The Duke She Despised
“Well, I’ve done it, George. I’ve dismissed the bastard.”
Andrew MacDonal, new Duke of Kinmarty, tugged at his neckcloth, tearing off the constricting cloth and tossing it aside.
His friend, the Honorable George Lovelace, handed him a glass of brandy, and raised his own in salute. “And just how bad are things, your grace?”
Andrew waved a hand at a desk scattered with ledgers. “Look for yourself. And cease with the ‘your-gracing’. Would that I was still plain Mr. Andrew MacDonal, enjoying my spartan bachelor rooms.”
George settled into the massive desk chair and moved the lamp closer.
Andrew poured himself another drink. “I’d hoped to leave before Hogmanay. But looking at those ledgers, looking at the condition of this old heap and the village—I’m guessing Kinmarty has had a rough go under Haskill’s stewardship.”
He should have been here to help the old duke. Why hadn’t he come?
Because he’d been too angry, too selfish, too utterly bereft after Evan’s departure for India. He’d filled his time with every jolly manly pursuit he could drum up—cards, women, drink, and pretended it was enough. And now he was truly, totally, completely bereft. Now he had no one at all, except the multitude of mouths dependent upon him.
“I’ll stay at least through Hogmanay and give the tenants a proper New Year’s celebration.” They’d have a grand bonfire, one that would honor the old duke and the duke who should have been, his brother, Evan. “Then I’ll find a competent factor to help sort out this tangle, and I’ll go south to see about finding money.”
Would that he could go back to his old life and wake up from this nightmare that had started with news of Evan’s death.
George opened a ledger. “You’ll be required to put on your robes and coronet and take your seat in the Lords.”
“Those fusty Scots nobles never cast a vote for Old Horace. Neither will they elect me to represent them in Lords.” Dear God, he hoped not.
“And then there’s the matter of an heir. You’ll need a proper wife for that. Preferably one with a fat dowry.”
“Bite your tongue.”
George smirked. “There’ll be plenty of stuffed purses willing to dangle their daughters for the title of duchess. And you’re a handsome devil, so the ladies of London tell me.”
“I was better off being an untitled devil.” He waved toward the books again. “So, what do you think?”
George and his brother were crack managers of their father’s wealth. George would have spotted in five minutes what had taken himself half the day to uncover.
“If it was only a factor you wanted, you might have left the old one in place. There isn’t much more for him to embezzle.”
“Bloody thief. How old Horace didn’t catch him…tight as a drum, the man was…”
George traced down a column of figures. “He’d been ill, you said.”
“Aye. I suppose that was it.” Old Horace had been a skinflint to beat them all. Looking at the books, he understood why. Poor rents, poor crops, and a village populated with shoy-hoys only fit to scare away birds.
He swiped a hand through his hair and went to throw on another one of the logs they’d scrounged, moving by rote. “Good of you to come along and offer moral support, George.”
George had been with him when the letter dooming him arrived. They’d been hoisting toasts to Old Horace upon his passing, and to the new duke, his brother Evan. He’d been drowning his guilt over his neglect of the old man and rejoicing that Evan would have to return from India. Then he and his brother could reconcile. He’d do whatever it took to make peace. He wanted his brother back.
The letter had dashed all his hopes.
He poured another brandy, trying to shake the bleak memories.
“Shall you call in the magistrate?”
“No. Haskill can claim the old duke knew all and approved. Or claim his own incompetence.”
“At least send an express to the bank and the solicitor letting them know what you’ve found. You might also reconsider your order to cancel the hiring of the housekeeper and butler. If you decide you must let the Castle, it might be more appealing to have staff in place. Not to mention, there’s much upkeep needed before you even consider offering it.”
“I’ll winkle out the old butler. He retired hereabouts. He might know of a competent replacement for Haskill.”
If he could convince the old butler, Forbes, to help him. His hand shook around the glass, and this time the brandy soured his stomach.
He was hungry, was all.
“What are we to eat tonight, George? I’m afraid my skills go no further than toasting some of that stale bread from the larder. You did far better with the eggs you discovered. For two farthings, I’d hand you this whole bloody dukedom and let you play cook, factor, and lord of the manor all in one.”
“Tut-tut. No self-pity, not with so many prime acres for stalking.”
Andrew glanced toward the window. Outside, thick snowflakes danced in the waning light. “And I shall grant you that stalking I promised, if you don’t mind being knee-deep in snow.”
