Page 2 of The Duke Disaster (The League of Extraordinary Widows #1)

1

Some months later

O liver Barnes, Duke of Hartwood settled himself at the table in the breakfast room of his palatial ducal estate, pleased to see that there was exactly a finger’s width between his plate and the saucer of his teacup. Fork, knife, and spoon, the silver so burnished that he could see his own reflection, were placed in precise order. The white tablecloth, embroidered with a series of vines and sweeping leaves at the edges, had not so much as a wrinkle.

However …

“Edmonds.” He summoned his butler, who was standing guard at the entrance to the breakfast room and motioned him forward. “What”—Oliver inclined his head towards the center of the table—“is that monstrosity?”

Edmonds cleared his throat, reached over, and deftly plucked the wilting apricot-hued rose from the vase.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Edmonds said smoothly, not sounding nearly as subservient as a duke’s butler should. “The absolute tragedy of this slightly imperfect rose is the fault of one of the new maids.”

“But ultimately your responsibility, Edmonds,” Oliver stated.

“Should I have the maid—her name is Betty, by the way—shackled in chains and imprisoned in the dungeons for this infraction? Unless you prefer I have her drawn and quartered?” He made a tsking sound. “Might make a mess of the lawn.”

Oliver sighed. “I don’t have a dungeon. And no torture before I’ve finished breakfast, as you well know.”

Edmonds had been in the employ of the Duke of Hartwood since Oliver was twelve or so. Overly familiar, far too expressive, and given to sarcasm, it was a mystery how Edmonds had kept his position at Hartwood House, given the intolerance of the late duchess.

“Understood, Your Grace. But forgive me, I’m positive there is a dungeon, just below us, composed of brick and complete with bars.”

“That is the wine cellar, Edmonds.”

The butler looked up at the ceiling as if considering. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. You are correct. My mistake.”

“I’m always correct.”

“Just so, Your Grace. So, drawn and quartered directly after breakfast, then? Betty will likely scream. I could have her tongue removed first, if it pleases you.”

Oliver drummed his fingers on the table, scowling at his butler.

Secretly, he enjoyed this ridiculous banter with Edmonds, though having a cheeky butler wasn’t something a duke should allow, admit to, or even want. But Oliver had an entire household of souls who did nothing but bow and scrape to him. Acquaintances who fawned over his person the moment he stepped into a room.

As they should, of course. He was a bloody duke.

But only arrogant fools believed in their own magnificence. So when Edmonds, once a footman, had made a wry, snarky comment under his breath to thirteen-year old Oliver, already a duke, he had not been sacked. When the previous butler had retired, Oliver had elevated Edmonds to the post, overruling the duchess. Over the years, he’d become accustomed to having at least one person in his orbit who wasn’t worshipful.

“I should send you packing for your impertinence,” Oliver drawled. “Perhaps enlist you in the Royal Navy, if they’ll take you at your age. Which is doubtful. No commission, of course. You don’t deserve it.”

“Not the Royal Navy, I beg you. I get terribly seasick, Your Grace. Perhaps the army? Or indentured servitude somewhere torturous. India, perhaps? Or the place my betters send criminals.”

“New South Wales.”

“I’m sure to suffer in either place for displeasing you. Possibly be eaten by a tiger. I understand they are numerous in India.” Edmonds turned and presented Oliver with a silver tray, atop which sat a freshly pressed newspaper beside a letter sealed with red wax, the signet perfectly clear.

Dear God . Claremont again.

“The idea of New South Wales is appealing,” Oliver mused, staring at the letter. “The place is rife with disease and venomous snakes. Spiders bigger than your hand. You’d step outside and be dead in an instant.”

“I’ll skip about and avoid the worst, Your Grace. I’m quick on my feet.” Edmonds waited for Oliver to take in the contents of the tray, nodding at the letter. “It arrived this morning by special messenger.”

“Of course it did. How many does that make?”

“Six, Your Grace,” Edmonds answered. “Three last month, two more the month before. I must say, Lord Claremont’s tenacity is astounding.”

Oliver took a sip of his coffee, the anticipation of his breakfast greatly diminished. Claremont, a member of the extended Barnes clan, had become an expensively garbed gnat with his incessant demands. Oliver would toss this missive from his distant relation into the fire if not for the small pile of correspondence he’d also received from various other Barnes cousins. Thomas Barnes and Sir Richard had been excessively vocal.

“I’m not sure what it is Claremont expects me to do about the situation. She is his brother’s widow. Given into his care when Percival Barnes went off to…” Oliver snapped his fingers.

