Page 1 of Dukes All Night Long

H is Grace, Colin Dunmore Pembroke, the Duke of Rosemere, arrived at the Hellion Club, as it was known, and cocked his head to the side.

It was not at all what he had expected. Indeed, the Darrow School for Girls looked anything but a den of unruly mischief.

The ivy-covered stone facade and prim white curtains at the windows bespoke order and gentility, not chaos.

Of course, when he knocked upon the door and it was opened, the sounds coming from within—a cacophony of poorly played scales on a pianoforte accompanied by the high-pitched trill of young voices in song—alleviated any doubt.

He had, apparently, arrived amidst the day’s music lessons.

“I am here to see the headmistress,” he told the sour-faced termagant at the door. “I have an appointment.”

“Aye, Your Grace. Come in… and wait just there. The mistress will come out and get you when she’s ready. Don’t wander,” the woman said with enough steel in her voice that Colin could only arch his eyebrow in dismay.

He stepped into the entry hall, where the worn runner beneath his boots muffled his tread and the scent of beeswax polish clung to every surface.

Paintings of stern-looking benefactresses glared down from the walls, and a grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the corner.

Moments later, a door opened and a very fashionably dressed woman—far too fashionably dressed to be headmistress of a school—emerged. And she was known to him.

The Duchess of Clarendon, formerly known as simply Miss Euphemia Darrow.

“Your Grace, it is lovely to see you,” he said, offering a warm smile tinged with wariness, “but it was my understanding that you no longer oversaw the day-to-day running of your school.”

She inclined her head, a slight, graceful motion.

“Indeed, I do not, but I like to stay apprised of everything… and as of now, Miss Dargavel, who is headmistress, has had to travel to the seaside to tend a sick relation. Miss Monroe is in charge at the moment, and I came by to offer her some support… it can be an overwhelming task to wrangle this many willful young ladies!”

“Indeed… I find myself struggling to wrangle only one. My half-sister, Rosalind.”

“Ah, yes… you’ve had quite a few governesses come and go,” she mused with a frown, her brow furrowing with concern.

He had. Initially, it had been Verity’s demands that had made it impossible to keep staff.

It struck him as so very odd, still. The woman he’d been betrothed to—the woman whom he had thought to marry—had been sweet and charming, though certainly not lacking in fire.

But after the wedding, she had changed. He’d seen a side of her he couldn’t quite fathom, a coldness beneath the charm, a ruthlessness masked by elegance.

And now she was gone. Long gone. Vanished into the ether, it would seem.

Which was yet another reason it was difficult to keep employees.

Half the Ton whispered that he’d done away with his young bride.

And Verity, in the few short months she had been there, had done what he feared might be irreparable damage to Rosalind.

“My sister has been greatly affected by the situation with my wife,” he said simply. “She can be difficult.” It was the truth. About both of them.

“Well, do step into the office. Miss Monroe will be with you shortly.”

“I’m here now, actually.”

The sound of that voice raised gooseflesh on his skin and made the hair at the nape of his neck rise slightly. It was a voice etched into memory, a voice he had heard in dreams, both tender and tormenting. And then he turned, and all his hopes, fears, and regrets were confirmed.

“You… You are Miss Monroe?”

The woman frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”

At that, he laughed. He laughed very hard, but it was a humorless sound—sharp, bitter, and echoing through the narrow corridor. “Indeed, I should say we have. In point of fact, tomorrow will make exactly one year since we married. And exactly eight months since you went missing.”

*

One year since they married. Augusta blanched at that.

The familiarity in his gaze, his mention of weddings, and that precise length of time—one year—was precisely how long she’d been at the Darrow School.

She’d been rescued from the banks of the Thames, shivering and nearly drowned, wearing a blue kerseymere traveling costume—one that had clearly been costly and well-made.

In the pocket had been a pearl-inlaid muff pistol, the tiny barrel still warm when it was found. Spent.

The investigator who had found her, Mr. Ettinger, had shown a rare kindness.

He’d brought her to the Darrow School, unsure what else to do with a woman who remembered nothing but bore all the marks of gentle breeding.

There, she’d become a teacher, offering lessons in deportment and etiquette with skill and ease—despite having no memory of how she’d learned such things herself.

It was as if they had been stitched into her bones, imprinted upon her soul, even if her mind refused to recall them.

She looked helplessly at Effie, whose eyes were wide with shock and rising comprehension. “I think we should all retreat to the study… it’s small, but private, and this does not need to be sorted out in front of the students.”

She tried to step forward, to follow behind Effie, but it seemed as if her feet were simply glued to the spot.

Her gaze locked on him once more—on the quiet fury in his eyes, the unmistakable hurt and resentment smoldering there.

So much emotion. So much pain. And then, as if her body could bear no more, everything simply gave way.

The world tilted, darkened. Everything went black around her, and the floor was rushing up to meet her.