How to Ruin a Duke: A Novella Duet
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Though business had slowed a bit since Fairweather’s moved from Bond Street, the lower rent still left them with more available funds—as did the stipend from George IV that had been paid each month since George III, the poor mad monarch, passed away in January.
They’d hired Jafferty soon after their wedding, greatly lessening Alice’s workload. The former maid-of-all-work now served as upper housemaid and an occasional lady’s maid to Rowena. Other servants had been hired for the house and to help Cook, now employed in the house rather than for a mere three days per week.
Rowena’s favorite use for their free funds was the help she’d been able to give Nanny. After arranging a pension, she and Simon had found a block of rooms nearby for Nanny and her old friend Mrs. Newland in a house formerly owned by a man who used a wheelchair. Instead of the steps that were so difficult for the aging women, one reached the ground-floor rooms with a gentle ramp from the street. Rowena also gave Nanny a magnifying lens for reading, and she’d bought the two women a subscription to a circulating library.
“It’s too much,” Nanny had protested, her round face marked with tears.
But it wasn’t. When someone had shown a body how to live a confident life, the least one could do in return was give her the means to enjoy the books she loved.
Rowena and Simon were also setting money aside for the future. One day the king might halt the stipend. One day Rowena and Simon might choose to stop working. Or they might need to for reasons of health, like Mrs. Newland and Nanny. Or there might be more children.
“Though not yet, please,” Rowena said to Howard, melding thought and conversation. “You’re a delight, but you don’t sleep nearly enough. Babies are supposed to nap during the day. You’ve got to work on that.”
“Mg,” replied the baby. Cotton dozed on.
Simon rapped at the doorframe. “Hullo, dears. Rowena, want me to finish reconciling the accounts? You could work on your violin.”
“What a lovely offer.” She rose from her chair and gathered her husband in her arms, inhaling his fresh scent of soap and bergamot—and of cut wood and coal smoke, the smells of a Londoner who’d spent hours in the luthier workshop and then walked outdoors. “I’ll happily turn over the accounts to you, though I’ve nearly finished. Your skull-cracker personage might need to pursue only one or two outstanding debts.”
“Excellent.” Simon gave her a hearty kiss on the lips, then grinned with unholy mischief. “It’s nice to be manly and aggressive every once in a while.”
Besides skull-cracking, which in reality consisted of assertive individual reminders, Simon had taken on most of the shop’s other administrative tasks. He made clever advertising cards for the windows. He visited theaters to consult with the orchestras’ string players—and sometimes, even, he played his horn. He checked printmakers’ shops for the latest fashions and scandals and made window displays based on them.
And most happily for Rowena, he’d learned to tune pianofortes over the past long, laborious year. Today marked the first occasion he’d done the tuning completely on his own, after the couple had carried out dozens of tunings together.
“How did the tuning go?” Rowena asked. “I hope you didn’t find it deadly dull.”
Simon laughed. “Not at all. I liked it, though it took me twice as long as you’d have needed. I’ll improve eventually. And the footmen gossiped with me the whole time, and the housekeeper brought me tea and biscuits.”
“How lucky of you! I rarely get tea. The gossip is by far my favorite part of tuning a pianoforte.”
“If that’s the only part you like, you needn’t do it anymore. Eventually I’ll get quicker at the job, and I’ll pass along all the interesting news I hear. Such as a few rumors about our new majesty. Lady Templeton’s footman says the king is renovating Buckingham House for his use as a palace, and he’s planning a month of festivities for his coronation. He’ll be needing a lot of string players, and they’ll be needing a lot of repairs.”
“Wonderful news. Though the coronation’s about a year away, so we shouldn’t count those chickens yet.”
“Aaaaa,” added Howard.
“Speaking of chickens.” Simon released his wife, crossed to the cradle, and swooped up the baby. “Look who’s stayed awake again, hmm? Go on, Ro, work on your violin. I’ve got this little one, at least until he’s hungry.”
One more kiss for each of her fellows, and Rowena was off. Down to the ground floor, where the formal parlor had been fitted to her specifications as a workshop. Here she carried out all the repairs, her time freed by Simon’s work on other aspects of the business. And when she’d caught up on repairs, she worked on her violin—a slow process as she experimented with each wood, each varnish. She even tinkered with dimensions, as Guarneri had once done.
At present, she was working on a new piece: a small platform to position the chin, so the instrument wouldn’t need to be pinched in place between the chin and shoulder. If she could get the material and position and size correct, the left arm would be freed to extend brightly up the whole length of the strings.
Just because something had always been done a certain way didn’t mean she couldn’t try something different. Maybe it would turn out wonderfully; maybe it would be a disaster. But it would be her way, and she wouldn’t have to do it alone.
She had a loving husband and a distracting but darling baby. She had the help of trustworthy servants. She had an apprentice, even. Thirteen-year-old Amelia Howard attended a prestigious London girls’ school, Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies, then stayed in Rowena and Simon’s Marylebone house over the weekend to work with Rowena on Saturdays.
It was a full home, a shop serving its purpose. It was everything Rowena had always wanted Fairweather’s to be.