“India,” Edmonds reminded him. “Bombay. Not eaten by a tiger, though. Stabbed in an opium den. You managed to keep things quiet.”

Necessary. The Barnes name must remain spotless.

“I recall. I spent quite a bit of coin to have that hushed up. Now I have the man’s widow to contend with, as well as Claremont. I suppose I could…send her to the Continent. Or America.”

“You would smite Mrs. Barnes with only a look, Your Grace. Turn her to stone, much like Medusa in the Greek myth. You do need another statue in the gardens.”

“Flattery will not save you, Edmonds.”

“How unfortunate.”

Snatching the letter from the tray, Oliver broke the seal, noticing a loose thread on the button of his coat. He stared at the offending strand, wrinkling his lips in annoyance.

A duke should maintain appearances at all times.

“Your Grace? Something dares to defy you?”

“Inform Rush to examine all my coats. I cannot go about like this.” Oliver pointed at the button. “A duke has standards. As does his wardrobe. If he cannot manage to care properly for my things, I will find another valet.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I expect you to have a discussion with the staff today, especially this Betty person. I will have no more half-wilted roses at the breakfast table. The blooms are to be firm to the touch and not in danger of dropping while I enjoy my coffee. It ruins the taste of the food.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Oliver didn’t necessarily enjoy roses—or any flower. But these roses, with petals a unique apricot hue, were different. The color brought forth memories of autumn. The harvest. The taste of cider and the smell of wheat. The laughter of the tenants feasting beneath the moonlight.

A time when his father had still been alive, before Oliver’s life had become full of ducal responsibility. Such as the obligation now being foisted upon him.

The Barnes family tree was large. Populated with branches of cousins who all held one goal sacred. The continued prosperity and prestige of the Barnes name. Each member of Oliver’s extended clan acknowledged that they alone set an example for the rest of the populace, a virtual pantheon of well-bred, pedigreed personages who infiltrated every aspect of society. Barnes cousins were respected members of Parliament or served Her Majesty as powerful ministers. There were four earls, three viscounts, and a handful of barons who all bore the Barnes name.

And one duke.

As the self-appointed head of the Barnes family, the Duke of Hartwood commanded a small but influential army. One bearing a reputation that could not be besmirched. A Barnes was held to a higher standard because a Barnes was exemplary .

Oliver stared down in disgust at that stupid button once more.

Unacceptable .

Had the duchess been alive, her displeasure at the state of Oliver’s coat and his neglectful valet would have echoed through the halls. The servants would have fled in terror, running for their lives.

Well, possibly not Edmonds . His butler did not run so much as gallop like an overexerted pony.

Unfolding this latest missive from Claremont, Oliver scanned the first line, the ache in his temples already starting.

Your Grace,

The situation in London is becoming untenable.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. One sentence, and he was already in need of a brandy. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock.

Edmonds, peering over his shoulder, made a small gasp.

“Stop reading ahead,” Oliver snapped. “Or over my shoulder.”

His butler blatantly ignored him. “Mrs. Barnes is quite something, isn’t she?”

Quite something, indeed.

Oliver, to his everlasting dismay, remembered Miss Celia Kensworth in great and startling detail. Amazing, considering he’d only seen her once—on her wedding day.

Hair a blend of bronze, muted orange, and copper, as if the strands could not decide on the correct shade, curls bobbing about her temples. Oliver had been struck by that kaleidoscope of color, reminiscent of maple leaves when they turn just before the first frost. Similar to the apricot roses gracing his table. During the entirety of the wedding breakfast, Oliver had kept staring at the shifting color of her hair while she’d cut the poached chicken on her plate into uneven pieces.

One lone curl had drifted over her cheek, so stark against the cream of her skin, taunting Oliver the entire meal.

Turning his attention back to Claremont’s note, he continued to read.

Your Grace, I regret to inform you that my brother’s widow has become a walking, breathing scandal. Celia Barnes is singlehandedly dragging our family down into the muck.

Muck was underlined several times.

The continued embarrassment to myself as well as other family members has reached epic proportions. The Barnes name is being tainted. Our reputations will soon follow.

Claremont did adore exaggeration. Every one of the letters Oliver had received from him said much the same, as if Percival’s widow might, of her own volition, destroy all of society. Celia Barnes had, to Oliver’s knowledge, mourned Percival for the appropriate time before embarking on a campaign to become the merriest widow London had ever seen.

Mrs. Barnes lacks even the minimum of discretion in conducting her affairs. At the theater last week, she was seen by Mr. David Barnes and Mr. Lucien Barnes ? —

One served in the Home Office, the other in the Foreign Office. Oliver couldn’t recall which was which.

