Page 4 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

T hat evening, after Chloe dismissed her maid, Tory sat on Chloe’s bed and watched her friend choose her jewelry for dinner. “You must be so happy to have your brother home.”

“Thrilled, to be honest,” Chloe said, “although I feel like I barely know him. What did you think of him?”

Tory pasted a smile to her lips. “He wasn’t what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Either a stiff and formal fellow who looked down on her as any duke would. Or the youth, Lord Jonathan, whom her father had described as “a reckless fellow who takes advantage of his position to live like a rogue.”

She couldn’t say that. “I don’t know. Someone like your half brothers, I suppose.”

“He was never like them, even before he left. That much I remember.”

“Well, from the little I saw, he seems nice enough.”

“Nice enough!” Chloe put on her favorite bracelet. “That’s certainly damning with faint praise.”

Yes, it was. But Victoria dared not tell the duke’s sister that she found the duke witty and engaging and quite attractive. Too attractive, to be honest. Not handsome, exactly, for that implied the sort of polished good looks typical of a famous actor or an excellent artist’s model. But he was definitely striking, with his strong jawline, sharp blade of a nose, and full lips. Even those two wings of silver hair at his temples enhanced his appeal.

“Your brother seems to be making the best of the awful hand he was dealt, which is impressive,” Tory ventured. “How’s that for a description?”

“A mealy-mouthed governess answer, if ever I heard one,” Chloe said archly, and plopped down onto the bed beside Tory. “Don’t you at least think he has gorgeous eyes?”

“Yes.” And the hooded shape of them, so beautifully deep-set, made her fingers itch to sculpt him. “Hazel is a very nice color for eyes.”

Chloe looked as if she would protest, then caught Tory smirking at her and rolled her own “gorgeous” eyes. “How amusing. You’re teasing me.”

“Why do you care what I think of your brother, anyway?”

Her charge suddenly became inordinately interested in arranging her bracelet on her wrist. “I just want your opinion of him, that’s all. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him that I don’t even know what I think about him.”

Tory patted her hand. “Of course. How could you, after all this time? For part of it, you thought he might even be dead. Why, I’ve been mourning my father for years, fearing the same, only to learn from your brother’s letter that he nearly made it home. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“Awful, I’m sure.” With a horrified expression, Chloe threw her arms around Tory. “I am so sorry—I hadn’t even thought of your dear papa, and how you must be feeling to see Jon here without him.”

Fighting back tears, Tory let Chloe hold her. She could use some comfort from her charge right now. “To be honest, I thought I’d made my peace with it. But seeing your brother so thin made me realize Papa must not have been eating well either, for months, possibly years.” The tears were flowing now, and she brushed them away. “What they must have suffered, the two of them.”

“I know,” Chloe said. “It sounds dreadful. But I’m sure they were glad to have each other, instead of being there all alone.”

“True.” It was Tory’s one solace—that her father, whom she remembered as a solemn, studious sort of fellow, seemed to have found a friend in Lord Jonathan . . . the duke, that is.

Heavens, she’d best remember he wasn’t Lord Jonathan anymore before she slipped up and called him that. She should practice saying, “Your Grace” or “Duke” or “Falconridge,” although those last two were probably presumptuous. The family might treat her as one of them, and he might say she shouldn’t stand on ceremony, but Tory was still, for all intents and purposes, little better than a servant.

Taking out her handkerchief, she blotted her eyes. “Are you ready to go down to dinner? You know how your mother prefers us to be prompt.”

Chloe rose. “Yes, but I think tonight she’ll be more focused on Jon. She’s been so anxious to see him that now she’s liable to spend the whole dinner ignoring the two of us.”

“That’s to be expected,” Tory pointed out as she rose and fluffed out her skirt of black bombazine. “He is her long-lost son, after all.”

“I know, but I have concerns, too, which I need him to address,” Chloe said. “Remember, we should emphasize in conversation how useful it would be for me to have you as my companion, so that you may guide me at balls and help me choose what to wear and things like that. Since Jon is back, he’ll be the one to make the decision.”

“I am in no position to emphasize anything, my dear. You will need to do that on your own.”

With a sigh, Chloe headed for the door. “I suppose that’s true. But regardless, I need someone who will stand up for me, in case Jon proves to be like Alban—determined to see me married at all costs. I won’t marry for anything less than true love.”

“As well you shouldn’t.” Meanwhile, Tory wouldn’t marry at all. Couldn’t marry at all. Though she yearned to find a husband who would share her interests and take her as more of a partner than a mere piece of chattel, she doubted the likelihood of that. Especially given her other circumstances.