Of course, she still kept her library subscription. When she and Simon read Gothic novels together, they knew that whatever happened in the books was ridiculous—but whatever happened in life, they could handle together.
About the Author
Theresa Romain is the bestselling author of historical romances, including the Matchmaker trilogy, the Holiday Pleasures series, the Royal Rewards series, and the Romance of the Turf trilogy. Praised as “one of the rising stars of Regency historical romance” (Booklist), she has received starred reviews from Booklist and was a 2016 RITA® finalist. A member of Romance Writers of America, Theresa is hard at work on her next novel from her home in the Midwest.
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If this story has put you in a novella state of mind, read on for an excerpt from Theresa’s foodie historical, The Way to a Gentleman’s Heart—found in the novella duo Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies.
Excerpt from The Way to a Gentleman’s Heart
From THE WAY TO A GENTLEMAN’S HEART, ©2018 by Theresa Romain
Eight years ago, impoverished gentleman’s daughter Marianne Redfern fled her Lincolnshire home when her first love was forced to wed another. At Mrs. Brodie’s Academy, she learned the arts of cookery and self-defense—and as head cook, she can manage her staff, feed hundreds, and take down thieves. But she has no defense against Jack Grahame’s unexpected arrival two weeks before a dinner that will secure the academy’s fortunes.
Now a wealthy widower, Jack still has a wicked twinkle in his eye and a place in Marianne’s heart. Before long, he’s at her side in the kitchen all day and the bedchamber all night. But forgiveness doesn’t come together as easily as a sauce, and the wounds of the past could ruin Jack and Marianne’s chance at a future.
“Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,” chanted Marianne Redfern as she kneaded dough for the next day’s bread. “Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf of the ravined salt-sea shark…”
She trailed off when she noticed her assistant, Sally Whit
e, looking at her with some alarm. “Did you…are you making a new kind of bread, Mrs. Redfern?”
Mrs. The honorific always made Marianne smile. She’d never been wed in her life, but as cook at the exclusive Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies—and a young cook in addition, at age twenty-eight—she was due the status and protection of a fictional husband.
“Just amusing myself, Sally,” she reassured the girl. “Shakespeare’s got the right rhythm for kneading, but you won’t see me feeding our girls any of those ingredients.”
She liked the wayward sisters of Macbeth, the three prophetesses who drew a king’s notice when they predicted his rise—then his doom. There was a certain man whose face she liked to imagine in the dough when she punched it. She didn’t want to bring Jack Grahame to his doom, exactly, but when a woman had once had a lover’s notice, it was difficult to be cast aside.
Since then, she’d become a bit wayward herself. Though she had no magic but that created by a stove or an oven, carried out with grains and meats and vegetables. Bespelling only for the length of a bite or a meal.
It was enough. It had become enough.
Satisfied with her dough, she turned the worked mass over to Sally. “Divide this part into rolls for the second rising, this into loaves, and cover it all. Put it in the larder so it will proof slowly. It’ll be ready for baking in the morning, and the young ladies can have fresh rolls for breakfast.” At Sally’s nod, Marianne patted her on the shoulder. “Very good. I’ll be on to the sauces.”
Sally had been cook’s assistant in the kitchen of Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for only a week, having moved up from the post of kitchen maid when Marianne’s previous assistant married the butcher’s son. Marianne could teach any girl who wanted to learn, and indeed Sally did, for she had dreams of heading her own kitchen someday.
Katie before her had been a fair worker, but her heart hadn’t been in cookery. She’d wanted the kitchen post only because she was in love with the boy who brought the meat. For three weeks they’d called the banns, yet Katie had said nothing to Marianne of her plans to marry. As soon as the parish register was signed, she sent for her things—and that was that, with no notice.
Love, love. It made people so deceptive. Yes, it was a good match for the girl; as wife to a butcher’s son, she’d never go hungry. But even better than making a good match was knowing a body could take care of herself, come what might.
That was the purpose behind Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies, and it applied to everyone, from the headmistress herself to the youngest scullery maid. Along with the usual French and drawing, the students learned forgery and how to hold their own in a fistfight and God knew what else. The servants were welcome to take the same instruction after their daily work was done, if a teacher would agree to it. And for a little extra pay—no one could accuse Mrs. Brodie of being an ungenerous employer—most of the teachers were willing indeed.
Marianne had arrived here eight years before, new from the country and without even rudimentary skills in the kitchen. She’d worked as kitchenmaid and then assistant under a fine cook, Mrs. Patchett, until that good lady had retired to Devon to live with her son and grandchildren on a family farm. From Mrs. Patchett, Marianne had learned how to use and care for knives, how to clean and chop produce, how to choose the best fish and fowl and meat, and above all, how to provide three meals a day for seventy-five teachers and students, plus the army of servants who kept the school running smoothly.
It was difficult work, and hot, and physical, and sometimes dull. And Marianne would do it forever rather than return to Lincolnshire. After eight years here, two as the head of the kitchen, she had never been stronger, faster, more skilled. She could split a sheep’s head, knee a presumptuous man, and stir a sauce of stock and cream to keep it from splitting—all at once and without turning a hair.
