The Trouble With Dukes

by Grace Burrowes

  Rabbie Burns, closely followed by Robert Tannahill, a pair of brilliant fellows who’d died too soon and worked too hard.

  “That Beethoven seems to know what he’s about.”

  Hamish had apparently surprised her, but Eddie and Ronnie had dragged him to a few musicales. Highland winters were long enough that even Hamish had dawdled about on the keyboard a bit.

  “Do you have a favorite among Beethoven’s works, sir?”

  The soft, sweet, tender ones appealed, though they could be deceptively difficult to learn. “The Third Symphony is a thumping good air. What of yourself? Have you a favorite?”

  “I like the music my mother sang to me when I was a child, though much of it is in Welsh and may not be written down anywhere. For chamber music, Mozart will do. He’s very elegant.”

  Boring, he was. Never got together enough instruments to really shake the rafters. One set of pipes on a battlefield produced more sheer sound and fury than all Mozart’s fiddles and twiddles combined.

  “Elegant is fine.” Elegant music provided covering fire for gossip and flirtation, which was, after all, the very business of polite gatherings. “Which of Mozart’s operas do you prefer?”

  Miss Megan prattled on with the ease of one born to Mozart and Haydn, Hyde Park, and symphony concerts. By the time their party returned to the gates facing Park Lane, they’d been conversing amiably, to appearances, for more than half an hour.

  “I think you’ll do, Your Grace,” she said as they waited to cross the street. “I’ve enjoyed taking the air with you.”

  Hamish wanted to ensure she’d not go asking Pilkington about Spain—or Portugal, or France, or Waterloo—and was about to raise that impolite topic when the man himself came trotting down Park Lane on a fashionably underweight bay.

  The moment Miss Megan spotted Sir Fletcher, her posture changed. Her chin came up, her shoulders went back, her smile wilted into a strained caricature of good cheer.

  Sir Fletcher caught sight of them and trotted closer, the moment putting Hamish uncomfortably in mind of when the French cavalry came pounding out from behind their artillery. The English infantry in their squares had waited as those big, deadly animals trotted closer, their riders ready to slash a man’s head from his body….

  Hamish nearly shoved Megan behind him, for as Sir Fletcher came ever closer, he aimed a pointed inspection at them. At the last moment, Pilkington switched his reins to one hand and touched his hat brim with a gloved finger.

  He hadn’t been smiling, and now neither was Miss Megan. If Hamish didn’t know better, he would have said the woman who could inquire bluntly about sieges and murder looked … afraid.

  She wouldn’t be asking Sir Fletcher difficult questions if she could help it, and that was … that was a relief.

  Troubling too, but mostly a relief.

  “Why do you suppose Mama and Papa are haring off to Wales just as the season is getting under way?” Charlotte asked.

  Charlotte, veteran of many seasons, wasn’t as daunted by the upcoming weeks as Megan was, but then, nothing much daunted Charlotte. Ever.

  “Perhaps they’re leaving London after the ball because another spring in Town is tedious, expensive, and boring,” Beth muttered from behind her embroidery hoop. Beth did exquisite close work, which Megan couldn’t attempt without bringing on a megrim.

  “Perhaps Mama and Papa retrace their wedding journey because they are in love,” Anwen said. “They know Aunt Esther will happily look after us, so Mama and Papa can have one of their honeymoons when Wales is looking gorgeous.”

  Wales was always gorgeous. Half-wild, relentlessly green, music in the very names of the villages, magic in the hills, and lovely, fluffy sheep more plentiful than Mayfair dandies.

  The sheep were often better mannered than the dandies too.

  Maybe that was why Anwen loved yarn, knitting, crocheting…. Anything that put soft wool in her hands would remind her of summers spent near Cardiff. She wound a pile of sea-green merino into a ball, her movements graceful and rhythmic.

  “I don’t care why Mama and Papa are leaving for Wales,” Megan said. “I wish them safe journey and many rainbows.”

  So to speak. Mama and Papa could be shamelessly demonstrative. Worse even than Uncle Percy and Aunt Esther, whose waltzing still turned heads.

  “How did your outing with the Duke of Murdoch go, Megs?” Charlotte asked. “He’s quite dashing in his Highland finery.”