A faint pounding started up. Andrew rubbed at his temple. “Another one of the bloody banging shutters that kept me up all night, do you suppose? Or might that be one of the legendary ghosts?”
George raised an eyebrow. “Or might it be someone at the door?”
Andrew tilted his head to listen, bile rising in him. “I locked Haskill out not a quarter of an hour ago and barred the door. Did the bastard forget something?” He looked around for his castoff neck cloth.
Never mind. If this was Haskill at the door, he wouldn’t risk bloodying the thing when he kicked the man out on his arse again.
Cold air overwhelmed him in the hall, the sort of damp chill oozed by a medieval pile left unheated for years.
He wished for his overcoat, flung over a chair in the study, since neither he nor George had brought so much as a groom.
They’d tended their horses themselves as well, and washed in the ice-cold buckets they’d had to carry up. George, though, had managed a shave and fresh linens, the pompous ass.
George wasn’t the one who’d been plunged into despair. George hadn’t just been encumbered with a crumbling castle and a bankrupt estate. George hadn’t just learned he’d lost his only brother months and months earlier to a fever.
Andrew rubbed at his chin. No neckcloth and two days-worth of beard—this had better not be a social caller.
He unbarred the door and yanked the heavy wood open.
In the half-light a woman stood, ramrod straight despite her shivering, swathed in dark wool.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I knocked at the servants’ door but no one answered.”
By God, she was an Englishwoman, and she didn’t speak like a servant.
Her wrap slipped, and he peered closer, his interest stirring. She was youngish, and from what he could see, attractive.
“I’m the new housekeeper.”
A blur of dark fur shot through the door and they both jumped.
“I believe that was a cat.” She peered around him.
“I’ve never seen it before.” The bloody thing scurried off toward the bowels of the Castle and out of sight.
“May I come in?” She cleared her throat. “No one is answering the servants’ door.”
A sharp gust of wind blasted him. He apologized, stepping back, watching her enter.
The heavy wrap outlined a shapely woman. She put him in mind of Mrs. Ramsey, Old Horace’s faithful housekeeper for so many years. ’Twas whispered that she had been more than a servant, and perhaps it was true given the old man’s sharp decline after her death.
The new housekeeper placed a valise and a basket on the black and white tile.
“Are these all your belongings, or have you left a driver out in the snow?”
“I walked and—”
“Walked? In this weather?” Either she was of hardy stock, or he’d soon have to call the apothecary to treat her.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve a trunk at the inn, to be brought up when the weather eases.”
He scoffed. “Next spring, then, perhaps.”
She sent him an arch look and slipped the shawl back from her head, taking a bonnet with it and revealing errant dark locks that curled about her cheeks and dangled on her shoulder.
Her attention traveled over the dark paneling and up to the painted cornice with its scenes of medieval knights and their ladies. She gasped. “It’s astonishing. Like…like a fairy tale castle.”
A fairy tale castle? Was she mad?
The scenes might have once fascinated his childish heart, but he’d outgrown such nonsense.
She leveled a gaze at him. “What is your name, young man?”
His name? He blinked. Young man? He was likely older than her.
A chuckle bubbled up, the first moment of lightness he’d experienced in days. She thought he was a servant. A servant in a fairy tale castle.
Well, well. How would a lackey behave toward an arriving housekeeper?
“Never mind.” She reached for her basket. “Just show me the way to the servants’—”
He snatched up the hamper. The aroma of stewed meat escaped from under the heavy cloth, making his mouth water. “You must first be introduced. Come along. The duke conducts business in the study.”
Her hand went to her disheveled hair. “I must—”
“You are fine as you are.” As he nudged her along, a beam of light caught her features.
His prickle of interest bloomed into full-fledged awareness. Full lips, porcelain skin, and a determined little chin—his new housekeeper was more than fine, and she spoke like a Mayfair matron. A youngish one. The urge to become better acquainted overwhelmed him.
Except, he was a duke now. Blast it. Why did Evan have to die and leave him this burden?
He reached up to tug his neckcloth and found it missing. Her frown showed she’d noticed, and that made him smile again.
“No one expected a bonny housekeeper.”
Dark eyes glinted at his impertinence.
So much for the letter he’d sent to cancel her hiring. He was keeping her, at least through Hogmanay.
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