—attending with her latest lover, Lord Jameson, only to seek out another gentleman during intermission. She was found in an alcove with Lord Derby. The entire theater was abuzz with gossip.

Oliver ignored the delicious omelet placed before him—filled with exactly one cup of diced ham, four sliced mushrooms, and a sprig of rosemary—eyes fixed on Claremont’s letter. He placed the missive aside. There was more, so much more, about Mrs. Celia Barnes, but Oliver didn’t care to read further. Claremont had made his point.

“I’ll assume, Edmonds, that you read the newspapers from London while ensuring they are free of wrinkles.”

“I do, Your Grace.”

Oliver snapped his fingers, motioning for the newspaper to be brought forward. He was in the midst of a long-distance courtship, of sorts, with Lady Helen Robb, daughter of Lord Atherby, a delicate negotiation he hadn’t yet completed. So word of Mrs. Barnes and her attempt to scandalize society was not welcome. Atherby was an earl, an extremely powerful one, a well-respected member of Parliament who had the ear of the Queen as well as some of her more important advisors.

Quite frankly, Atherby should have been born a Barnes.

He picked up the newspaper, forcing himself to open the pages to the gossip columns.

Oh, to be a merry widow at Lady F.’s garden party. Having decided to make a wish while sipping champagne, the notorious Mrs. B. tipped into an enormous fountain and arose like Venus from the sea. She seemed unaware that much like the goddess, her form was easily discernable to all in attendance.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose once more. He didn’t even want to touch his rather perfect omelet. “Is this where your earlier reference to Greek myth came from, Edmonds?”

“I thought it clever.”

“I really should sack you.”

“You really should, Your Grace.”

“There isn’t anything amusing about Mrs. Barnes and her single-minded determination to destroy the Barnes family.” Oliver set down the newspaper with a slap, directly atop the omelet on his plate. Mushrooms and bits of ham shot out over the pristine white linen tablecloth, the mess only worsening Oliver’s already foul mood.

This situation was serious, far worse than he’d previously perceived. How could one woman be the cause of so much chaos? Mrs. Barnes was hopping about fountains in wet clothing, displaying her assets without a care for her reputation. He was only surprised she hadn’t tupped one of the gentlemen in attendance in full view of the other guests. Allowing herself to be groped at the theater. Flaunting her lovers.

“Edmonds,” Oliver said coolly. “It seems I’ll be departing for London sooner than expected. Send word to have the house readied immediately. Pack your things. As punishment for your impertinence, you’ll share a carriage with Rush.”

A choked sound came from behind his left shoulder. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Rush and Edmonds did not get on. Oliver’s valet was a stuffy, self-important man who had been chosen by the duchess. And Edmonds was, well… Edmonds .

“Mrs. Barnes has finally caught your attention. Claremont will be pleased you are answering his summons.” Edmonds cleared away the ruined omelet, replacing it with a perfectly buttered piece of toast and a slice of ham.

Oliver waved away the plate. “My appetite has waned. I’ll pen my reply to Lord Claremont in my study. See that it is delivered to him immediately.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Since I require your services in London, your departure to India?— ”

“Or New South Wales.”

“Will be delayed. Don’t interrupt. I’m not a complete monster, Edmonds. The location of your misery will be your choice.”

“How kind of you, Your Grace. I will consider my options carefully. Gigantic spiders or man-eating tigers. I confess, the decision will be a difficult one.”

“Don’t take too long, Edmonds,” Oliver warned him, turning his head so Edmonds wouldn’t see the twitch of his lips. “You don’t want me deciding.”

“No, of course not.” He cleared his throat. “Everything will be readied for your arrival in London, Your Grace. I’ll see to it myself,” Edmonds said, tone serious.

Edmonds might be overly familiar and opinionated, but the butler understood his employer’s exacting nature. Everything would be to Oliver’s specifications when the ducal household arrived in London. Not so much as a chair would be out of place.

“Send coffee to my study.”

Edmonds bowed and hurried away as Oliver stood.

Mrs. Barnes was a widow and, as such, permitted to do as she pleased within reason. But while she carried the Barnes name, she must practice discretion. Oliver didn’t care if she bedded every man in London—as long as she stayed out of the newspapers.

If this…humiliation of the Barnes family continued, if Mrs. Barnes didn’t see fit to behave in a respectful manner, then Oliver would have no choice.

He’d send her to India with Edmonds to be eaten by a tiger.