Project Duchess Page 2

  Grey stared numbly at the words. Maurice, the only father he’d ever really known, was dead.

  Please come. I can’t do this without you.

  Holy hell, Mother must be devastated.

  Apparently, his distress showed in his face, for Vanessa snatched the letter and read it, then lifted a horrified gaze to him. “Oh, Grey, how awful. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he muttered, though he felt like a fraud. He’d barely seen Maurice since the family’s return from Prussia a few months ago. He had let his bitterness keep him away, and now it was too late.

  She was now rereading the letter with a furrowed brow. “Maurice . . . that would be Sheridan’s father, right? I suppose he will now become duke.”

  The odd note in her voice arrested him. “Sheridan? Since when are you so chummy with my half brother? You only met him once.”

  “We’ve met thrice actually,” she murmured. “We even danced together twice.”

  Uh-oh. Sheridan had best watch himself around Vanessa. When she fixed her affections on a man, she could really dig her teeth in. “Don’t tell me he’s the ‘poet’ you have your eye on.”

  His sharp tone made her glance up. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sheridan doesn’t have a poetic thought in his head.”

  She was right, but how had she known that? “You’ll have to call him Armitage now that he’s duke.”

  “All the more reason for me not to have an interest in him. I will never take a duke for my husband, no matter what Mama wants. You’re all too . . . too . . .”

  “Pompous and arrogant?”

  As if realizing she shouldn’t be insulting a man who’d just lost a close relation, she winced. “Something like that.” When he said nothing, she added, “You certainly have a number of dukes in your family.”

  “That’s what happens when one’s mother marries well three times.”

  “She’ll be leaving quite a dynasty behind her. Some would say that’s excellent planning.”

  “She didn’t plan on being widowed thrice, I assure you,” he said sharply.

  Vanessa looked stricken. “Of course not. I’m sorry, Grey, that was most thoughtless of me.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s . . . I’m just unsettled by the news.”

  “I’m sure. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  Grey didn’t answer, his mind having already seized on the reminder that Sheridan had become Duke of Armitage. Maurice had only been duke a few months, and now Sheridan was being forced to take up the mantle. His head must be reeling. Grey needed to be at Armitage Hall, if only to help Sheridan and Mother with the arrangements for the funeral on Tuesday.

  Wait, today was Sunday. But which Sunday? Damn it, had he already missed his stepfather’s funeral?

  “When did this letter arrive?” he asked.

  It was the maid who answered. “I believe it was this past Friday, Your Grace.”

  “That’s right,” Vanessa said. “Friday.”

  Armitage Hall was near the town of Sanforth. If he caught the footmen before they unpacked his trunk, Grey could be changed into his mourning clothes and back on the road in an hour. He’d easily reach Lincolnshire by tomorrow. “I must go,” he said, turning for the door.

  “I’ll go with you,” Vanessa said.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Grey snapped before her maid could protest. “You will go home as usual and tell your mother I wasn’t here. You have the perfect excuse for missing me this time. Just say I’d already been notified of my stepfather’s death and had left for Lincolnshire. Understood?”

  “But . . . but how could you have been notified if I hadn’t yet brought you the letter?”

  “Say that the servants told you I’d already received one here.” His common sense finally asserted itself. “Indeed, I probably have, since I haven’t looked at my mail yet. Mother wouldn’t have left anything to chance. She would have sent multiple notices.” No matter how distracted by grief she might be.

  Vanessa laid her hand upon his arm. “Grey, you need someone with you. You’re clearly upset.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He would, damn it. “Now go on with you. I have preparations to make before I can leave.”

  “Of course.” She nodded to her lady’s maid, who joined her. “I shall tell Mama of your loss. Perhaps that will keep her machinations to a minimum for a while.”

  “Somehow I doubt it.” He leaned close to whisper, “Take care with your poet, my dear. You deserve better.”

  She made a face. “I don’t suppose I’ll get a chance at him, anyway, now that you’re in mourning. Mama will make me wait to see anyone until you’re available again.”

