The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Read online

  “Hurt! You must know that I think you in possession of the finest mind in all of England. That doesn’t mean I cannot marvel at it from time to time. Nor should you fly into a miff if one of these days, something does not go according to plan.”

  “Such as the reason you stalked in here in high dudgeon this morning?”

  “I shall ignore the gibe about ‘high dudgeon’ and inform you of the problem at once, before another thirty servants march about like pawns upon your chessboard. Cousin Blaylock had declined our invitation because his wife is increasing, but I’ve just got a note saying that they’ll be arriving after all, and are only a posting-house away. They’ll be here within the hour.”

  “That’s hardly a catastrophe. He’s the most kindhearted parson of my acquaintance, and his young wife is a dream.”

  “Did you not hear me say she’s also increasing? Blaylock’s note says she wishes to join us for luncheon, but her stomach cannot abide the sight or smell of fish. I’m guessing salmon is one of the very things the kitchens have spent the morning preparing.”

  “An exceedingly good guess.” Salmon was her brother’s favorite dish, and since he attended luncheons so infrequently, Amelia strove to always have it present when he did. “Just a moment, please.”

  Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, hurried toward them from down the corridor. She dipped a curtsey when she reached the parlor. “You rang, my lady?”

  Ravenwood narrowed his eyes at Amelia. “You rang? When did you ring? I’ve been standing right next to you!”

  “She rang a quarter past, I’m afraid.” The housekeeper’s cheeks flushed. “There was a small to-do with Miss Catalini’s tea, but it is all settled now.”

  “You did quite right by attending to our present guests first,” Amelia thanked her warmly. “Now then. Please instruct the cook that we will substitute sirloin of beef instead of fish at luncheon today. The rest of the dishes will remain unchanged. I trust there will be no problem?”

  “None at all, my lady. The beef is very nearly done already, and I must say it all smells delightful. Your guests will be quite pleased.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brown. That is all.”

  Ravenwood held up his hands. “When did you— How—?”

  “The moment I read Aunt Blaylock’s letter.” Amelia gestured at the neatly stacked piles of correspondence atop the cherrywood table as she settled into her wingback chair. “Do have a seat.”

  He sank into the chair opposite as if he barely registered its presence. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  Amelia laughed. “Reams of things. I haven’t the least idea how many attend Parliament, for example, or what the new issues will be for 1816. That is your domain. But I do consider it my responsibility to know everything there is to know about anything that could be considered my domain. I believe I am quite adept at the management of people and events.”

  His green eyes twinkled. “You’ve certainly managed me since the day I was born.”

  “I was but three years old when you were born,” she protested. “I didn’t start managing you for at least another year.”

  Before her brother could reply, the underbutler strode into the parlor with a tray bearing two biscuits and a single glass of port.

  Ravenwood’s shock gave way to humor. “You’re drinking spirits now? I would too if I had to play puppet-master all day in this household. In fact, it’s quite bad of you not to have at least ordered a matching glass for me. I do intend to steal one of those biscuits. Cinnamon raisin is my favorite.”

  The butler presented him with the tray. “For you, my lord.”

  Ravenwood cut his gaze to his sister. “You can’t be serious.”

  She arched a brow. “As it happens, the staff is on standing order to bring this specific refreshment at once, should you enter the yellow parlor while I am managing my household duties.”

  The butler gave her a bow. “It would have been much sooner, my lady, had we not also been in the midst of seeing to Miss Catalini. I do beg your pardon.”

  “As do I. I love these biscuits.” Ravenwood took an appreciative bite. “But why a glass of port?”

  She widened her eyes. “So that you feel welcome in my little cave.”

  “That is to say, why so few biscuits and only one glass? Why not a dozen biscuits and the port decanter?”

  She smiled wickedly. “So that you do not overstay your welcome.”

  He laughed and held up the glass in salute. “To the best sister a brother could have!”

  She grinned back at him, thrumming with satisfaction.

  Despite his levity, no one took duty more seriously than the Duke of Ravenwood. He’d inherited the title whilst still at Eton and, like her, had spent the rest of his life devoted to exceeding expectations. In fact, the only duty she could think of that he hadn’t thrown himself into wholeheartedly was his duty to beget an heir.

  Her throat dried as her guilt came back. To beget an heir, he would first require a wife. And the most logical reason for her duty-oriented brother not to have acquired a bride was because he believed his first loyalty lay with his sister. Not just because she was (slightly) older and could have been married off years ago, but because her entire life consisted of running this household. If he were to marry, that job necessarily must go to his duchess—leaving Amelia in the cold.

  Rubbish, of course, but just the sort of romantical reasoning her brother would come up with. There was only one way to disabuse him of such a loyal but wrongheaded notion. It was time to put off the inevitable. She loved sharing a home with her brother, but could not keep standing in the way of his future happiness.

  She had to get a husband.

  But where to begin? She stretched her slippered toes toward the fire as she considered the problem anew. Her thirtieth birthday was coming up fast—the day after Christmas! Good heavens. A young lady in her twenties sounded ever so much more marriageable than a spinster in her thirties. Nothing for it. She’d simply have to bring a suitor up to scratch before Boxing Day.

