The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy) Read online

  “Why, that dog!” Stevenage huffed, rising up and attempting to intercede.

  Newcomb pulled him back down.

  Flora giggled into her hands.

  “What’s he doing?” Stevenage whispered some moments later when the Duke had made no further advance. His Grace just kind of listed there, smashing Miss Honeywell against the wall, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

  Then they all heard the unmistakable sound of snoring.

  Miss Honeywell let the Duke crumple to the ground – not that Newcomb blamed her – kicked him in the shins, and ran away in distress.

  Newcomb slapped his forehead and muttered an oath. The bloody oaf had fallen asleep in the middle of a seduction.

  Not well done at all.

  They stepped out of the shrubbery and approached the slumbering Duke. Newcomb nudged his shoulder with his boot. He didn’t stir.

  “He’s bloody well knocked out,” he concluded. He himself had been more conscious after ten rounds in the boxing ring.

  “What’re we gonna do now?” Stevenage murmured. “He just cocked things up royally with Miss Astrid.”

  “Aye, but she were liking it well enough ‘til then,” Flora said with amusement.

  Newcomb scratched his head. Only one thing was still clear to him. He couldn’t let the Duke leave until he fell in love with Miss Honeywell.

  “He’ll be in the devil of a temper tomorrow, and all afire to leave,” Newcomb said.

  “Well, we can’t let him,” Stevenage declared.

  Newcomb and Stevenage had come to a mutual understanding down at the festival today after witnessing the argument between the Duke and Miss Honeywell, as well as its unlikely result.

  The Duke had clearly met his Waterloo, and it was about damned time.

  Now they only needed the Duke to realize he had already lost the war.

  That meant more time in Miss Honeywell’s company.

  “Well,” he said, bending over to heave Montford up, “we can’t leave him here. Grab his legs, Roddy.”

  Roddy hunkered down and grabbed Montford’s ankles. “Where’re we taking him?”

  Newcomb braced Montford’s torso against his chest. “Heard Miss Honeywell was off to Hawes tomorrow. ‘Twould be a shame to let her go alone, don’t you think?”

  Stevenage sniggered so hard he nearly dropped Montford’s legs.

  Flora shook her head and helped Stevenage with one of His Grace’s ankles. Her eyes danced with merriment, her spectacular bosom jiggled with exertion as she helped haul the Duke of Montford to his fate. Newcomb could see why Stevenage had elected to remain in Rylestone. “Oh, this is terrible naughty, ain’t it?” she whispered without the slightest trace of remorse.

  “Remember, we’re doing it for their own good,” Newcomb said solemnly.

  They found Monford a bed for the night, but it wasn’t in the castle, and soon it wouldn’t even be in Rylestone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MEANWHILE, BACK IN LONDON…

  AT THE precise hour Montford fell across Aunt Anabel, dislodging her wig, Lady Katherine, Marchioness of Manwaring, was encountering her own bit of mayhem several hundred miles away in London. She discreetly pulled her skirt hem out of the way of three pairs of tiny feet as Lady Victoria, aged five, was pursued by her twin cousins, the Ladies Beatrice and Laura, aged six, in a lively game of tag in the formal drawing room of the Earl of Brinderley’s London residence.

  Katherine winced when the game terminated in a loud crash. One of the Earl’s prize Chinese vases was shattered.

  So was the Countess of Brinderley’s patience with her eldest child and nieces. A harried nurse was summoned, and the children were packed off to the nursery, a course of action Katherine would have prescribed fifteen minutes before when the matching vase had suffered a similar fate at the other end of the room.

  But the Countess was an indulgent (i.e. inconsistent) mother, and let her children run riot, especially when their cousins visited. The Countess’ nieces were famously unmanageable, and Elaine professed herself unequipped to discipline them. Such a task was, she claimed, more exhausting than simply letting them run amok.

  That point was debatable, as the Countess was looking quite exhausted at the moment, reclining on the divan, fanning her flushed face. Katherine suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Elaine had been possessed of a theatrical streak ever since they were girls together at school.

  If Katherine had children, she would not have raised them in such a haphazard manner.

