. “She hates Mr. Barker, dook.”

  “I see.” Poor Miss Hutting. One might think the other members of her family would come to her rescue, but they appeared to be struggling not to laugh—as, he must admit, was he. There’d never been this sense of fun in Nate’s family. Well, he and Nate had never eaten with Nate’s parents when they were children. “And what makes you think your sister would find me any less objectionable, Thomas?”

  It wasn’t Thomas who answered him.

  Prudence—the sister who he’d been told was ten years old—snorted. “It’s hardly a secret, Your Grace. Cat’s been casting sheep’s-eyes at you ever since you arrived.”

  Had she? And, perhaps more to the point, why did the thought generate a jolt of anticipation instead of annoyance?

  He glanced at Miss Hutting. If looks could kill, Prudence would be stretched out on the floor.

  “Prudence!” Mrs. Hutting scowled at the girl. “What a thing to say.”

  “Well, she has,” Prudence said rather sulkily.

  The vicar finally jumped into the fray to change the topic. “I say, Your Grace, have you found things in order at the castle?” He looked down the table at Dunly. “I certainly hope so. Theo works very hard.”

  “Yes, he does,” Mary said, while Theo blushed.

  “It’s Mr. Emmett, Your Grace. He tells me how to go on.”

  “Indeed,” Marcus said, “but I can see how he relies on you—and he is wise to do so. You were very knowledgeable when we examined that drainage issue this morning.”

  Dunly’s blush deepened, and Mary grinned with obvious pride.

  It felt good to be able to praise Dunly. He’d enjoyed their ride and talking about estate issues. Certainly it had been a far more satisfying way to spend his time than wasting it in idle activities in Town.

  Maybe he had let the curse overshadow his life. No one lived forever. He just had a more defined exit point.

  “Dare we hope you might stay for a while then, Your Grace?” Mr. Hutting asked. “Everyone in Loves Bridge would be delighted if you chose to extend your visit.”

  “I haven’t made a firm decision on that matter, sir.” He carefully did not look at Miss Hutting. He should leave the village the moment the Spinster House issue was resolved. It was by far the safest choice. He was only thirty.

  But he was very tempted to stay.

  “And what about the Spinster House, if I may ask, Your Grace?” Mrs. Hutting gave her husband a dark look. “You might imagine my surprise when I learned that Miss Franklin had married Mr. Wattles—or I should say the Duke of Benton—in the dead of night.”

  Mr. Hutting took a sudden interest in his meal.

  “I’ve seen the notices posted throughout the village,” she continued. “Have you had anyone express an interest?”

  “Yes, indeed. Three women actually.”

  “Three!” Mrs. Hutting’s eyes widened. “Who are they?”

  He opened his mouth to answer—and felt a sharp pain in his shin. Someone
had kicked him.

  He glanced across the table. Miss Hutting’s eyes pleaded with him, as she gave her head the slightest shake.

  Apparently she had not informed her parents that she wished to be the next Spinster House spinster.

  “I’d best not say, Mrs. Hutting. The unsuccessful candidates might not wish their identities to become common knowledge.” Though he’d wager keeping such a secret in a small village like Loves Bridge would be next to impossible.

  “Oh, yes. You are quite right, of course.” Mrs. Hutting’s eyes slid over to regard her eldest daughter, who was now studying her meal as assiduously as her father had his. “I can’t imagine why any girl would want to be a spinster.”

  “If there are three candidates,” Mr. Hutting asked quickly, likely noting the direction of his wife’s gaze, “how is a winner determined, Your Grace?”

  “The ladies draw lots, sir.”

  “Lots?” Mrs. Hutting laughed. “Are you certain they don’t pull caps, Your Grace?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Hutting bristle.

  “Just lots, madam. It is all set out in Isabelle Dorring’s papers.”

  Mrs. Hutting frowned. “Oh, dear. Isabelle Dorring. Perhaps you know she is a distant relation of mine?”

  “Yes, Miss Hutting told me.”

  Mrs. Hutting leaned forward. “If I may, Your Grace, I’d like to apologize on behalf of Isabelle. I’ve always thought the situation”—she paused as if looking for the appropriate word—“unfortunate. Well, rather more than unfortunate from your point of view, of course.”

  He inclined his head. “No apologies are necessary, madam. My ancestor was very much to blame.”

  “Gammon!” Miss Hutting frowned at him. “It took two people to accomplish that particular sin.”

  Which was not an appropriate subject for the dinner table, especially one with a number of young, interested ears. “Yes, but their positions were not equal, Miss Hutting.” He didn’t need to point out their obvious difference in rank. “Women are the weaker sex.”