Of course not. I’d have noticed him there.
No, he looks like…like…
And then she knit all the pieces together, and her jaw dropped.
“Jack,” she said faintly. “Jack Grahame. Why are you here?”
“Marianne. I brought you strawberries,” said the man she’d loved and hoped never to see again.
When he held out the little basket, she took it, bemused. She looked from the strawberries to the face of her first lover, her only lover, dressed as fine as ever and handsome enough to be in a painting. Then back at the basket. And then she remembered that her hands were greasy from butter, her apron had a bit of everything she’d cooked today upon it, and her hair—her long dark brown hair that he’d once run his fingers through, lovingly—was sloppily confined under a cook’s cap, and her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the ovens.
Ah, hell. If one’s long-ago love showed up unexpectedly at one’s door, it ought to be at a time when one looked one’s best. But Marianne was a cook now, and a cook was what she looked like.
She lifted her chin. Closed her hands around the basket of strawberries. Did he remember she liked them, after all this time? Bright as rubies, and she’d rather have them than gemstones.
“Well. Thank you,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage. “Is that all? As you’re here, you know I’m working as a cook. And since you were always a bright fellow, you must guess I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Since you asked, I’d like to come in and speak to you. Do the strawberries win me a little of your time?” His brows were puckish, his mobile mouth always at the edge of a grin.
So he did remember. “Time enough for you to say you’re sorry for keeping away so long.” She tried not to sound as soft as she felt, but her own words betrayed her.
The humor on his face melted. He looked at her with grave gray eyes and said, “I’m not here to apologize, Marianne. But I do want your forgiveness.”
Like it? Order your copy of THE WAY TO A GENTLEMAN’S HEART!
When His Grace Falls by Grace Burrowes
Dedicated to those fallen upon hard times
Chapter One
“A duke cannot, of course, be ruined, except by his own folly, and what an entertaining spectacle that can be!”
From How to Ruin a Duke by Anonymous
“She is the personification of gall, the embodiment of presumption, and a walking temple to betrayal.” Thaddeus, Duke of Emory, made a precise about-face at the edge of the library’s carpet. “I’d sooner share my coach with a viper than admit this family ever employed Lady Edith Charbonneau. Stop swilling all the good brandy.”
Thaddeus had been scolding and lecturing his baby brother for more than twenty years, not that Jeremiah had ever listened.
“A lady’s companion has a difficult lot,” Jeremiah said, draining the last of the spirits from his glass. “Have you considered paying Lady Edith off? I’d be happy to act as intermediary.”
Thaddeus made another about-face before the portrait of the previous duke. “That’s quite generous of you, but she hasn’t demanded to be paid off. She hasn’t even acknowledged her authorship of the damned book. And what sort of woman titles a book, How to Ruin a Duke? She and I barely spoke during the whole of her tenure as Mama’s companion. What she knows about dukes wouldn’t fill a toddler’s porringer.”
The mere sight of Lady Edith’s compilation of drivel—already sold in a bound edition—made Thaddeus want to roar profanities and throw the book at the nearest fragile object. He’d been the object of satire before—every peer was—but he’d never so badly misjudged a woman’s character.
He’d liked Lady Edith, rather a lot, and he liked very few people indeed.
“What she knows about you,” Jeremiah said, “handsomely fills nearly three hundred pages. Have you read it?”
“I wouldn’t admit it if I had.” Much less admit that he’d read it several times, word for word. Alone, of course, because on occasion—rare occasion—the author managed a humorous turn of phrase that provoked a begrudging laugh.
Jeremiah opened the book to a page at random and ran his finger along the prose. “‘His nose is of majestic proportions, and those ladies in a position to comment knowledgeably—said to number in the scores—claim other aspects of the ducal anatomy are in proportion not only to His Grace’s magnificent proboscis, but also to his considerable conceit.’ This can’t possibly be aimed at you, Emory. Your conceit surpassed considerable before you reached your majority. At the very least, your conceit qualifies as stupendous.”
