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He swiped a hand through his hair. “That damned caricature.”

“Fortunately, there was only the one mentioning Nancy,” Fitz said. “You left town before you could fall on more virgins. Or perhaps,” Fitz grinned, “Mel paid off the caricaturist.”

Fitz’s wife was outrageously rich, having inherited her grandfather’s personal wealth and estates and a controlling share in his bank. Somehow, the grandfather had put the money and shares under her control, not Fitz’s.

George lounged back in his chair. “Of all the young ladies attending the ball, the only one mentioned in other cartoons was Miss Dalrymple.”

“Her wealth came directly from slavery,” Fitz said. “Not just from sugar but from the trade in humans as well. Perhaps the artist is an abolitionist.”

Simon’s grip on his glass tightened. He’d served in the West Indies and seen the plantations. “I suppose it’s no fault of the girl that her wealth came from such, but I’ll scratch her from my list.”

“As I recall, Miss Dalrymple is snatched up already,” Fitz said.

“Miss Hazelton is still unmarried,” George said. “In fact, Sophie has an acquaintance with the family through her late father, and Mel has invited her. She’ll arrive for the party tomorrow night. So there, Simon. Another chance at a fat dowry.”

He shook his head. “No. I won’t pursue a girl just for her money. I’ve had a look at almost all my properties. There’s plenty of money coming in, just more going out to pay debts and the mortgages.”

The previous duke and his wife had been curst extravagant.

“I’ve put economies in place everywhere.

” He’d discussed that with George during the Marston Green visit.

“I’ll be selling some of the unentailed properties and tearing down some of the structures before they collapse, selling the useful bits and pieces.

I’m looking at everything: assays for minerals, hunting fees, and even, as you suggested, the potential for railway leases, George. ”

George nodded. “Good man.”

“When you have a clearer picture, speak to Mel about mortgages,” Fitz said. “She might have some ideas for you. No promises of course.”

He suppressed a shudder. Speaking to a woman about his finances seemed so vulgar. In fact, the thought of speaking to a woman about anything had been difficult lately, with his reputation preceding him.

“Thank you, Fitz.” He pondered his remaining brandy and then drank it down.

“More brandy?” George asked.

Simon shook his head. “Good of you to invite me to this party. I’d like to make amends.

If only I knew what I did to ruin Nancy’s Season, besides what was depicted in that caricature.

Surely, she might have laughed off my, er, crudeness, perhaps even gained some attention from eligible suitors. Do you know?”

The brothers exchanged glances.

“Have you remembered anything since we last spoke?” George asked.

“It’s fuzzy. I apparently bashed my head and suffered a mild concussion.”

“You should ask Nancy,” Fitz said.

“I broached the subject of her season tonight at dinner and this was her reply.” He pointed to a mottled streak in his dark coat.

Both brothers broke out in laughter.

“Not funny. Won’t you tell me now?”

In his visit to Marston Green, George had broached the subject of Nancy’s unhappiness, just after he’d extended this Midsummer Night’s invitation and before he’d abruptly departed.

“We weren’t at Lady Chilcombe’s ball, as it happens,” Fitz said.

“But I can tell you that after that evening, Nancy was wretched. She begged Mother to let her avoid balls and routs, and when Mother refused, she retreated into awkwardness. As you say, she gained attention, mostly from fellows with pockets to let who were after not only her dowry but also family access to my wife’s bank.

More than one fellow approached asking permission to court her.

The two I allowed to propose she turned down. ”

“Rather rudely, I hear.” George laughed. “Slapped one of them when he kissed her.”

“Good for her.” The notion of Nancy being kissed by some cad, being married to a fortune hunter, riled him.

He glanced at Fitz to find him studying him over his brandy snifter.

“Nancy had a friend from school she wanted to call on,” Fitz said, “but Mother thought the girl was not quite the thing. Nancy moped for days over that. Thereafter, the only excursions she seemed to relish were to the theater and museums.”

“We thought she’d outgrown her shyness. Nancy’s avid for amateur theatricals,” George said. “Always organizing our Christmas pantomimes and impromptu family plays.”

The young Nancy Simon knew would only sing with her sister and stumbled through pieces on the pianoforte while her brothers sat in their chairs smirking. He’d been among that lot.

Though at his last visit, that Easter Sunday, her yeomanlike attempt at Sheep May Safely Graze had touched him so much that the treacly tune had played in his head all the way across the Channel and lowlands and twanged in his head before battle.

“You might ask Mother about your offensive behavior,” George said.

