How to Ruin a Duke: A Novella Duet

by Grace Burrowes

  The serving maid reappeared with a pint and a small pint on a tray along with half a loaf of sliced bread and a plate of butter pats.

  “A pot of China black,” Emory said, “with all the trimmings.”

  The maid put the offerings on the table, bobbed a curtsey, and moved away.

  “They’ll serve adulterated tea,” he said, letting the foam on his ale settle.

  “No, they won’t. The publican’s wife will not allow weak tea to be brought to your table.”

  “What makes you say that?” The ale was quite good. The bread smelled fresh from the oven.

  Lady Edith put a table napkin on her lap and bowed her head. “For what I am about to receive, I am most sincerely grateful. Would that all going without such fare soon have reason to pray similarly. I would also appreciate it if the Architect of All Worldly Affairs could see fit to serve His Grace the truth regarding that awful book. Amen.”

  Would a woman who gave thanks for bread and butter find it morally acceptable to wreck another’s social standing, and then mislead her victim while she said grace?

  She took up her knife and spread a liberal portion of butter on a slice of bread. “With regard to the tea, you need have no fear of being cheated. Your boots cost more than most of these people would see in a year. Your sartorial splendor would blind the angels. Your height proclaims your blue blood, and you would send watered down tea back to the kitchen, making more work for any who sought to cheat you.”

  She was right, also fond of butter, apparently.

  Her ladyship took a delicate nibble of her bread. “You won’t ruin me, because I don’t deserve ruin, though it stares me in the face without your good offices to help it along. I gather you think I wrote How to Ruin a Duke.”

  Her expression as she consumed a humble slice of buttered bread was enraptured. No expensive courtesan had ever gazed upon Thaddeus with that blend of soft focus, quiet joy, and profound appreciation. Thaddeus left off swilling his ale, fascinated by the transformation. Lady Edith was, he realized, not a plain woman, but a woman who’d learned to appear plain.

  Severe bun, no cosmetics, no jewelry, clothing far from fashionable, nothing flirtatious or engaging about her. She set out to be overlooked, or perhaps that succession of begrudging relatives simply hadn’t included anybody who might have shown a young girl how to present herself.

  None of which must sway him from his course. “I know you wrote that dratted book. Nobody else could have.”

  She hadn’t set down her bread since taking the first bite, but she did pause in her consumption of it.

  “Do you think, if I’d written such a wildly popular novel, I’d be subjecting myself to a meal in the company of a titled buffoon who cannot be bothered to consider facts?”

  “I always consider facts.”

  The food arrived, smelling divine and requiring a hiatus in the skirmishing. Thaddeus’s objective mattered to him—he would secure her ladyship’s promise to stop publishing satire aimed at him or his family—but good English beef was not to be ignored.

  Lady Edith ate sparingly of the meat, and only half of her potato. She added both milk and sugar to her tea and drank two cups in quick succession. When she’d poured her third cup of tea, she sat back. Her cheeks had acquired a bit of color and the battle light was back in her eye.

  “We should order a sweet,” Thaddeus said, which was inane of him, but he did not care to resume hostilities quite so soon. Lady Edith had suggested a contradiction—literary revenue and straightened circumstances—and she had a point.

  Maybe.

  “I have eaten all I can manage for now,” she replied. “The belly loses the habit of digesting substantial meals.”

  Two slices of bread, half a potato and a few bites of beef was not a substantial meal. “Then I will order a sweet, because I am an arrogant, ungentlemanly buffoon with the appetite of a mastodon.”

  “Suit yourself.” She gestured with her teaspoon. As you always do.

  Splendid. She could now insult him without even speaking.

  “If you didn’t write the blasted, blighted book, who did?” And since when was alliteration contagious?

  “Let’s see….” She peered into the teapot. “Your butler knows every secret associated with your entire family back for at least five generations and he’s nearing retirement. Your mother is at the end of her patience with both of her sons for different reasons, and she’s quite well read. Maybe she thought to shame you into holy matrimony. Your cousin Antigone is angry with you because you would not approve her match to that fortune-hunting rake, Sir Prancing Ninny.”