They strolled down the hall toward the stairs and nearly ran into the duke as he left the master bedchamber.

“Oh!” Chloe exclaimed, “Don’t you look handsome, Jon. He looks handsome, doesn’t he, Tory?”

Uh-oh. Chloe clearly had got it into her head to match Tory with the duke. “Very attractive, yes.”

Definitely damning with faint praise. His old clothes fit him to perfection except in the waist, where the trousers were clearly too big. But the heavy cravat and the tailcoat, with its old-fashioned cut and wide velvet collar, thickened his neck so he didn’t look quite as thin.

“The two of you look very pretty, too,” he said, although his intent gaze scanned only her attire.

“Even though I’m wearing mourning for Papa?” she said, half-jokingly.

“I daresay you’d look pretty wearing a burlap sack, Miss Morris.” As if realizing what he’d said, he added hastily, “Although I wouldn’t recommend that sort of attire. It would probably be hard on one’s skin.”

“Very scratchy,” she quipped.

“Indeed.” He seemed to catch Chloe’s knowing expression, for he changed the subject. “I’m not sure whether to be alarmed or pleased that my old clothes are too big. I never considered myself plump, but perhaps I was, after all.”

“Or perhaps you were merely well-fed,” Tory replied. “Which we hope you will be again.”

“I do need to start exercising at Gentleman Jackson’s or riding or taking long walks or something.” The duke gestured for them to walk ahead of him. “Get some strength into me. It was hard to do much of that at Bitche.”

“Could you not exercise within the prison?” Chloe asked as they headed for the stairs together.

“We got two hours a day in a yard about the size of our back garden,” he said, “but we mostly spent it plotting how to get better victuals, which proved virtually impossible at Bitche. And even if we could have exercised enough, a man needs plenty of meat in his diet to improve his muscles.”

“What did they feed you?” Tory ventured.

“Oh, the usual fare,” he said, obviously reluctant to speak of it. “Just not much meat. And we certainly didn’t dine as well as I hope I’ll dine here at home.” He glanced at his sister. “Is Monsieur Dubois still our cook?”

“Oh, no,” Chloe said. “Mama pensioned him off, at his request. He was getting old and crotchety, anyway, and losing his sight besides. You’ll like our new chef. His goose pies are spectacular.”

“Then we must certainly have one soon. I can’t remember the last time I ate goose.”

They were just passing Aubrey’s room when a servant came out and, catching sight of the duke, bowed. The duke nodded and continued past him, then paused midstep to stare into the room behind the servant.

“What is it?” Chloe asked.

“Why is Aubrey’s room papered in my costly collection of prints?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

“Oh! Oh, dear,” Chloe said. “That’s rather embarrassing. We meant to have them all taken down before . . . well . . .”

“You see, your brother . . . your half brother, that is,” Tory said quickly, “decided to . . . er . . .”

“Take my prints to adorn his room? How brotherly of Aubrey.” The sarcasm in his voice was understandable, unfortunately.

“We did think you were dead,” Chloe said matter-of-factly. “Although I always held out hope you weren’t. Mother even protested Aubrey’s actions, but—”

“He ignored her,” Falconridge cut in. “What a shock. I’m sure he and Alban were hoping I never returned.”

“Hoping?” Tory said. “No. Taking advantage of your absence? Definitely.”

“Some things never change, I suppose.” His eyes narrowed on her. “But I’m surprised you’re making excuses for them. I gather they were rather ungentlemanly to you at times.”

When Tory blinked, then scowled to hide her mortification at his knowing about that, probably from his mother, Chloe appeared confused. “What are you talking about?”

That seemed to startle him. He must not have heard that Chloe didn’t know of those incidents. “Nothing.” He smiled at his sister. “I just wanted both of you to be aware that I mean to run things differently than Alban.” His gaze shifted to Tory. “Better, I hope.”

Tory hoped so, too. Already he seemed cut of a different cloth than his half brothers, but she didn’t always trust her impressions. They’d steered her wrong before. And judging from her father’s early letters, Papa had seemed very unsure of Lord Jonathan’s character in their first few months abroad. “We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t go on,” she murmured.

He nodded, and they all descended the stairs. They entered the drawing room to find the duchess waiting for them. She was dressed even more finely than usual but twisted the end of her scarf fichu nervously until she spotted her son.