  Anwen’s winding paused. “Kilts are a lovely fashion.”

  Kilts were made of wool, while Megan’s fancies lately had been made of moonbeams and mischief.

  “Our outing was prosaic,” she said. “His Grace, contrary to all gossip, is a charming man who acquits himself well on the dance floor and in conversation. He should do very nicely at Aunt’s ball, and his sisters are delightful.”

  When they weren’t berating their brother in public.

  “But what?” Charlotte demanded.

  Beth stabbed at her hoop with a silver needle. “Leave her alone, Charlotte. Megan has a kind heart, and it won’t hurt for Sir Fletcher to know other men find her attractive.”

  “Sir Fletcher found Hippolyta Jones attractive until her papa’s bank collapsed,” Charlotte replied. “The year before that, wasn’t he chasing after Sally Delaplane—or her grandfather’s sugar plantations? Too bad for Sir Fletcher that Sally caught the eye of a French comte.”

  “And when Sir Fletcher first mustered out, he was dangling after the Barington heiress,” Anwen added. “Or that was my impression. I could be mistaken.”

  “You’re not mistaken,” Beth said, “but you’re kinder than I am. Sir Fletcher is a younger son trying hard not to look like a fortune hunter. He’s not my first choice of husband for anybody.”

  All of Megan’s joy in her Hyde Park outing, all of her curiosity regarding the Terror of Toulouse, shrank back to the girlish fancies from whence they’d sprung. Sir Fletcher had not been pleased to see her on Murdoch’s arm.

  “I do wonder about Murdoch’s wartime reputation,” Charlotte said. “Lady Melodia Tarryton was engaged to him at one point, but she broke it off when His Grace mustered out. Nobody ever said why she changed her mind.”

  “Perhaps she found someone else while Murdoch was away,” Megan offered.

  “Or maybe she found out his true nature. One gathers Murdoch was very fierce in battle. And there are stories….”

  “You’d like a fierce husband, Charl,” Anwen said, winding faster. “You need that, in fact, but I’d hate to watch you whisked off to Scotland. We’d only see you once every five years, and never get to spoil your babies.”

  Anwen mentioned babies rather a lot and was passionately devoted to bettering the lot of orphans.

  Megan pushed her spectacles up her nose. “I doubt Murdoch is looking for a bride, though his sisters might be inspecting the eligibles. What else have you heard about him, Charlotte?”

  “The Duke of Murdoch hasn’t a reputation for bravery per se,” Charlotte said. “I’d say it’s more a reputation for savagery. One hears that when he challenged Baron St. Clair, the weapon of choice was bare fists, and Murdoch intended to beat the baron to death. Only the timely intervention of third parties prevented the next thing to murder.”

  Charlotte had the ability to sit at a table playing whist, to every appearance puzzling over her next discard while in fact she was listening to a trio of men gossiping over at the window. Growing up, she’d made a formidable spy on the male cousins, and now she was simply formidable.

  “Baron St. Clair is a substantial fellow,” Megan said, “and was a soldier himself. Why does one assume he’d be defeated, much less killed, in a fair fight?”

  “We shouldn’t speak of such things,” Anwen said, setting her yarn into her workbasket.

  “Why not?” Beth asked, knotting off a golden thread. “If Charlotte didn’t tell us what she overhears, we’d never get any of the best gossip. I heard that Murdoch had a dreadful temper
in battle, and was always to be found in the thick of the fighting.”

  The duke’s eyes, so glacially distant when he spoke of war, suggested the same. He’d doubtless fought with everything he had, every time, and the battles haunted him. Megan, by contrast, was facing defeat at the hands of a knighted weasel and had offered the merest whimper of protest.

  “Murdoch’s years of soldiering will get him through Aunt Esther’s ball,” Charlotte said. “The matchmakers will overlook a little savagery in a man with a dukedom and two lucrative breweries. His brother will be considered quite the catch too. They won’t be so keen on the sisters, though. Very pretty, and gentlemen do seem fascinated with red hair.”

  They shared a sororal moment, for all four Windham sisters had red hair. Beth was a glossy titian, Charlotte more auburn. Megan tended to strawberry blonde, while Anwen—quiet, shy Anwen—had hair that could be described only as blazingly red.