  But she hadn’t any children and never would.

  The pain of this fact was always significantly lessened after a visit to the Countess’. Her children were a cautionary tale.

  Elaine sighed again and munched on her biscuit. “I’m quite put out with Marlowe, fobbing the twins on me while he’s off in Cornwall with you-know-who doing god-knows-what.”

  Katherine could only guess what the latter euphemism was meant to include – no doubt drinking, carousing, and cavorting with loose women, the Viscount’s usual regimen when he repaired to the country – which, incidentally, was the same regimen he employed in the city. The you-know-who was easier to pinpoint. Mr. Sherbrook, the Viscount’s bosom friend, was always referred to by such a code in her presence. Owing to the estrangement between her husband and his nephew, it was considered de trop to speak Sherbrook’s name to her face. As if it would somehow offend her sensibilities, which it would most certainly not. Mr. Sherbrook himself offended her, not his name.

  Elaine, quite recovered, now the children were packed off, sat up with alacrity and refilled her teacup. “Now, tell me how fares your upcoming event at St. George’s?”

  Katherine had been wondering how long it would take Elaine to mention her sister’s wedding. “My sister and mother assure me everything is going famously.”

  The wedding was sure to be the social event of the year, if not the decade. Everyone, her mother had told her in that disapproving, slightly anxious tone she used whenever she addressed her eldest daughter, was well-pleased with how things had turned out.

  Everyone but Araminta. But Katherine knew her parents well enough not to confront them about this small hitch to their grand schemes. Her own marriage was proof of how well such opposition worked upon her father. No, a subtler game must be played in her sister’s case, if she was to escape this marriage and marry her Mr. Morton.

  Katherine held no romantic notions of true love between Araminta and Mr. Morton. And she didn’t think Mr. Morton, a younger son who fancied himself a poet, was the better man. In fact, she didn’t like her sister’s choice of mate any better than she did their parents’. Katherine was determined to help her sister for one reason only, and that was to vex her father. Not very noble or kind of her, but there it was.

  She hated her father.

  He hated everyone.

  And this time, Lord Carlisle could not punish her for thwarting his will, as she was a married woman.

  Katherine smiled into her teacup. She couldn’t wait for the day when her father discovered what she had done. “It shall be a wonderful wedding, Elaine. I do hope you’re well enough to attend.”

  Elaine’s gaze narrowed on Lady Katherine. “You are up to something, aren’t you?”

  Lady Katherine’s smile deepened. “Oh, I’m always up to something, Elaine. It is just most of the time no one notices.”

  Lady Elaine returned Katherine’s smile with a sly grin and pointed her fan in her direction. “Ah, but then I’ve known you for years and years. Your eyes always give you away. They sparkle when you’re scheming.”

  “I am not scheming,” she protested.

  “Ah, well, I shall not press you. I suppose I shall simply sit back and discover for myself what all of the twinkling is about.”

  “I suppose you shall,” Katherine murmured into her tea.

  At that moment, a servant entered, bearing a letter on a silver salver. He bowed over Elaine’s seat. “A letter delivered by courier, my lady.
”

  Elaine was immediately diverted. “Who could be sending a note by courier? Unless it is Marlowe, telling me he cannot come home today. In which case I shall be most annoyed …” She stared at the seal and her eyes widened. “How very very odd, my dear Katie, it’s from Montford.”

  Katherine refilled her tea and ate a biscuit, trying to look discreetly uninterested in the letter, while Elaine ripped the missive open and read the contents, tsking in disbelief now and then at something she’d read.

  At length, she lowered the document and gave Katherine a perplexed, considering look. “Did you know His Grace was in Yorkshire?”

  “I had heard he’d taken a trip, but I assume he had returned, since the wedding is in a fortnight.”

  “No, he’s in Yorkshire. A place called–” she referenced the letter “—Rylestone Green. Never heard of it. Most irregular.”

  “Yes, it sounds very irregular.”

  “He writes to me that he has come into the possession of four cousins.”

  Katherine arched her eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  “Four female cousins. Two of them of marriageable age. He asks me to sponsor them for a Season.”