Breaking into a smile, she picked up her usual glass of pre-dinner sherry. “Would you like some, Jon? I promise it’s not French.”

“No, thank you, Mother. I’m not much of a sherry drinker. But I’d enjoy a glass of port, if you have it.”

“Before dinner?” She handed glasses of sherry to Chloe and Tory.

“Port is for after dinner,” Chloe said archly. “And only for the men. Women don’t drink it at all, but instead are sent out of the room.”

The duke frowned. “Right. I forgot.”

“Never mind,” his mother said quickly. “It will all come back to you soon enough. It’s good that you’ll be dipping your toe in with us instead of leaping right into the grand events.”

His frown deepened. “Are there many grand events coming up? Isn’t the Season drawing to a close?”

“Oh, no,” the duchess said. “Parliament is in session until the end of July, and we have a rather full calendar up to then. Sadly, we missed several events surrounding the visits of the Allied Sovereigns to England, since we were in mourning, but there are more to come, and now that I’m nearly out of mourning and Chloe is done with it, we can accept the invitations. We’ve been invited to attend the King’s fete for the Duke of Wellington, who hasn’t yet arrived in England. It’s expected to be a grand occasion.”

“Forgive me, Mother,” Jon said wearily, “but I would rather not be part of any celebrations involved with the war, under the circumstances. I’d just as soon put it behind me.”

“Oh!” There was sadness in her eyes as she reached out to put her hand on his arm. After a moment, she continued hesitantly, “Well, why don’t we see how you feel in a week or two? There are many other things we can do. I’d already planned to go to the theater this week, assuming you arrived here on time. I mean to make use of the Falconridge box at the Theatre-Royal in Haymarket. They’re performing The Beggar’s Opera. You always did like the theater.”

“Ah. I forgot Father kept a box there.”

“I’ve invited the Duke and Duchess of Grenwood to join us,” his mother added.

When her son looked at her blankly, Chloe explained, “He’s a newly minted duke, too, so you’ll have much in common. And she’s quite clever. They’re a very nice couple.”

“Then Lady Sinclair’s ball is fast approaching,” his mother added, “and we wouldn’t want to miss that. It shall be most enjoyable.”

“I see.”

But clearly, he didn’t. A fact not lost on his mother, who looked uncertain again.

Tory tried to imagine a world where the social whirl of the Season didn’t exist—which, of course, it wouldn’t in a French prison!—but it was simply beyond her ken. What he must have endured!

Kershaw came in to announce that dinner was served, and they all trooped into the dining room, with the duke leading his mother.

Tory marveled at how gentle he was with his mother compared to his late half brothers, who’d been so condescending to her most of the time. The duke’s behavior impressed her, although once he found his bearings in London—and got some strength in him, as he put it—perhaps he would change back into the arrogant, autocratic fellow he apparently used to be.

But for now, Tory enjoyed watching mother and son together. The duchess needed someone to lean on these days. Her stepsons had rarely provided her with that, and she’d taken on far too much with this renovation. Perhaps helping her would also help the duke become accustomed again to the life he once knew.

As soon as they took their seats at the dining room table and the soup was served round, Jon removed his gloves, and Chloe gasped.

“What happened to your hands?” she asked, which drew both his mother’s and Tory’s attention to them. They gasped, too.

There were marks etched deep in both of his palms. Tory could only imagine the pain he’d gone through to have them wounded like that.

“It’s a rope burn.” He paused as if to consider what he should say. “Some of us were playing French and English.” When they looked blank, he added, “It’s that schoolboy’s game where two teams pull a rope in an attempt to force the other side to cross a line. Life in a detainee camp can be very boring.”

Tory didn’t believe him. Those marks were too deep to be from a schoolboy’s game. But it wasn’t her place to challenge his tale.

His mother took his hands and rubbed them gently. “Poor baby. It looks so awful.”

“I haven’t been a baby in some years, Mother,” he teased.

“You’ll always be my baby,” she said, and kissed his hands in turn.

As they began eating, Chloe asked, “Why did it take you longer to get home than your friend who brought us your letter over a month ago?”

With a furtive glance at Tory, he said, “I had to bury Dr. Morris near the prison and have a stone carved to mark the grave. Forgive me, Miss Morris, but there was no other choice.”

Tory smiled sadly at him. “I am so grateful to you for taking care of that.”

“By the time I could leave Bitche, every available carriage, cart, wagon, and horse for rent or sale had been taken by the first prisoners who’d decamped, so walking to Paris was the only possibility.”

