Page 3 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)

“A little bit more to the right,” whispered a child’s voice, followed by something cold and wet dragging across his cheek.

Octavius Everard, the Duke of Eccess, groaned.

“Hurry, he’s waking up,” came another child’s voice, older, female, as something touched the tip of his nose.

In fact, Octavius didn’t mind the cold. It felt soothing against his heated skin. But he very much minded being woken to face the headache currently splitting his skull in two.

He waved his arm to chase the children away and turned onto his side. He just wanted to return to oblivion.

“I’ll add two ears,” said a deeper child’s voice with a giggle—a boy’s.

Wood clinked against glass and liquid sloshed before the cold and wet thing found him again, dragging a pattern across his forehead.

Unfortunately, it seemed there was to be no escape.

The colder his face became, the more awake he grew, and the more Octavius became aware of another pain—his ankle. His ankle?

In fact his whole body, used and abused through years of gluttony, ached all over. Never before had he agreed so completely with his physician’s warning that he needed to change his ways and live in moderation.

Moderation be damned.

“Excellent brushwork,” said the older girl’s voice, patently delighted. That was Margaret, his fourteen-year-old ward.

Wait a moment… Brushwork? Was that the wet and cold sensation on his face?

Yet he didn’t move. They were delighted.

Giggling. Their parents’ deaths from a house fire in the home of family friends they were visiting ten months prior had stolen too much of their childhood already.

Luckily, the children had stayed at home at that time.

If painting ears and whiskers on his face brought them joy, well, he’d endure it.

After all, Octavius lacked the faintest idea how to be the guardian they deserved.

At least he could be the object of their innocent prank.

“His chin is so rigid and square, like a box,” came the thin voice of eight-year-old Sophie. “At least if we paint a beard, it might look more like a chin.”

Heaven help him. A few wet stabs beneath his mouth nearly had Octavius opening his eyes, but he kept them shut.

“Careful! If we wake him, he’ll roar like a boar.” That was James, Margaret and Sophie’s twelve-year-old brother.

And James was right. Octavius was ready to roar like a boar, the sigil of his house.

Soon he would, but he did want to give them a bit of a laugh, even at his expense.

They might tire of him now they seemed to have completed their painting and leave.

Then he could just get another hour of sleep, please God.

Sophie giggled. “His breath smells like Miss Hammond’s medicinal tonic.”

“Why do grown men’s faces grow hair?” asked James. “Will I look like this when I’m old?”

Old? Octavius almost retorted that one and thirty meant life was just starting.

“It’s because his valet hasn’t yet shaved him,” Margaret assured him with the authority of the firstborn. “He must have returned earlier this morning.”

“Quite in character for him,” said James sternly, sounding like an expert.

Really? Was he that bad? What kind of example was he setting if he’d already shown his growing ward, his current heir, that it was a man’s prerogative to live a life of pure indulgence?

“He never made it to bed,” said Sophie.

“Is that foie gras in his hair?” James sounded closer. “Do you think we should trim it out? Sophie, fetch the paring scissors.”

God forbid, no . Octavius drew the line at hair cutting. There was no hope of getting more sleep now. Despite the pain in the center of his skull and in his ankle, he opened one eye and three rascals took a sudden step back.

Sophie held a jar of ink with a paintbrush dipped inside.

“Enough.” Octavius squinted against the cold light seeping through the tall windows behind him.

His study was supposed to be his sanctuary where he could be left alone.

The towering mahogany bookshelves and massive oak desk, which had belonged to three generations of previous dukes, brought him comfort, the familiarity a reassurance.

Now the place reeked of spilled cognac and failure, the dying fire doing little to chase away the November chill.

Octavius scowled at his wards. Sophie and James both had the honey-blond hair that had passed through his father’s line for generations.

Margaret, however, was a little more golden than they, with her aureate locks.

She was tall for her age, a pretty girl with a button nose and eyes bright with intelligence.

Her spine was rigid, and as always, she did her best to appear a little lady.

Lord, he could still remember each of their christenings. The three of them were his cousin Lord Julius Everard’s children on his father’s side, and as Octavius was the closest remaining relative, they had been given into his care.

The care he was most definitely failing to provide.