  How very interesting.

  The Countess sighed in exasperation. “I can’t figure out what he’s thinking. The Season is over. We shall have to wait for next year, unless he means for me to present them during the Little Season. Which shall be impossible to pull off if they need proper wardrobes, which, judging from what he says of these … ahem, country misses … they shall. And then there are bonnets, hats, shoes, and deportment lessons. Can you imagine? Men never think of such details. Besides which, I am in a delicate way and cannot be bothered with such a monumental undertaking,” Lady Elaine continued, patting her belly significantly, smiling a secret, smug smile.

  “Not again, Elaine. So soon after the last?” The Countess was always enceinte, which never failed to surprise her acquaintances, who were also acquainted with the introverted earl. Brinderley was more interested in his coin collection than his wife. Except, it seemed, in the bedroom.

  “Brinderley wants his heir, and I’m obliged to indulge him,” the Countess said, looking not at all upset by her duty.

  “Well, that is wonderful news.”

  Elaine’s smile faded as she glanced down at the letter. “Four country females from some unknown locale, relatives he didn’t even know he had! Goodness me, this is all quite distressing!

  Katherine too was quite astounded, though her outward façade did not reveal this. She didn’t know Montford well – no one did – but she was acquainted with him enough to find this behavior a complete about-face. Montford writing to the Countess, attempting to fob off four poor relations, was an inconceivable development.

  “I fear something horrible has befallen him,” the Countess murmured, echoing Katherine’s own drift of thoughts. “He sounds very unlike himself. And the worst of it is, he expects me to drive up to this Riverstone place myself and fetch these girls.” Lady Elaine sniffed and tossed aside the letter. “Montford is so used to having his way. But I will not do it, Katie. I cannot. I mean, look at me.”

  Elaine indicated her person, which looked healthy, plump, and dressed impeccably in the latest fashion, with nary a wrinkle or stain in sight.

  Katherine, seeing an opportunity to further her own plans, came heroically to her friend’s aid. “Perhaps I could go in your stead. I am soon to become Montford’s sister-in-law, after all.”

  Elaine seized upon this idea with enthusiasm. “Yes! Yes! It’s a wonder he didn’t ask you to begin with!” Elaine grimaced at the end of this outburst, knowing full well why Montford hadn’t written Lady Katherine.

  Because of you-know-who.

  Neither lady mentioned this, however, and Katherine continued, “I can leave at first light, as he has indicated such urgency.”

  “Yes, yes. First light. Just the thing. His tone is very strange, Katie. I think it best if you fetch him back too.”

  “I shall take Araminta with me.”

  Elaine’s eyes widened. “Do you think you should? I mean, of course you should. The wedding and all. But what if …”

  “What if what?”

  Elaine waved away whatever she’d been about to say. “Oh, nothing. Just that his writing was most odd. Do you know, Katie, he used adjectives?” she asked in a low tone.

  Lady Katherine failed to see the import of this pronouncement, but clearly it meant something monumental to her friend.

  “He never uses adjectives. Here, look,” she said, jabbing the letter into Lady Katherine’s hands and pointing to a line. “See how he describes the eldest gel.”

  Lady Katherine read dutifully. “‘Forward, argumentative, blue-stocking.’ Hmm. Do you know, Elaine, but I quite like the sound of this chit.”

  “You can be sure His Grace doesn’t. He never describes things. Something strange is going on up there, mark my word.”

  “Who are these creatures, I wonder.”

  “Honeywell is their surname.”

  Lady Katherine folded up the letter and handed it back to Elaine, careful not to let her surprise show. She knew enough of her family’s buried history to know exactly who these Honeywell chits had to be. Her distant cousins.

  The cousins her father would never have her know existed.

  How very, very interesting. She was glad she had stopped in for tea today.

  Yes, a trip to Yorkshire sounded in order. Just the thing, perhaps, to solve all of her problems.

  She set aside her tea and rose. “I shall take my leave to prepare for the journey.”