“Unlike your sense of humor.” The footmen had positioned a spray of daisies on the mantel, a half inch off center. Thaddeus corrected the error and realized the flowers were nearly out of water.
“Again, Your Grace, I suggest with all deference that if you’d simply wave a handsome sum at the woman, your handsome person would no longer be the subject of her literary maunderings. I’ll search her out, handle the details, and nobody need ever acknowledge the source of the money.”
Now that was a fiction approaching the absurd. Jeremiah was so inept at managing his funds, his allowance was disbursed every two weeks rather than quarterly. He was a good soul, but too generous with his friends and too reckless with his bets.
No misanthropic spinster would ever write a satirical tome about Jeremiah. Being a charming, impecunious courtesy lord had its advantages.
“Will you join Mama and the ladies for the carriage parade?” Thaddeus asked, using the pitcher on the sideboard to water the flowers. The day was glorious as only London in late spring could be.
“Isn’t it your turn, Your Grace?” The polite form of address became mocking when Jeremiah adopted that tone.
“I rode with them yesterday and the day before,” Thaddeus replied, returning the pitcher to the sideboard. “The ladies prefer your escort because everybody likes you.”
Jeremiah saluted with his brandy glass, which was full again. “You really do need to work on your flattery, Emory.”
“I am a duke. I need not flatter anybody. I’m simply speaking the truth. You are not only received everywhere, you are welcomed everywhere.” While Thaddeus had long since reconciled himself to merely being invited everywhere.
He and Jeremiah both had the family height, blue eyes, and dark hair, but Jeremiah had perfected the air of a man amused by life’s contradictions. Thaddeus could not afford that posture, which only made the damned book all the more vexing.
“I do have a certain modest social appeal,” Jeremiah said. “I admit it. If I’m to squire Mama and the ladies about, I suppose I’d better change into riding attire. What pressing engagement prevents you from joining us?”
A dozen pressing engagements. The house steward was in the boughs over some comment the sommelier had made about the dampness of the cellars. The kitchen staff agreed with the sommelier, the footmen had aligned themselves with the house steward, and the maids were stirring the pot as maids were ever wont to do. Mama expected Thaddeus to make peace among the warring parties—a task that Lady Edith had somehow managed from time to time—but really, the cellar was damp. All London cellars were.
“My afternoon is not my own,” Thaddeus said. “And it’s your turn, Jeremiah.” They had a schedule, so the escort tribulation was evenly divided between them, but the schedule was usually honored in the breach, and the breach was invariably on Jeremiah’s part.
“Give my regards to whichever merry widow is claiming your time, Emory.”
The tailor—a short, bald, nervous fellow who had no acquaintance with merriment that Thaddeus could divine—claimed that a final fitting for Thaddeus’s new frock coat was absolutely imperative, the third such final fitting for that one garment.
The Committee for the Relief of Aged Seamen hadn’t disbursed this month’s funds, mostly because Thaddeus hadn’t yet bullied them into it.
No less than four bills pending in the Lords required a judicious application of du
cal persuasion in the direction of various earls and other tedious fellows, all of whom wanted to be seen having dinner with Thaddeus at his clubs.
“I will tend to the press of business,” Thaddeus said, lining up the decanters on the sideboard in order of height. “Tending to the press of business is, after all, why I was born.”
“Mama might attribute your birth to other causes.” Jeremiah took a considering sip of his drink. “According to a certain scribbling spinster, your chief pursuits are nearly breaking your neck in wild horse races, consuming vast quantities of liquor, and disappointing mistresses after you’ve made their wildest erotic fantasies come true.”
“No wonder I am usually in need of a good nap.” In truth Thaddeus hadn’t any mistresses to disappoint. At the beginning of the Season, he’d promised himself to engage the company of some friendly widow who didn’t mind an occasional frolic, but that had been several months ago, and the press of business had interfered with even that pursuit.