  “Megs, have you saved your supper waltz for Sir Fletcher?” Anwen asked. “He’s a very fine dancer.”

  Oh, wasn’t he just? “He hasn’t asked me for it. I thought I might dance the supper waltz with the Duke of Murdoch.”

  Though he hadn’t exactly asked her yet either.

  “Those roses should never have been cut,” Charlotte said, frowning at the bouquet wilting on the windowsill. “The hothouse varieties simply do not fare well off the vine. Giving Murdoch your supper waltz is quite generous, Megs. Do you think Sir Fletcher will mind?”

  He’d mind awfully. “Murdoch, like Mama and Papa, will be decamping directly after Aunt’s ball. I can give His Grace a single dance before he returns to Scotland, and there’s nothing Sir Fletcher can say to it.”

  Sir Fletcher would say a great deal. His chilly glower on Park Lane assured Megan she was already due for a lecture. She moved to the sideboard to give the roses a drink from the pitcher, a futile gesture of compassion for the already doomed.

  “You don’t want to marry Sir Fletcher, do you?” Anwen asked, noiselessly closing the lid of her workbasket. Everything she did was calm, graceful, and ladylike—almost everything.

  “Sir Fletcher hasn’t proposed.” Not in the usual, proper sense. Thank God.

  Megan’s sisters became absorbed in not looking at her or at each other.

  “As long as Papa is off cavorting with Mama in Wales,” Charlotte said, “Sir Fletcher can’t very well propose, can he? All he can do is court you and escort you. The season is long, and the ballrooms are full of bachelors. Sir Fletcher had best not grow overconfident of your affections.”

  Megan harbored no affection for a man who’d exploit a young woman’s missteps, no matter how handsomely he turned down the room. The idea of fulfilling her wifely duties with Sir Fletcher made her ill, though all over England, women were doubtless enduring worse in the name of family honor or simple survival.

  Besides, Sir Fletcher had no need for Megan’s affections. He had her letters—dozens and dozens, all clearly signed by her, and that was awful enough.

  Chapter Six

  Old, doomed feelings welled as Hamish heard himself announced as “the Duke of Murdoch!” above the heaving sea of gossip, fashion, and music filling the Windham ballroom. The herald—may he be damned to a permanent case of piles—had even thumped his pikestaff three times to ensure everybody got a good gawk at the new duke.

  Edana and Rhona used the moment to preen before the entire assemblage, and well they should, for their finery was exquisite. Nevertheless, in the ballroom below, ladies whispered to their escorts, mamas drew their daughters closer, and former officers exchanged knowing smirks.

  Hear ye, hear ye, the Duke of Murder has arrived.

  “Now what?” Hamish muttered.

  “Now,” Colin said, “we lead the ladies down to the dance floor, fetch them some punch, and glower at any who presume to approach without an introduction.”

  In the past week, between perambulating about in the park, receiving callers, and paying calls, Edana and Rhona must have met half of Mayfair.

  “Rather like defending the garrison,” Hamish said, escorting Rhona down the grand staircase. He knew better than to rush. Ronnie was enjoying herself, and her smile was … well, the garrison would need a good deal of defending, based on the loveliness of that smile.

  “Rather like being a brother,” Rhona corrected him. “Oh, there’s Miss Windham and Miss Megan, and I see Lady Deene. We met her in the modiste’s.”

  “I see Sir Fletcher over by the punch bowl,” Eddie chimed in from Colin’s side. “He is such an attractive fellow.”

  They were nervous. Hamish sensed this the same way he’d known his recruits were nervous the night before a battle. Sane men were terrified going into battle, but masculine pride insisted that the only sensible reaction to impending death was to clean spotless weaponry, compose maudlin letters, or reread notes from sweethearts.

  “You both look stunning,” Hamish said, reaching for a paraphrase of his pre-battle speech. “I will dower you down to my last farthing if you see a fellow who takes your fancy, provided he’s worthy of you. You are the equal of any person here, if not superior to them all. You’re as well educated as Colin or I, you know every dance, you could sing the entire ballroom to tears. You’re the daughters of Clan MacHugh, and the blood of a hundred generations of warriors flows through your veins. Victory has been in your hands since you left the coach. Stop fretting and prepare to show mercy to your prisoners, even as you put your foes to shame.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the world’s longest staircase, and just in time, for Rhona stumbled on her hem.