“She won’t speak about it to us. I gather that there were two different, er, incidents.

Mother was across the room dancing for the first one.

” He sat back and grinned. “Note that, Fitz. Our mother danced twice that night with Lindhorst.”

Fritz frowned. “That rakehell? He’s ten years younger than Mother.”

“Eight. And widowed last year. But I digress. The second offense, Simon… well, everyone saw that, I’m told, and you must have been severely concussed if you have little memory of it.”

He rubbed the spot on his head that still ached occasionally. “Tell me.”

Fitz sat forward in his chair. “Are you being coy, your grace?”

He had the caricature, Percy Nacton’s teasing, and a faint recollection as references.

“No.” He pounded the arm of his chair, stood, and walked to the mantel.

“Deuce take it, I was foxed. Completely jug bitten. I left town almost immediately, plunged into work, shut down the wags before they could spew their venom, and before I had to issue a challenge. Demme, I even refused to appear for local assemblies and dinners at my estates. So, no.”

“You ducked your head in the sand, old man,” Fitz said.

Simon’s hands clenched and his pulse pounded in his ears.

“Sit down,” George said. “No need to pick a fight with his lordship tonight. Think man, you’re angry now, but Nancy has been fuming for months.”

He set his glass on the mantel and faced them. He hadn’t ducked his head in the sand—he’d been working, carrying out the duties of a duke. Seeing to his estates and the people who looked to him for their incomes and livelihoods.

Still, a little voice niggled. George was an old friend. He ought to have done more than write to Fitz and wait for a reply. He ought to have sought George out. Perhaps even a duke had to face gossip.

Or, especially a duke.

“Tell me what you heard, George.”

George nodded. “You were staggering into the supper room with Miss Hazelton all but holding you up, when Nancy passed by and you stumbled into her. ‘This chit again,’ you said, and proceeded to cast up your accounts all over my sister’s new ball gown.

And then you collapsed like a felled tree, taking Nancy down in the process. ”

“Smashed your head on a pillar on the way down,” Fitz said. “Thus your memory loss.”

This chit again . The girl in the cartoon had seemed familiar.

“For some reason, our little sister, who is as pretty as the next young girl—isn’t she George?

—had only danced twice, and those times with old codgers who were Mother’s friends.

And after your, er, christening, she had to leave the ball.

Not just any ball, but her very first ball of her very first season.

We’ve tried to tell her there’s always next year. ”

“Sir Percy Nacton told the story at the club,” Fitz said. “Thought I might have to challenge him after he had everyone at White’s in stitches, but Mel convinced me not to be ridiculous. Friend of yours?”

“From the regiment.” Percy had been the most pushing of his friends about attending Lady Chilcombe’s ball. In fact, he’d had Simon wheedle an invitation for him.

He felt the blood draining from his head and returned to his chair. Sweet, kind, gentle Nancy… Damn, but he needed to make amends with her.

He remembered her as a child; George had teased him that she was half in love with him, that she’d be there for him when she grew up.

Gentle-hearted, steady Nancy, who’d grown to be beautiful Nancy with her golden hair and blue eyes.

He gritted his teeth. He knew his way around women, and with Nancy, he had the advantage of her childish infatuation.

He’d make amends and more, if she’d allow it.

As a rule, he preferred women with a little fire in them, but a duke picking a wife was a different matter.

Once Nancy had forgiven him and was restored to her normal, easy self, she’d be just the sort of wife for him: quiet and adoring.

He’d offer to court her, and if she was willing, he’d make her his duchess.

“Nacton’s a neighbor now,” Fitz said. “Inherited an estate in Leicestershire. Sad little place. He’ll be at the party tomorrow looking for a dowry.”

“Wonderful,” Simon said. “Miss Hazelton will be there for him.”

“She won’t be the only girl with a fat dowry,” Fitz said. “Nancy stayed for the whole Season; Mother insisted. When they returned to Loughton Manor and Mel saw how downhearted Nancy was, Mel increased Nancy’s dowry to fifty thousand pounds.”

“Fifty thous…” It was a larger dowry than Miss Hazelton’s. Simon wished they hadn’t told him. It sullied his intentions.

“Rich as Croesus is my lady,” Fitz said proudly.

“And generous, within prudent bounds,” George said. “I say, Simon…”

George smiled over his brandy glass, “Would you court Nancy? She has some acceptable suitors among the local landholders, and then of course there’s Nacton. I’d just as soon someone push him out of the way.”