“Enjoy the carriage parade,” Thaddeus said, striding for the door. “I have an appointment with a certain publisher whom I hope will lead me to Lady Edith’s doorstep.”
“You intend to confront her ladyship directly?” Jeremiah set down his glass on Grandpapa’s desk. “Is that wise, Emory? She can turn even an innocent meeting into more grist for her mill. Perhaps I should go with you.”
This genuine fraternal concern was part of the reason Thaddeus continued to support his brother. Jeremiah spent money like a sailor in his home port for the first time in two years. He wiggled out of social obligations, and his naughty wagers were legendary in the club betting books.
But he was loyal to Thaddeus, and if a brother could have only one redeeming value—Jeremiah had many, in truth—loyalty was the one that would most easily earn Thaddeus’s esteem.
“If I can locate Lady Edith,” Thaddeus said, reversing course to put the empty glass on the tray on the sideboard, “then perhaps I will have you accompany me when I call upon her, but first I must find the woman.”
Jeremiah gave the library’s globe a spin, letting his index finger trail along the northern hemisphere. “Is there some urgency about this errand, Emory? Society is having a good laugh at our expense, but this is not the first such book to be published, nor will it be the last.”
When Lord Jeremiah Maitland was the voice of reason, pigs might be spotted fluttering into the branches of the plane maples.
“I’d rather it be the last such book published about me. The author is said to be working on a sequel, and if I allow a second book into print, Mama will disown me.”
“Would that Mama disowned me. Why is it your fault that somebody has decided to immortalize your exploits for the delectation of bored clubmen?”
Thaddeus made for the door once again. “Immortality by way of infamy and ridicule is not a goal I aspire to. Shouldn’t you be changing into riding attire?”
“Explain to me why you take such grievous exception to a harmless spoof. I always have time to lend a friendly ear to my dearest older brother.”
This was true, oddly enough. “In the first place, the exploits are unfairly portrayed, as you well know. In the second place, the book is being read by far more than the younger sons and idlers lounging about the clubs. In the third,”—Thaddeus got out his pocket watch to compare the time it kept to the eight-day clock on the mantel—“this dratted book has Mama concerned for my prospects.”
The two timepieces were in gratifying synchrony.
“Your prospects?” Jeremiah spluttered. “Mama thinks no decent woman will have you, a poor old homely fellow with only what—six or is it seven—titles to your name and a different estate to go with each one? Perhaps our dame is suffering a touch of dementia. We certainly can’t let that get out or the sequel will devolve into a trilogy.”
“This isn’t amusing, Jeremiah. What decent woman wants to ally herself with a man who’s the butt of a three-hundred-page joke?”
Jeremiah strolled for the door. “The book is merely a nine days’ wonder, Emory. Shall I place a wager on who will be the topic of the next such tome? I nominate old Windham. He was supposedly a rascal in his youth.”
“No wagers, if you please,” Thaddeus said, preceding Jeremiah out the door. “That rascal has three grown sons who’d skewer you without blinking if you maligned their papa, and then the in-laws would start in.” Besides, Thaddeus both liked and respected Percival, His Grace of Windham, who had passed along more than a few insightful suggestions regarding the care and feeding of parliamentary committees.
“I fancy a bit of swordplay, now that you bring up skewering,” Jeremiah said. “Shall we make an appointment at Angelo’s?”
Nice try. “You shall change into your riding attire. I will send a footman to the stables to tell them you’ll need your horse.”
Jeremiah stopped at the foot of the staircase that wound up in a grand sweep around three-quarters of the octagonal foyer. Of the house’s public spaces, this was Thaddeus’s favorite. Marble half-columns created a series of niches wherein reposed classical urns, dignified busts, and splendid ferns. Ancestors scowled down from the portraits on the walls, and the mosaic on the floor—the family coat of arms—hadn’t a single flawed or misplaced stone.
“One must concede the author has shown initiative,” Jeremiah said, foot on the first step. “Don’t you agree? She is enterprising enough to write all those pages, to find a publisher, to turn common human foibles into entertainment. That’s not something just any idle fribble could do, Emory.”