  “Good. I shouldn’t like to think of you marrying someone beneath you while I’m not around to prevent it.”

  Tossing back her head, she walked toward the door. “There’s something to be said for marrying for love, you know. I swear, sometimes you remind me of Mama in your opinions about marriage.”

  With that parting sally, she waltzed out, with her maid trailing behind her.

  How ridiculous. He was nothing like Aunt Cora, that grasping harpy. He was merely sensible. Love didn’t enter his equations because it had no monetary value. When he married, it would be to some sensible woman who’d be content with having a wealthy dukedom at her disposal, who had no dreams of cloud castles and no hope for sentiment or love or any of that romantic nonsense from him.

  He had learned the hard way to guard his heart.

  Chapter Two

  Lincolnshire, England

  The Honorable Miss Beatrice Wolfe stood outside Armitage Hall surveying the entryway with a critical eye. The funeral escutcheon had been hung on the door—not crookedly this time—and the arches and windows were draped in black crape. It looked proper, the way it ought for a duke.

  She hadn’t taken such care with her uncle Armie, as she and her brother Joshua had always called the previous Duke of Armitage. Just the thought of Uncle Armie’s last years, of how he’d tried to paw at her or slap her behind every time she’d come to the hall, chilled her.

  By contrast, Uncle Maurice, who had inherited the dukedom after Uncle Armie’s death, had treated her with respect and kindness. He and her aunt Lydia had brought light and laughter and good times back to the hall.

  Now death hung over the place again. Tears welled in her eyes. Why, they’d only a week ago removed the black crape and funeral escutcheon signifying Uncle Armie’s death! Two dukes dead in a matter of months. It was a blasted shame. It really was.

  Her cousin Sheridan appeared in the doorway, looking like a wraith after the past few days. He’d been close to his father, and was taking his death harder than anyone except Aunt Lydia. No doubt it had hit Sheridan’s brother Heywood hard, too, but since Heywood was in the army and probably hadn’t even received word yet of his father’s demise, she wouldn’t know.

  Sheridan flashed her a wan smile. “Forgive me, Bea, for troubling you, but Mother asked me to check again to see if Grey has arrived.” He surveyed the drive beyond her. “I can see he has not. If he had, there’d be a monstrous grand traveling coach out here.”

  Beatrice laughed. She liked her cousin. At twenty-eight, he was only two years her senior, so she felt comfortable with him. None of the family stood on ceremony, but Sheridan in particular did not, though that would undoubtedly change. “You’ll have a monstrous grand coach yourself now that you’re Duke of Armitage.”

  “Probably not, actually.” A bleak sadness crept over his features. “The dukedom is in a bad state, I’m afraid. No money for grand coaches. With any luck, I can improve that, but it will take time. And I wasn’t expecting to inherit so soon.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. How is Aunt Lydia faring?”

  He sighed. “Not well. This has taken us all by surprise.” Shifting his gaze to the wood beyond the expansive lawns, he tensed. “Is . . . um . . . your brother planning on attending the funeral?”

  She swallowed. Jos
hua was difficult, to say the least. “I’m sure he will.” That was a lie. She couldn’t be sure of anything with him.

  But her words seemed to relieve Sheridan. “Good. We don’t see as much of him as we’d like.”

  “I wouldn’t see him if I didn’t live in the same house as he. Joshua isn’t fond of people.” To put it mildly. Not that she blamed him, given his circumstances, but she’d do her damnedest to convince him that attending the funeral was the least he owed to the new residents of Armitage Hall.

  Particularly to Sheridan, his new landlord, who could toss them out of their home, the former dower house, whenever he wished. Especially since Sheridan’s mother was now the dowager duchess and might prefer to live in the house that was hers by right.

  Beatrice wouldn’t think of that. “Is there anything more I can do to help Aunt Lydia?”