She had made something quite fine of herself, though the Miss Redfern who had first come to London might not have been so impressed. That young woman knew nothing but silk and song and embroidery and manners.
Marianne glanced at the clock that beamed from the corner. Eleven o’clock already, and most of the preparations were finally done for dinner at six. That was the main meal for the students; their midday repast was a simple one of breads and meats and cheeses, eaten between their lessons. She and Sally could assemble that in another hour, and the footmen would arrange platters for the young ladies in the refectory.
There was just enough time to begin a pastry for tarts before Marianne started the slow-simmering sauces. Tarts would be more special than a simple dessert of fruit and cream, and the young ladies deserved a treat now that they were nearly done with their spring term. The early apricots Marianne had bought that morning were fine and sweet; she could make do with them. It still smarted that she’d failed to win the first strawberries of the season from a greengrocer who’d wanted to charge the earth. Not that they’d have made tarts enough for all the students, but she had a weakness for strawberries.
“Sally,” she called. “I need you to work with the apricots once you’ve stowed the bread.”
When the answer yes’m came in reply through the open door of the larder, Marianne turned to her book of receipts and looked up her favorite ingredients for a tart pastry. How much flour ought she to remove, substituting almonds? One part ground almonds to ten parts flour might do the trick, enriching the delicate flavor of the apricots with melting sweetness.
She peered into the canister where she kept the nuts, pounded to powder and ready for use. Almost empty! She cursed. It was one of Sally’s tasks to keep a good supply of pounded almonds, but if Marianne didn’t direct her, the younger woman couldn’t be expected to remember every detail of their stocks. They needed another kitchen maid to fill Sally’s old role, and soon. Mrs. Brodie’s annual Donor Dinner—Marianne couldn’t help but think of it in capital letters—was in a fortnight, after the term ended, and there was no way a single cook and assistant could prepare two formal courses and assorted desserts for one hundred people.
Well. She’d recruit the scullery maids to chop and peel if she had to, and she’d jug and stone and jar and press as much ahead of time as she could. And for today’s tarts, butter alone it would be in the pastry, and that would keep the cost of today’s meals down too. Mrs. Brodie was never mean with her kitchen staff, allowing Marianne all the budget she liked. Even so, the gentleman’s daughter who’d once spent several pounds on a single bonnet now measured out ground almonds in cautious spoonfuls and haggled to the ha’penny over the price of lettuce or fish. When it wasn’t her own money she was spending, she was more responsible with it.
Again, the face of Jack Grahame came to mind, and she wondered fleetingly if he’d felt the same about his father’s money. The money that had been needed, and that she’d had none of, and that had split them apart.
Money. Money. Money. This time, there was no dough for her to punch.
So she turned her thoughts to the tasks before her, the ones she did every day. She checked the joints slowly roasting in the ovens, confirming that the coal held out. She pulled out the ingredients for the sauces she’d make for dinner; she sifted shelled peas in her hand and approved the amount. These could be cooked shortly before the dinner service. They’d boil in a flash and be finished with fresh cream and…something else. Something surprising and flavorful. Chopped shallots maybe, fried crisp in lard and scattered like beads over the top. Yes, that would do well.
Now back to the tarts. Sally had finished with the bread, and at the other end of the long worktable, she was settled with a great pile of apricots. Clean, cleave, discard the stone, set aside. The halved fruits went into a huge bowl, piling up quickly.
“You’ve a good rhythm for that work,” Marianne told the younger woman. “Thinking of Shakespeare? Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf?”
Sally blushed. “Little Boy Blue. It’s a nice old rhyme, that. My mum taught it to me and my sisters.”
But where is the boy who looks after the sheep?
He’s back in Lincolnshire. Do not weep…
No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all.
A knock sounded then on the door to the tradesmen’s entrance. The kitchen was a few rooms away, but the servants’ quarters were quiet at the moment. The footmen were likely upstairs, while Mrs. Hobbes, the housekeeper, would be making the rounds of the students’ chambers as the maids were cleaning them. She’d a keen eye and would come down hard on any maid who hadn’t done her work well. Her husband, the old butler, had grown hard of hearing in recent years. If he were polishing silver in his pantry with the door closed, he wouldn’t hear a Catherine wheel going off two feet away.
“Are we expecting another delivery, ma’am?” Sally asked with mild curiosity.
“Of kitchen goods? Not until I do tomorrow’s shopping.” Marianne eyed her butter-covered hands, then the pile of apricots her assistant had left to split and prepare. “I’ll answer that door. Back in a moment, Sally.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and wound her way past the servants’ stairs, their hall, and the housekeeper’s room. Unfastening the door to the area, she lifted her brows, prepared to scold a lost delivery boy for interrupting her work.
But it wasn’t a delivery boy at all.
Her startled brain took a moment to understand the sight before her. The thoughts went like this:
Oh! It’s a man.
A handsome man.
He looks familiar. Does he work for the fishmonger?
No, he’s not holding fish. Strawberries! He got those strawberries I wanted of the greengrocer. Look at him holding them, juicy and red, in that little basket. Does he work for the greengrocer?