  Elaine was surprised by her easy agreement to the scheme and rose to see her out. “It is so good of you to take this upon yourself. I do not think the Duke would disapprove. Indeed, how could he not? His fiancé and sister should be the ones to take these Honeywell chits in hand, anyway.” She pursed her lips. “Besides, it’s not as if Manwaring is even in the country. Certainly the Duke can’t object to your patronage on that particular ground.”

  Katherine inclined her head. “We shall see.”

  Elaine furrowed her brow and caught Katherine’s hand. “Do be careful, my dear. The roads are dangerous this time of year, and Yorkshire, of all places!”

  “Yorkshire? Yorkshire? What’s all this talk of Yorkshire?” boomed a voice in the doorway.

  Lady Katherine turned towards the owner of that basso profundo and stiffened.

  It was the Viscount Marlowe. He was rumpled beyond repair with several days’ worth of beard growing on his chin. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week – nor changed his clothes. His cravat was missing and his waistcoat hung open over the swell of his gut. He appeared to be wearing bedroom slippers.

  When he saw her, he looked startled and a little chagrined, and he attempted to tuck in the hem of his shirt into the back of his pants.

  Lady Elaine grinned at her brother and rushed over to greet him in the French style. No matter their differences, the Viscount was Lady Elaine’s favorite sibling. No one else in her family could stand him.

  Marlowe feigned disgust at this emotional display, and told his sister to leave off gruffly, wiping the kisses from his cheeks. “What’s this about Yorkshire?” he repeated. Lady Katherine was shocked he had kept his train of thought. Marlowe wasn’t known for his brain.

  “Lady Katherine is traveling there tomorrow, my dear, on an errand for me.”

  “Oh.” His brow creased as if struggling with a real thought. Suspicion dawned across his florid features, and his eyes narrowed on Katherine.

  Katherine didn’t wait for explanations. She moved towards the door. “I must take my leave. I’ll see myself out, Elaine. Stay and talk with your brother.”

  She shut the door behind her and shook her head. The Viscount was more than Katherine cared to deal with at the moment. Insufferable, rude, crude. A more unmannerly buffoon she had yet to encounter. Worse, he couldn’t hold a serious thought in his head for the time it took him to d
raw a breath. Though he had seemed serious about wanting to know why she was going to Yorkshire. Doubtless he knew where the Duke was and didn’t want her or her family to know. The Viscount had made it obvious on several occasions how little enthusiasm he had for the match between his best mate and her sister.

  If only the Viscount knew that they were in complete sympathy on this matter. But she couldn’t explain this to him and have all of her own plans ruined.

  She thanked the butler for her gloves and bonnet and headed down the long hallway to make her exit, mentally preparing a list for the journey.

  A noise down one of the connecting corridors stopped her progress. It was the sound of a child’s giggle, followed by the low, easy laughter of a man.

  She turned and her breath hitched, as it always did, at the sight of Sebastian Sherbrook. She should have known he would have accompanied the Viscount on his errand, since they were notoriously inseparable. He was clad outrageously, as usual, in a robin’s egg blue silk jacket and yellow waistcoat, his hands nearly hidden by the lace spilling from his sleeves, and his fingers encrusted in jewels. A dozen or so ornate watch fobs criss-crossed his chest. He was currently leaning forward and dangling one of them just out of reach of one of the twin’s hands.

  He looked ridiculous, but Lady Katherine suspected that he knew this quite well. He dressed to excess because he lived to excess. His cravat was in disarray, and his over-long ebony hair was brushed hastily back from his face, which was shadowed by a beard and dark, cavernous circles under his eyes, giving him a faintly bruised look. If Marlowe looked as if he’d not slept in a week, Mr. Sherbrook looked as if he never slept at all.

  Nevertheless, when he noticed her at the opposite end of the corridor and turned those startling, jaded sapphire eyes onto her, his smile fading into blank nothingness, Lady Katherine could not breathe. She could not move.

  He was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.

  They did not mix socially, obviously, and she could count the number of times on one hand she had actually seen him in company. But she remembered all of those times quite distinctly, remembered every detail of these sightings, for reasons she dared not examine too closely.