  She reached for a large leather volume that always rested within easy reach of her correspondence: Debrett’s Peerage. The perfect resource for thinning the chaff. A fortnight should be plenty of time to make a selection.

  Her brother glanced up from his second and final biscuit. “What are you reading?”

  “Catalog.”

  As expected, his attention immediately returned to savoring the last biscuit. If that was the pinnacle of happiness in the man’s life, then by God, was he in want of wife! She would turn her mind to him next, but not until she was no longer his perceived responsibility.

  She opened the Peerage to the first page. The book did not include likenesses of the peers of the realm, but physical beauty was not something that interested her. Nor was the state of a man’s coffers. She would bring her husband a sizable dowry, made all the more impressive due to her having removed it from the five percents at a young age, choosing her own stocks for the principal and investing the interest elsewhere. The already grand sum had tripled over the past decade alone.

  It was time to find someone to spend it on. She flipped through the pages. Earls, marquesses, dukes...What was her pleasure?

  She had, of course, studied the matter thoroughly. A title was important insofar as planning for the futures of any offspring. Young people who were called Lady This and Lord That quite simply had more advantages than those who were not. Which meant barons and viscounts need not apply.

  Nor would it do to be bored. While the gold in her husband’s pockets was immaterial, a large household was paramount. While her spouse was off doing lordly things, she would pit her wits toward restructuring their household as efficiently as possible. Once it fairly ran itself, she would set about providing heirs, who would doubtlessly offer a lifetime’s worth of situations to be managed. Just think of all the strange new problems she’d be likely to face! Absolutely brilliant.

  “That’s not a catalog.” Her brother set asid
e his empty glass and plate to peer across the maplewood table. “Why the devil are you reading Debrett’s Peerage?”

  “It most certainly is a catalog, and the most expedient one at my disposal. I’ve decided to take a husband. His name must be within these pages.”

  “You can’t husband-hunt in a book!”

  “Perhaps you cannot. I intend to make a sensible match. How do you feel about the Duke of Lambley? Relations of his are diplomats somewhere in China. I can’t think of anything more practical than a marital alliance with ties to the Silk Road.”

  “Lambley?” Ravenwood exploded. “I forbid you from even considering an unrepentant rake such as—What am I saying? Do not suck me into your stratagems, Machiavelli. I will not be involved.”

  “Machiavelli was a narrow-minded egoist, and I’ll thank you not to compare us a second time. I should be shocked to discover ‘self-centered’ among the words that best describe me.”

  “Don’t fly into one of your starts, I was just quizzing you. If you were at all self-centered, it wouldn’t have taken you thirty years to come up with the idea of getting married.”

  “Twenty-nine, puppy!”

  “Nonetheless, while I recognize that I cannot fathom by what means you realize your various plans, I cannot think that one’s life love is to be found within the pages of a book.”

  She snorted. “You might be susceptible to poetry and long walks in the garden. Falling in love is for people who don’t know how to plan. But if you insist I apply my efforts toward men I already know, I shall choose from among your friends. The Earl of Carlisle might do. I hear his estate is an absolute nightmare.”

  “You stay away from the dukes of war!” he thundered. “I would not have any one of them toss their handkerchief at my sister.”

  Dukes of war, indeed. Trust Ravenwood to coin such a flowery phrase—and use it so disparagingly. “I thought they were your closest friends?”

  His eyes shuttered. “They were.”

  “Ease your mind. I’m not a debutante whose head is turned by a pretty face and smart regimentals. I’m looking for someone less...elemental.” She held up the Peerage. “I obviously won’t know which of these fine gentlemen is to be my future husband for at least another week, but you cannot deny it is an excellent resource for trimming the names down to a manageable list.”

  “And then what? Gad about knocking on doors?”

  “Of course not! First impressions are key. Which means an elaborate gown, an intricate hairstyle, and dim ballroom lighting.”

  Ravenwood leaned back in his chair. “Are you saying you’ll contrive to get all these paragons of eligible bachelorhood under one roof?”

  “That unparalleled efficiency has already been done for me. In twelve days, everyone in this book will be at the Sheffields’ seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball.” She set down the Peerage in order to flip through the tallest stack of correspondence. She frowned when she could not easily find what she sought. “The invitation must be in here somewhere...Viscount Sheffield always sends them out by the first of December, and today is the twelfth.”

  “Well, you’re half right. Today is the twelfth. But there’s not going to be a seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball this year.”

  “What do you mean, ‘this year’? This is the only year he can have a seventy-fifth annual ball. Next year would be the seventy-sixth, which won’t count a button if he skips years willy-nilly in-between.”

  Ravenwood shook his head. “Not willy-nilly. Canceling wasn’t his choice.”

  “Oh, stuff. He’s only the viscount, and the sole master of his affairs. Does the holiday conflict with his pleasuring this year? I’ve heard he’s quite a rattle for hunting parties or Gentleman Jackson’s. Don’t tell me he’d rather spend the evening at some gaming hell than continue tradition.”