  Sir Prendergast Nanceforth. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “Last year, you were rumored to be considering a marquess’s daughter for your duchess, but decided not to offer for her when she turned out to have a fondness for wagering. She might not be your greatest admirer.”

  “One wagering fool in the family is one too many.” Thaddeus had forgotten about the marquess’s daughter too.

  “You don’t want to ruin me. Now you can ruin her instead.”

  “I don’t have time to ruin you for any but the most pressing reasons,” Thaddeus said, motioning to the serving maid. He ordered lemon cake with orange glaze and fresh raspberries—two servings.

  Lady Edith poured herself the last of the tea, though it had to be cold by now. “I told you I haven’t room for any more food.”

  “Fear not,” Thaddeus replied, starting on the lady’s pint. “Nothing goes to waste when a mastodon sits down to dine. I not only don’t have time to ruin you for my own pleasure, the undertaking would be inefficient.”

  More milk and sugar went into her ladyship’s teacup. “The horror of an inefficient duke boggles and bewilders the imagination.”

  “The book has been selling for the past month,” Thaddeus went on. “The damage has been done. If I were to ruin you now simply for having written the dratted thing, that would be an act of revenge, and revenge on a woman for a jest in poor taste would not reflect well on me.” Especially not revenge that sat about for a month re-reading the damned book and pondering options.

  “So the ducal arrogance will spare me from ruination. My relief beggars description, especially considering I did not write that wretched book. I could not have written it.”

  The maid brought the dessert to the table, handsome portions liberally topped with fresh fruit and preserves. She set down one bowl before her ladyship, the other before Thaddeus.

  “Try a bite,” he said. “I’ll eat what you don’t finish.” He expected a lecture about ignoring her wishes and wants.

  Instead, the lady picked up her fork and speared a fat red raspberry.

  “Why should I eliminate you as a potential author of the book?” he asked.

  She put the single berry into her mouth. “I miss fresh fruit. I miss it more than strong tea.” She ducked her head and speared another berry.

  Her admission was troubling. Irksome. A distraction, possibly. “Why could you not have written How to Ruin a Duke? You’ve a lady’s education, you observed my family at close quarters for two years, and likely heard all sorts of tales from the staff. My mother and Lord Jeremiah have also been known to spin the occasional entertaining bit of family lore. Am I to believe ladylike sensibilities alone stopped you from airing my linen in exchange for a small fortune?”

  She took a bite of cake this time, dabbing it in the preserves. “Of course not. If I’d been ingenious enough to write such a tale, we’d be having a very different conversation in a very different venue, but I wasn’t. To make public what should remain private is an act of desperation and the thought of debtor’s prison should make the stoutest soul tremble. I wish I had written that book. If you were foolish enough to race from London to Brighton under a quarter moon, then the world deserves to be entertained by your foolishness.”

  Nobody had ever referred to Thaddeus as foolish before. He did not care for the term, and yet, that race had been stupid bey
ond all description, despite the fact that he’d won by a five-minute margin.

  And Lady Edith was also correct that debtor’s prison was worse than a death sentence. While the debtor slowly rotted from the inevitable ravages of consumption, he or she was charged exorbitant sums for basic necessities. Between disease and despair, a sad end was inevitable.

  “You admit to being sufficiently desperate to go after the lure of dangled wealth,” Thaddeus said, ignoring his dessert. “So why shouldn’t I attribute authorship of that vile book to you?”

  “Because,” she said. “I have no patience with dangling modifiers, and what ruin isn’t visited upon the fictitious Duke of Amorous is inflicted by the author on the English language. If I set out to ruin you, Your Grace, I’d at least do it in the king’s proper English.”

  Verbally brawling with Emory enlightened Edith on one point: She finally understood why young men delighted in pounding each other to flinders in the name of pugilistic science. All of her worry, all of her ire at a fate she and Foster had done nothing to earn, found a target in the person of the duke who was ignoring his sweet while he argued with a lady.