  “Conjure my half brother Grey up out of thin air?” He shoved a hand through his ash-brown curls. “Sorry.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  He uttered a harsh laugh. “I’m not. I can’t even be certain that he received Mother’s letters. Sometimes I think my brother has forgotten he even has a family. He’s too busy being the important Duke of blasted Greycourt.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Though she’d never met the “Duke of blasted Greycourt,” she’d read enough in the scandal sheets to know she wouldn’t like him. For one thing, he was said to have had several illicit liaisons with women, each more beautiful than the last, and that alone made her wary. It reminded her only too well of Uncle Armie.

  “Is it true what they said in the paper?” she asked. “That your brother runs a secret cabal of licentious bachelors?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Grey tells us nothing of what he’s doing. For all I know, he could be running charitable boards in his sleep.”

  “I doubt that,” she muttered, then realizing she was insulting his brother, added hastily, “but the business about the cabal does sound farfetched. Why keep it secret, for one thing? A duke can do whatever he wants with impunity, so why not have a regular cabal of debauchery? What’s a cabal, anyway? It sounds like a club. Is it a club? I mean—”

  It dawned on her that she was babbling as usual. Sheridan was certainly regarding her with amusement.

  She should stop. “Anyway, dukes are good at clubs. So it’s probably just a club.” One that kept the riffraff out. Because dukes were good at that, too.

  Especially Greycourt, from what she’d heard. He was richer than God, so he could afford whatever club he wanted. Supposedly, he’d gained his wealth by being ruthless in his business dealings, so he could also destroy whomever he wanted. That might be why society hung on his every word. Or perhaps it was because he rarely spoke without saying something of consequence.

  Despite her concern for her aunt, she rather hoped he didn’t come. Men like him exasperated her. Not that she met many of them way out here, but the few she’d encountered through Uncle Armie hadn’t left a good impression.

  Sheridan released a heavy breath. “Anyway, I fear I’ve dragged you into my annoyance at my brother, which I didn’t intend. You’ve already done so much to help us.” He waved vaguely at the windows. “All this. Handling the funeral arrangements. Keeping up with the household ledgers. What would we do without you?”

  The praise warmed her. Perhaps Sheridan wouldn’t be eager to kick her and Joshua out after all. “Thank you. I like being useful.” Especially to her aunt. Aunt Lydia was unlike any woman she’d ever met—full of vim and vigor, with a kind heart and a sharp mind. Rather like Sheridan.

  He nodded toward the entryway. “I’d best get back inside. Mother wanted me to choose the burial suit.” His throat moved convulsively. “She says she can’t bear to do it.”

  Poor man. “I can understand that. You’re a good son.”

  “I try to be.” He glanced down the drive again, and his face hardened. “Speaking of sons, let me know the moment Grey arrives, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  He started to walk inside, then paused. “One more thing. Mother wanted me to tell you that she intends to continue helping you prepare for your debut. It may just move more slowly.”

  “Oh!” Beatrice had forgotten about that. “Tell her not to bother with such a thing right now, for pity’s sake. I’ll be fine.”

  “Actually, Mother does better when she has a project to throw herself into. And she’s appalled that you never had the chance to be brought out properly in society. She intends to remedy that.”

  “It’s very kind of her.” Though it was also daunting. Beatrice felt more comfortable roaming the woods with the hunting dogs than roaming a ballroom. She hated having men assess her out-of-season attire, small breasts, and less-than-perfect features before dismissing her as unworthy of their attention.

  “Mother is only doing what’s right.” Sheridan watched her expression with cousinly concern. “We all know how lax Uncle Armie was in his duty toward you.”

  “Thank you.” If they thought he was only “lax” then it was a good thing they had no idea what her life had truly been like with him.

  She held her breath, praying that Sheridan said nothing more about Uncle Armie. When he continued on into the house, she relaxed. Having them all underfoot in the next few weeks might prove more complicated than she’d thought. She hoped that dealing with Uncle Maurice’s death kept them too busy to pry into her affairs. And Joshua’s. Especially Joshua’s, which even she didn’t have the courage to examine too closely.