“How far did you have to walk?” Chloe asked.

“Two hundred miles or so.”

The table went quiet, all expressions filled with shock.

“No wonder it took you so long,” Tory said, the first to speak.

“I didn’t mind it all that much. It was wonderful to be outdoors after three years in a cell carved out of rock. Fortunately, we were able to find transportation after our small group reached Paris. Even then, the roads were choked with people either fleeing France or rushing to Paris now that the war was over, not to mention the various troops marching everywhere. I was relieved to get on the ship from Calais to Dover, and then I nearly kissed the ground once we reached England. Even up to the last, my fellow détenus and I feared we might be recaptured and taken back.”

“If I may ask, what exactly are détenus?” Chloe asked.

“That’s what the French called us. We took to calling ourselves that.” His voice turned bitter. “When we weren’t calling ourselves hostages, which is what we really were.”

His mother blinked back tears. “From the time you were taken, we started asking the Foreign Office to have you and Dr. Morris released. They said it was impossible. Yet I know the French let certain English officers return, and I should think a duke’s son would be more important than some captain.”

“A few high-ranking English officers were allowed to leave,” he answered, “but only in exchange for equally high-ranking French officers. Dr. Morris and I were civilians. Why would our government release French combatants in exchange for civilians?”

“Because it was the right thing to do!” Tory said angrily, thinking of her father being denied a chance to return simply because he wasn’t a soldier.

He turned to her. “Ah, but you can see their point, can’t you? England’s argument was that Napoleon shouldn’t have imprisoned civilians in the first place, so England wasn’t about to reward such behavior by offering military people for, in this case, a scholar or a duke’s third son on his grand tour. A soldier for a soldier is fair, but a soldier for a civilian is a bad trade.”

Chloe gazed at him wide-eyed. “But . . . But I heard that they let the Duke of Newcastle return.”

“Only after he’d spent three years in captivity. And it was because his mother—also a détenu—convinced Napoleon to free her son who had been only seventeen at the time of his capture. Napoleon’s own decree stipulated that only men between the ages of eighteen and sixty be taken. I was the right age and wasn’t the heir or even the spare at the time, so definitely, no one was letting me go,” he said, a tinge of anger in his tone. “Hell, there was a marquess and his wife who died of cholera in our detainee camp. No one let them come home, either.”

When silence fell on the table, he apparently realized he’d said too much, painted too graphic a picture.

Then his mother murmured, “Language, son. You simply cannot say ‘hell’ in polite company no matter how much you wish to.”

The duke sighed. “Forgive me, Mother. It appears Bitche has beaten the gentleman out of me. I’ll try to do better.” After the footmen removed the soup bowls, he glanced at Tory. “Your father taught me better. He was a fine man whom I greatly respected. He could speak of nothing but getting home to you and your mother. I’m glad he didn’t know of your mother’s death when he was alive.”

The kind words made her throat tighten. “And now they’re together at last. I take comfort in that thought.”

For a moment, he looked inexplicably uncomfortable. “Indeed. In time, I’ll relate to all of you everything about my years there, but for this evening, I simply want to enjoy being home.” He paused as the footmen brought in the fish course. “So, ladies, tell me the latest gossip, the most interesting scandal, whatever frivolous bit of news you can think of as a diversion from my more morbid thoughts.”

“What makes you think we’re gossips?” Chloe asked archly.

“Everyone who is anyone in Society is a gossip, Sis.” He cut a piece of spiced salmon. “I know things can’t have changed that much since I left.”

So Tory searched her memory, then said matter-of-factly, “Lady Manchester ran away with her footman.” She ate some salmon. “I can’t say I blame her. Her husband was always gone—first as a soldier, then as governor of Jamaica. What good is a man if he doesn’t stay around?”

The duke appeared to be choking back a laugh.

“For pity’s sake, Tory, don’t encourage Jon,” Chloe said. “We don’t want him to think he can just order up gossip at his whim.”

Ignoring Chloe, the duke asked Tory, “And the Manchesters have children?”

“Eight, actually,” Tory said.

“Do the children favor the footman, then?” Falconridge asked, with a knowing wink.

Tory resisted the impulse to wink back. “Well, they could hardly favor the father, could they?”

The duke laughed heartily at that.

” Must we be so vulgar?” his mother asked, thin-lipped.

He reached over to take her hand and press it to his lips. “So tell me something not vulgar.”

His mother mused a moment. “Lady Foxstead’s soiree included a gorgeous harp-lute.”