  Hamish caught her, caught the look of bewildered surprise in her green eyes.

  He winked. She started to grin, smoothed her brow, and offered the room that glowingly attractive smile she’d fired off from the top of the steps.

  All right, then.

  “Shall we charge?” Colin muttered. “Repair to the punch bowls, rather?”

  Where Sir Fletcher lurked waiting to ambush the unwary, no doubt.

  “A glass of punch would suit,” Rhona said. “The first sets will form soon, and I’m promised to Sir Fletcher.”

  She attempted to haul Hamish off to the left side of the battlefield—ballroom, rather.

  “Be careful with Pilkington, Ronnie,” Hamish said. “Colin and I know him from our army days, and he did not distinguish himself as a leader of men.” More than that, somebody who’d been taken captive by the French, leaving his own men without any leader at all, could not say.

  “Sir Fletcher has shown favor toward Miss Megan Windham,” Eddie murmured. “But my gracious, evening attire does show off a man’s attributes, doesn’t it?”

  Colin snorted, and Hamish maintained a commanding officer’s silence.

  Sir Fletcher sparkled, laughed, and bowed over the ladies’ hands until Hamish wanted to shove the brave knight’s head under the nearest fountain. Colin took up a flirtation with some viscountess, and the hands of the tall clock near the orchestra stopped moving.

  Rather like taking a watch as sentry, when the night acquired pitiless permanence. For four interminable hours, the moon would hang unmoving in the sky, while unseen creatures rustled in the undergrowth and a French picket a few hundred yards away listened desperately for the shuffling and munching of his own horses at grass.

  As long as the beasts remained relaxed and calm, no midnight raiders approached.

  “You might consider looking bored rather than dyspeptic, Your Grace,” said a voice at Hamish’s elbow. “Or you could indulge a flair for adventure and ask some widow to dance.”

  Joseph, Earl of Keswick, stood to Hamish’s left. Keswick had been among the Windham relations recruited for escort duty in the park, and true to Hamish’s hunch, his lordship had served on the Peninsula.

  With notable distinction.

  “My lord,” Hamish said, offering a bow. “Good evening. I look dyspeptic because I am dyspeptic.” The stomp and thump of the dancers’ feet too closely
matched the rhythm of an army on the march, and the pounding of the megrim radiating from Hamish’s left temple.

  Keswick was dark-haired, and tonight at least, dark-humored. “Good evening, indeed,” he said. “While I watch my countess flirt, flatter, and charm her way through hours of interminable dances and pretend I would not rather be anywhere else—”

  He fell silent, and the look that came over his saturnine features was transfixed, almost pathetically so, except such benevolence infused his expression, such quiet joy, that in that moment, Hamish would have said Keswick was capable of effortless charm, grace, and every virtue to which a gentleman aspired.

  “My love,” Keswick said, holding out a gloved hand to a dark-haired lady. “Introductions are in order….”

  Merciful powers. Not more introductions … Except what else could the evening hold but an endless parade inspection for the Duke of Murder? Miss Megan had warned Hamish it would be so, and Keswick—married to one of Megan’s battalion of cousins—ensured she was right.

  For the next two hours, Hamish was thwarted from returning to his siblings’ sides. Barons and viscountesses, honorables and eligibles, Hamish was subjected to more bowing and curtsying in one evening than he’d endured in any year in Scotland. He danced with half of the Duchess of Moreland’s daughters and daughters-in-law, was teased and flirted with by the other half, and still, the hands of the clock advanced at only a crawl….

  While Hamish considered pelting through a window before his head exploded and his two cups of punch made an unscheduled reappearance.

  “You see now why the terraces and card rooms are necessary,” Keswick said as the hour neared midnight. “Even the bravest officers are permitted winter leave.”

  “The terrace appeals.” The ballroom was positively stifling, Edana and Rhona did not lack for dance partners, and Colin was practicing his flattery on the wallflowers.

  Time to fall back and regroup.

  “You’re through the worst of it.” Keswick gestured Hamish past a set of double doors. “The duchess has seen that the rest of the hostesses will have to invite you to their social functions, and all will fall into place.”