  Maybe this was why gentlemen were prohibited from engaging in disputes with women—because the ladies could too easily learn to enjoy winning those arguments. Where would masculine self-regard be then?

  “I have silenced you,” Edith said, savoring another fat, tart raspberry slathered in sweetened juices. “Have a care when you step out of doors, Your Grace.”

  “You fear for my welfare. I am touched, Lady Edith. Moved in the tenderest profundities of my heart. What occasions your concern, when my social disrepute does not?”

  “Low-flying swine. If ever an omen augured for their appearance, your silence does. You should not waste your sweet.”

  He moved the bowl of lemon cake closer and made no move to pick up his fork. “You make a jest of me and then scold me, but your point fails to prove that you didn’t write How to Ruin a Duke. A skilled writer can affect any number of less-skilled mannerisms in her prose.”

  “I liked you better when you held your tongue. These raspberries are delectable, and one shouldn’t spoil good food with harsh words.”

  The duke gazed across the common, apparently at nothing in particular. An older couple sat at a table by the window sharing a meal in silence while they each read from a newspaper. A trio of young men did justice to a pitcher of ale closer to the door. Two maids were wiping down empty tables, and a boy with a tray collected dirty dishes.

  A scene like this would have fascinated a younger Edith for its plebian details. Nobody here carried a parasol, despite the brilliant sunshine outside. Nobody wore silk or lace at this establishment, but for the lace adorning His Grace’s cravat.

  “Your conclusion,” Edith said, “that an author of some skill penned the book, eliminates your cousin Antigone as a suspect. She can barely write her name.”

  His Grace buttered one of the four remaining slices of bread. “Her gifts lie more in the direction of social discourse and water colors.”

  Gallant of him, to defend a chatterbox who’d never had a governess worthy of the name. “Antigone knows everybody and is liked by all. She might have collaborated with a co-author.”

  The duke made two bread and butter sandwiches, using up every last dab of butter. “Now you toy with me. If we bring co-authors and collaborators into the equation, half of Mayfair might have written that infernal tome.”

  A pot of strong tea and some real victuals had taken the edge off of Edith’s foul mood, enough that she could make a dispassionate inspection of the man across the table.

  Emory carried a vague air of annoyance with him everywhere, a counterpoint to his luscious scent and fine tailoring. He doubtless had reason to be testy. His mama was a restless and discontented woman by nature, given to meddling and gossip. His younger brother was the typical spare waiting to be deposed by a nephew.

  Lord Jeremiah was a fribbling bon vivant for whom Edith had no respect, though she’d liked him well enough on first impression. His lordship had the gift of making anybody feel as if they were the sole focus of his attention and always would be. Perhaps fribbles developed that skill early.

  His Grace’s extended family called upon him mostly when they wanted something—a post for a young fellow completing the university education Emory had paid for, entrée at some fancy dress ball to which Emory would be invited as a matter of course.

  Never had Edith seen or heard the duke complain regarding his duties. He groused at length about the king’s financial irresponsibility, he lamented without limit the idiocy that passed for Parliament’s governance, and he had pointed opinions about women who wore enormous hats.

  But on his own behalf, he never complained, and he wasn’t complaining for himself now. How to Ruin a Duke was affecting his family, and Emory took their welfare very seriously indeed.

  “A co-author bears thinking about,” Edith said. “Your mother’s circle includes the set at Almack’s, and they’ve all but banished Lady Caroline for her literary accomplishments. If Her Grace wrote How to Ruin a Duke, she could hide behind the skirts of a collaborator or hack writer.”

  His Grace next began slicing up the uneaten portion of Edith’s steak. Perhaps he was one of those people who had to keep his hands busy, though in two years of sharing meals with him, she’d never noticed that about him.

  “Lady Caroline had worn her welcome thin in polite society long before she took up her pen,” Emory observed, “and for the viciousness of her satire, she deserved banishment. At least whoever decided to lampoon me left the rest of my friends and family unscathed.”