  “I can’t rightly say where he’d rather be, but the man loves parties. A stroke of lightning took the matter right out of his hands. You can claim his family’s holiday party as a London institution all you wish, but the orchestra stage is nothing more than ashes and the whole of the interior stinks of smoke.”

  “When did this occur?” she demanded. “I didn’t hear a word.”

  “A fortnight ago. He kept it out of the papers. Between the weather and the holidays, renovation won’t be completed until spring.”

  She sniffed. “I’m sure I could have had it ready by Christmas, had I been consulted when the incident first occurred.”

  Her brother laughed. “You mean if you had any say whatsoever in Viscount Sheffield’s business? In any case, it’s too late now. You said it yourself—even you couldn’t restore the venue in time for Christmas.”

  She arched a brow. “Who said the soirée needs to take place in the same old ballroom? All we need is a new venue.”

  “We?” Ravenwood reared back, horrified.

  “Not you, dear brother. Viscount Sheffield and I.”

  “Does the poor flat even know who you are?” Ravenwood burst out.

  Her smile turned calculating. “He’s about to.”

  “It’s impossible!” Her brother gestured wildly. “It’s not just a question of venue. It’s finding a great number of staff to work the holiday, an exorbitant amount of food, an army of chefs to prepare it, an orchestra for dancing, any number of other entertainments, all at the last minute, then sending out handwritten invitations to everyone in that cursed book of yours informing them of the new details and praying they haven’t made alternate plans...” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Amelia. It would take more than a miracle. There’s only twelve days left.”

  She pushed to her feet. “Then there’s no time to lose.”

  Chapter 2

  Benedict St. John, Viscount Sheffield, had a complicated relationship with his pocket watch.

  He wasn’t married to it, of course. Besides being a silly notion, he still held the same view on marriage as he had for the past five-and-thirty years: Not yet. He simply had no time for a wife.

  No, the problem—or the joy, depending on one’s vantage point—of his relationship with his pocket watch was that eight o’clock occurred twice a day. Benedict cleaved to that magic number, for it demarcated two very different aspects of his life.

  From eight in the morning to eight in the evening, he was focused, take-no-prisoners Lord Sheffield, with nary a second’s thought spared on women or horseflesh or merrymaking. At precisely eight in the evening, however, the sands shifted.

  Woe betide the fool who brought business matters to Benedict’s ears during the precious hours when he distanced himself from the relentless weight of his duties as lord! For as assiduously as he focused his entire being on taxes and tenants and politics and land during his working hours, he threw himself just as wholly and as recklessly into mind-numbing entertainments during his evening hours.

  It was the only way he could be breakfasted and at his desk by eight of the clock every single morning. He just had to throw every fiber of his being into his affairs until the clock tolled eight, whereupon he could finally throw every fiber of his being into his...well, also his affairs. The more pleasurable kind. Which he oughtn’t be thinking about at the moment, because there was almost half an hour of office time left. If he kept his mind sharp, he could balance one more table of accounts before heading to the theater, where he intended to select a new mistress for a private season of off-stage performances.

  Accounts. Right. Focusing, he dipped his pen into the standish and began totaling the first row of sums. He made it through the first few pages before his butler appeared in the doorway.

  Benedict frowned. No one called upon him during working hours without prior arrangement. “Yes, Coombs?”

  “I’m afraid there’s a Lady Amelia Pembroke here to see you, my lord. She was most insistent.”

  “I trust you informed her that I was not receiving, and refused to let her in?”

  “Of course.” Coombs hesitated before continuing, “She said she would simp
ly wait until you are receiving.”

  Benedict put down his pen. “Wait where, pray?”

  “Upon the front step, my lord. I’m afraid the lady brought...the lady brought...a book. She cannot be budged.”

  Benedict tilted his head, impressed. Rather than attempt to barge her way in, she’d come prepared to wait him out—on the front stair, where every eye in every townhouse in the whole crescent was likely watching her. Intrigued despite himself, he tugged at his fob and checked the time on his watch.

  A quarter ’til eight. Damn.

  “Did the lady mention whether she was calling for business or for pleasure?”

  “Both, my lord.”

  He coughed. “Both?”

  “She would not elaborate. She said...she said explaining the intricacies of her design to a butler would be a waste of both our valuable time, and that each of us would operate far more efficiently minding the tasks in which we’re experienced. Then she pulled out a book and a pair of spectacles and sat down on the front step to read.”

  Benedict mentally canceled his plans for the theater. He loved actresses, found them endlessly diverting in fact, but was forced to admit he’d never once been intrigued by one. They were beautiful, simple creatures, which was precisely what he liked about them. After a long day of arguing in the House of Lords or negotiating business contracts or managing tenant properties, he liked to disconnect his brain and let the rest of his body reign for a few hours.

  At least, he’d always thought he liked that. He was beginning to suspect he liked being intrigued even more. He consulted the hour again.

  Still a quarter to eight.

  A sudden thought occurred to him. “Do you mean to say we’ve got a lady with her derrière freezing to ice atop our slush-covered concrete?”

  Coombs shook his head. “Not at all, my lord. She brought several rugs and a warming brick, and had her coachman clear off the steps before she settled in. He’s got eyes on her, even if he can’t talk her back into the carriage.”