Jeremiah sounded genuinely admiring or perhaps envious.
“If another such book comes out, and I become a running joke from year to year, no duchess I could esteem would bother marrying me. That leaves you to secure the succession, my lord, meaning your bachelor days would be over.”
“Good gracious, Emory. As dire as all that? Then be on your way, by all means. Nothing must be allowed to jeopardize my bachelorhood. The good ladies of Mayfair would go into a decline and I would have to join them.”
His lordship scampered up the steps all merriment and laughter, though Thaddeus was certain that Jeremiah’s last expostulation was only half in jest.
Lady Edith Charbonneau sat on the hard chair, her outward composure firmly in place while she raged inside. Two years as companion to the Duchess of Emory had resulted in the ability to maintain her dignity, if nothing else. Little good that would do her when she had no roof over her head.
“My lady, I do apologize,” Mr. Jared Ventnor said, from the far side of a desk both massive and battered, “but at present I am not in the business of publishing books of domestic advice. Have you tried Mr. MacHugh?”
“Mr. MacHugh has all the domestic guidance authors he needs. He suggested I proceed by subscription, but Mr. Ventnor, I am a lady by birth. I cannot be seen importuning my friends to support my publishing endeavors. The result would label my literary aspirations charity, and I will not be made into an object of pity.” Moreover, the goal of Edith’s considerable writing efforts was to earn money, not to perfect her begging skills.
When male authors drummed up support for a book yet to be written—much less published—that was business as usual. A woman in the same posture met with a very different reception.
Mr. Ventnor rose. “Leave me some of your writing samples. If I can’t publish you, I might think of somebody who can once I have a sense of your voice and tone. Reading for entertainment is becoming stylish, and whoever can write the next How to Ruin a Duke will be assured of a long and lucrative career.”
If I never hear of that book again… “Might I consider my writing samples and send you the best of the lot?”
Ventnor was rumored to be a decent sort. He had a wife and family, he paid his authors honestly—not a given, in London’s publishing community—and he met with impoverished spinsters when he doubtless had other things to do.
And yet, paper was precious. Edith had only the single final copies of the samp
les she’d brought, thinking to pass them over for Mr. Ventnor’s perusal while she’d waited.
“You may send them along,” he said, offering his hand to assist her to her feet. “But promise me you will show me something. Too many authors claim they seek publication, and when I ask for a sample, they fuss and dither and delay, gilding the lily—or tarnishing it, more likely—until their courage has ebbed to nothing. Send me something within the week.”
“I can make you that promise, sir.”
He was mannerly. Edith gave him grudging respect for that. As an earl’s daughter, she’d met many mannerly men. Only those who offered her courtesy when nobody compelled it earned her admiration. Ventnor could have been rude rather than kind, and Edith would nonetheless have applied to him for work.
He walked with her to the front door, past all the editors at their desks and clerks with their green visors. The air of industry here was unmistakable and fascinating. An earl’s daughter was raised to be an ornament, idling from one entertainment to the next. A lady’s companion might be kept busy, but she could not look busy.
These fellows gloried in their work, and in the challenge of making a business successful.
“Have you considered finding another post as a lady’s companion?” Mr. Ventnor asked, passing Edith her cloak. “My in-laws move in polite society at levels above what a mere publisher can aspire to. I could ask my wife to make inquiries through her sister.”
He really was kind, and Edith really did want to smack him with her reticule. She’d learned to keep a copy of the first volume of Glenarvon in her bag the better to deter pickpockets and presuming men. Heaven knew Lady Caroline’s book had few other redeeming qualities.
“I have had my fill of being a lady’s companion,” Edith said. “It did not end well.” She put her Sunday bonnet on and tied the ribbons loosely. The day was fine, and even a poor spinster could enjoy a beautiful spring afternoon. “Companions are not generously compensated, and they are pitied when they aren’t held in contempt.”
How to Ruin a Duke: A Novella Duet Page 13