  “Which again suggests your mother, a cousin, or a rejected marital prospect. The author’s ire is personal to you, Your Grace.”

  He finished slicing the meat and set down the utensils. “Sir Prendergast made a scene at Tattersalls.” This recollection inspired Emory to a slight smile, more a change of the light in his eyes than a curving of his lips. The only time Edith had seen him truly joyous was on the occasion of becoming godfather to some new member of the extended family. No man had ever looked more pleased to have his nose seized in a tiny fist. No baby had ever been more carefully cradled in his godfather’s arms.

  The ceremony had gone forth, with the duke caught variously by the nose, the chin, or the gloved finger, and Edith feeling oddly enchanted by the sight.

  “Perhaps Sir Prendergast is your culprit.”

  “He found another fortune to marry. Once his bruises healed, I made it a point to introduce him to a few cits who wouldn’t mind seeing their daughter on the arm of a gallant knight.”

  Edith’s lemon cake was half gone. She stopped eating, lest she regret over-indulging. “Generous of you.”

  “Prudent. He dwells in the north now.”

  “Which does not rule him out as your nemesis.”

  His Grace raised a hand and the serving maid scampered over. “If you’d be so good as to wrap up the rest of this food, I’d appreciate it.”

  A common request, but the maid looked as if she’d never been given a greater compliment. “Of course, sir. At once.”

  “All of it,” he said. “Every morsel, and some plum tarts and cheese wouldn’t go amiss either. You know how hunger can strike two hours after a decent repast, and good food shouldn’t go to waste when a man of my robust proportions is on hand to enjoy it.”

  “Quite so, sir. Exactly. Waste not, want not. Ma says the same thing at least seventeen times a day. Eighteen, possibly.”

  The maid gathered up the plates while Edith tried not to watch. This was the best meal she’d eaten in ages, and Emory wasn’t having the leftovers boxed up for himself.

  “Thank you,” she said, when the maid had bustled off to the kitchen.

  His Grace looked at Edith directly, something she could not recall happening previously. Emory stalked through life, intent on pressing business. At the ducal residence he’d often been trailed by a secretary, solicito
r, footman, steward or butler, all of whom followed him about as he’d lobbed orders in every direction.

  At table, Emory tended to focus on the food, the wine, the appointments in the room.

  On the dance floor, he was so much taller than most of his partners, he usually stared past their shoulders.

  The full brunt of his gaze was unnerving. His eyes were brown, the deep, soft shade of mink in summer. They gave his countenance gravity, and Edith well knew those eyes could narrow on the deserving in preparation for a scathing setdown.

  His gaze could also, apparently, be kind.

  “Hunger makes me irritable,” he said. “I cannot think as clearly, I cannot moderate my words as effectively, and we mastodons require substantial fare on a regular basis. If you’ve finished, I’ll walk you home.”

  That was as close to an apology as a duke was likely to come, but Edith did not want him to walk her home. Foster might be there, and that would occasion questions such as only a nosy younger sibling could ask. He left the house each day “to look for work,” but no work ever found him, and matters were becoming dire.

  “That courtesy is not necessary, Your Grace. I appreciate the meal. Have you exonerated me of literary crimes against your person?” Edith never had borne him ill will—just the opposite—and no sane woman wanted a duke taking aim at her.

  “If you were clever—and you are—you would toss out other candidates to throw me off the scent.”

  He stood and offered Edith his hand, still bare because they hadn’t yet put their gloves back on. “What would my fate be, if I admitted to authorship of How to Ruin a Duke?”

  “I’d offer you a substantial sum to return to your needlepoint and gothic novels. We would sign an agreement giving me all right, title, and interest in any further literary works written by you or based on your recollections of my household, and society could move on to its next scandal.”

  His idea of a substantial sum would doubtless be enough to see Foster commissioned as an officer, but then what? A lady—a woman raised to privilege—had few means of earning any coin at all, and Edith regarded writing as her best option for remaining a lady in any sense.