  Thrusting that thought to the back of her mind, she took one more look at the exterior of the hall, then went inside. She sent a footman off to cover all the mirrors. That should have been done already, but Armitage Hall was woefully understaffed these days, and it was taking a while to get everything attended to in such a massive house.

  Next she turned her attention to the boxes of funeral biscuits delivered by the confectioner that morning. They needed to be laid out on a table in the foyer for the mourners to take as they left to join the funeral procession. She unpacked the boxes and began to arrange the biscuits, each of which was wrapped in white paper printed with images of death and sealed with black wax.

  The sight of so many little skulls, coffins, hourglasses, and crossbones arrayed on the table made her shudder . . . and remember. Caught up in memories of being ten years old and devastated at her own father’s funeral, she didn’t register the sound of footsteps until they were upon her.

  “What in God’s name are those ghastly things?” thrummed a deep male voice.

  She turned to find a stranger standing there, still wearing his greatcoat and hat, with his piercing gaze fixed on the table behind her. This must be the Duke of Greycourt, since his mourning clothes were very fine. She also noticed the family resemblance between him and Sheridan in the aquiline slope of his nose, the color of his eyes—like shattered green bottles—and the height of his brow.

  Not to mention his height in general. Although Beatrice was considered tall for a woman, Greycourt must have several inches on her at least. His height and attire and severe features were imposing, and undoubtedly intimidating to most women.

  Not her. She was used to dealing with the arrogance of lords.

  He shifted his frosty gaze to her. “Well?” he demanded. “What are those?”

  “They’re funeral biscuits,” she said stiffly, put off by his manner. “It’s the custom hereabouts to provide them to mourners along with a glass of port.”

  “Is it, indeed?” he said, removing his costly beaver hat. “Or is it just something the local undertaker uses to plump up his bill for people like my mother? I’ve never heard of such a custom.”

  “Oh, well then, if you’ve never heard of the custom, it must not exist,” she said, unable to govern her temper. “Anything that doesn’t happen in London is insignificant to your sort, isn’t it?”

  The remark seemed to take him aback, as well it ought, given that she should never
have said such a thing to a man who was grieving. Why oh why had she spoken her mind? She usually tried to restrain that impulse, but it was hard when the duke was being such an arse.

  Don’t use the word “arse,” even in your head. Thanks to her brother, that was her other problem: a tendency to curse like a sailor. At least she hadn’t cursed aloud.

  To her surprise, amusement glinted in his eyes. Which she realized, now that they were fixed on her, weren’t green, but a cerulean blue, as if nature had twirled the blue of his mother’s eyes with the green of his half brother’s to produce an unearthly hue all its own.

  It unsettled her. As did the disarming smile Greycourt flashed at her, which softened the sharp angles of his face. “I take it you are not the daughter of the local undertaker that I mistook you for.”

  This time she did resist the urge to rail at him. For pity’s sake, an undertaker’s daughter? A pox on him! “No, I am not,” she said icily.

  His smile widened, though it didn’t yet reach his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”

  “Clearly you prefer to make your own assumptions.” Oh, Lord, there she went again, saying whatever came into her head.

  Greycourt chuckled. “So it’s to be a guessing game, is it?” His gaze drifted down her in a glance that assessed her attire without making her feel as if he were gawking at her feminine attributes, such as they were. “Well, you’re clearly not a servant. No servant would dress so well.”

  “You’re too kind, sir,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Her tone got a laugh out of him. “Come now, tell me who you are, for I swear I’m at a loss. And I begin to think I’d like to know the answer.”

  Uh-oh.

  At that moment, she was saved by the approach of none other than Sheridan. “Grey!” he cried. “You did come! Mother will be so pleased.”

  Greycourt clapped his half brother on the shoulder with obvious affection. “How is she?”

  Sheridan sighed. “She’ll be better now that you’re here.”

  Was that guilt that crossed Greycourt’s face? If so, it softened her toward him. A little, anyway.