The three rascals’ eyes were wide with both fear and amusement as Octavius groaned, sitting up on the sofa.

Every movement sent splitting pain through his skull and ankle.

Distantly, an echo of a scent of lavender and a sting warmed his cheek, though he struggled to remember why.

Had he been slapped? It wouldn’t be surprising.

“The brushwork is indeed excellent, children,” came a male voice from his right.

Five feet away, stretched upon the chaise longue standing between two bookcases, was Sylvester, the Duke of Irevrence. His arm was casually laid over his head while he observed Octavius with amusement playing across his handsome face.

Next to the chaise longue was an armchair in which Archibald, the Duke of Enveigh, sat with legs crossed, scowling at Octavius. He wore a green tailored coat with a serpent, the sigil of his house, on his cuff links.

“He won’t roar like a boar anymore,” said Archibald.

“Are you going to meow or purr, Octavius?” added Irevrence. “Oh, no, you look too tired. Hiss, then?”

His soft blue eyes studied Octavius with amusement, his handsome face, as always, wearing an indifferent, detached expression.

Sylvester always wore something pale or white—as though mocking the fashion of the modern day, where gentlemen wore dark tones for their tailored coats—as befitted the color of his house.

“You both saw them do this,” grumbled Octavius, clutching at his head. “Did either of you have the slightest inclination to stop them?”

Sylvester shrugged a shoulder. “I saw no harm in it. Children’s creativity is to be applauded. Besides, I was curious to see the artwork upon your face.”

Cursing the previous night internally, Octavius groaned, stood, and hobbled towards the looking glass.

There were two triangular ears above his eyebrows, three thin whiskers on each stubble-weary cheek, a black circle on the tip of his nose, and splotches on his chin.

His own honey-blond hair, wavy and tousled, was—as James had correctly observed—adorned with a piece of dried foie gras .

Blast .

He still wore his riding clothes from the previous evening.

His auburn greatcoat hung open and wrinkled, revealing buckskin breeches now stained and muddy at the knees.

His tall black leather boots, once polished to perfection, were scuffed and dulled with street grime.

His white linen shirt was partially unbuttoned, his white cravat hung unknotted around his neck like a flag of surrender, and his coat was wrinkled and covered with indeterminate crumbs.

His eyes were bloodshot and he was pale and puffy, nauseated and dizzy.

He looked exactly as he felt: miserable.

Archibald’s scowl deepened. “You deserve to be the canvas for this artwork.”

Octavius shook his head as he hobbled towards the sideboard with its tray bearing a selection of cognacs, ports, and whiskeys always at the ready.

Irevrence laughed. “So typical. The Duke of Enveigh is envious.”

Octavius poured cognac into his glass. “What have I done now to displease you, Archibald?”

Sylvester smirked. “You took me and forgot him for the horse races last night.”

As always, generously to the brim, Octavius poured cognac into the first of two glasses for his friends. James came to stand by his side, watching him with palpable fascination.

“It was Stir-up Sunday yesterday,” Octavius grumbled, watching the golden liquid swirl. “You know that. Every measure to forget that was justified.”

“I could have been there for you,” said Enveigh softly. “I know it’s a…difficult day.”

Difficult day? Difficult didn’t begin to cover it.

One and twenty years ago, Stir-up Sunday had been the beginning of the worst month of Octavius’s life, culminating with him being left completely alone in the world—just like his three wards, who now had no one but him to care for them… They deserved a darn sight better.

When the third glass was full, James grabbed it and sniffed with the confident expression of a connoisseur, smacking his lips. “Notes of…oak and spiced vanilla with a lingering finish. Truly exquisite.”

Irevrence chuckled. “He sounds just like you, Eccess.”

Cold dread dripped down Octavius’s back.

He didn’t just sound like him, did he? James was a large boy, with much more flesh on his bones than most boys his age would carry, just like Octavius had always been.

It was a quality his own father could never abide, constantly berating him about his size, claiming he was lazy and overindulgent, a disgrace to the family name.

“Leave that,” Octavius said as he snatched the glass away from James, spilling half the liquid on the floor. Ignoring the waste, he hobbled, favoring his leg, to Archibald.

Archibald raised the glass Octavius handed him in a toast. “Any reason you’ve decided to impersonate a one-legged pirate?”