“What the devil is a harp-lute?”

“A harp and a lute combined,” Tory said dryly.

“You have to see one to understand,” Chloe added. “Or rather, you have to hear one. It’s the most beautiful instrument I’ve ever heard played.”

“That was likely due to the woman playing it,” Tory said. “Lady Foxstead is quite accomplished musically.”

“I should think it wouldn’t be that hard to learn,” Chloe said. Tory smiled. Chloe’s passions had included the playing of several different musical instruments, quilling, cross-stitching, and some others Tory didn’t even remember. Although her latest passion for painting looked as if it might stick.

The duchess shot her son a sly glance. “ We should acquire a harp-lute for my next soiree.”

Dread crossed his face. “You’re having a soiree? When?”

“When we’re officially out of mourning. In a couple of weeks, I suppose.” She patted his hand. “We need to celebrate your return. And , of course, showcase Chloe’s many talents.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Mother keeps expecting me to take Society by storm. But that isn’t my wish. In my experience, Society men aren’t interested in tall or clever or even talented women. They prefer short and stupid ones who giggle at their every overture.”

“I somehow doubt that, Sis,” the duke said with a smile. “I certainly don’t prefer it. Neither do my friends.”

Chloe sat up straight. “When are we going to see them? We met the earl, you know, but what about the marquess’s son? Is he handsome? Witty? Worth knowing?”

He chuckled. “He’s all of the above, but I don’t know when you’ll see either. We’ll be busy catching up with our properties and figuring out what needs doing.” He paused as the fish was removed and a plate of roast beef and potatoes placed before him. “Although, I’m sure you can lure them here by serving meals like this. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had English beef and potatoes?”

“Eleven years, I would imagine,” his mother said. “And I’ll have none of this talk about being too busy for Society affairs. It will be good for you to make time for a soiree, and we will invite all of your friends. When it happens, I demand that there be a harp-lute played beautifully. We too could be the talk of Society.”

Falconridge seemed to be struggling not to laugh. “You’re a duchess, Mother. You’re always the talk of Society, whether you wish to be or not.” He turned to Chloe. “What about you, Sis? Aside from wanting to learn the harp-lute, have you no frivolous news of your own? Perhaps a suitor who should concern me?”

Chloe sniffed. “I wouldn’t tell you if I did. How could you possibly know anything about such a man when you haven’t been here for years?”

“That’s what Bow Street runners are for, dear girl,” he quipped. “They find things out and report them to their employers.”

“Jon!” Chloe cried. “You would never— ”

“I would.” He arched an eyebrow. “Now that I’m home, I mean to make sure you’re well taken care of, and that means no fortune hunters or rakehells or scoundrels sniffing round your door.”

Chloe tipped up her nose. “Then I shall go out immediately and engage a rakehell to court me. It would serve you right.”

“And serve you wrong,” Tory pointed out. “Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘Never cut off your nose to spite your face’?”

“I always found that saying absurd, myself,” the duchess put in. “What does it mean to ‘cut off your nose despite your face’?”

Chloe sighed. “It’s ‘ to spite your face,’ not ‘despite your face,’ Mama.”

Her mother frowned. “I’m not sure that makes any more sense. Why would anyone want to cut off one’s nose? Of course, it would spite one’s face!”

“Forgive me, Duchess,” Tory said, stifling a laugh, “but I think that is exactly the point.” She caught Jon staring at her as if intrigued, and she colored. She wasn’t used to being stared at, except by his brothers, who’d leered. It wasn’t the same. Or perhaps it was , and he was merely more subtle.

He sat back in his chair. “So, Miss Morris, does my sister have any secret and inappropriate admirers?”

She felt Chloe’s eyes boring into her but had to think of an answer that would suit everyone. “Not that I know of, Your Grace.” Which was true. “But even if I did know, I would hope you would depend on me to handle the matter sufficiently on my own without having to resort to betraying Chloe’s trust. Your sister is, after all, an intelligent young woman who responds readily to reason.”

That was probably doing it up rather brown, but Tory wasn’t about to risk damaging Chloe’s faith in her just to satisfy her new employer.

His beautiful eyes gleamed in the candlelight as he lifted his glass of wine to her. “Nicely done, Miss Morris.”

She nodded coolly. But her heart was racing, and her hands clammy. She’d always found ways to get around his half brothers, but this duke might prove someone to reckon with. And while that might be good for the family, it might prove ill for her.

So, she’d best stay on her toes around him.