Page 10 of The Trouble With Dukes
Yet.
“Beth and Megan have both been through enough seasons to know how to avoid parson’s mousetrap,” Westhaven said.
“I wondered what Their Graces would do when they got us all married off,” Valentine mused, brandy glass held just so before his elegant mouth. “I thought they’d turn to charitable works, a rest between rounds until the grandchildren grew older.”
He tossed a bit of marzipan in the air and caught it in his mouth, just as he would have twenty years earlier, and the sight pleased Westhaven in a way that he might admit when all of his hair was gray.
“Beth is weakening,” Westhaven said. “She’s become prone to megrims, sore knees, a touch of a sniffle. Anna and I do what we can, but the children keep us busy, as does the business of the dukedom.”
“And we all thank God you’ve taken that mare’s nest in hand,” St. Just said, lifting his glass. “How do matters stand, if you don’t mind a soldier’s blunt speech?”
“We’re firmly on our financial feet,” Westhaven said. “Oddly enough, Moreland is in part responsible. Because he didn’t bother with wartime speculation, when the Corsican was finally buttoned up, once for all, our finances went through none of the difficult adjustments many others are still reeling from.”
“If you ever do reel,” Valentine said, “you will apply to me for assistance, or I’ll thrash you silly, Westhaven.”
“And to me,” St. Just said. “Or I’ll finish the job Valentine starts.”
“My thanks for your violent threats,” Westhaven said, hiding a smile behind his brandy glass. “Do I take it you fellows would rather establish yourselves under my roof than at the ducal mansion?”
Valentine and St. Just exchanged a look that put Westhaven in mind of their parents.
“If we’re to coordinate the defense of our unmarried lady cousins,” St. Just said, “then it makes sense we’d impose on your hospitality, Westhaven.”
“We’re agreed, then,” Valentine said, raiding the box once more. “Ellen will be relieved. Noise and excitement aren’t good for a woman in her condition, and this place will be only half as uproarious as Moreland House.”
“We must think of our cousins,” St. Just observed. “The combined might of the Duke and Duchess of Moreland are arrayed against the freedom of four dear and determined young ladies who will not surrender their spinsterhood lightly.”
“Nor should they,” Westhaven murmured, replacing the lid on the box, only for St. Just to pry it off. “We had the right to choose as we saw fit, as did our sisters. You’d think Their Graces would have learned their lessons by now.”
A knock sounded on the door. Valentine sat up straight, St. Just hopped to his feet to replace the box on the mantel, and was standing, hands behind his back, when Westhaven bid the next caller to enter.
“His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, my lords,” the butler announced.
Percival Windham stepped nimbly around the butler and marched into the study.
“Well done, well done. My boys have called a meeting of the Windham subcommittee on the disgraceful surplus of spinsters soon to be gathered into Her Grace’s care. St. Just, you’re looking well. Valentine, when did you take to wearing jam on your linen?”
Moreland swiped the box off the mantel, opened it, took the chair next to Westhaven, and set the box in the middle of the desk.
“I’m listening, gentlemen,” the duke said, popping a sweet into his mouth. “Unless you want to see your old papa lose what few wits he has remaining after raising you lot, you will please tell me how to get your cousins married off posthaste. The duchess has spoken, and we are her slaves in all things, are we not?”
Westhaven reached for a piece of marzipan, St. Just fetched the brandy decanter, and Valentine sent the butler for sandwiches, because what on earth could any of them say to a ducal proclamation such as that?
The Duke of Wellington had expected all of his direct military reports to know how to waltz, and thus Hamish had made it a point never to learn. His Grace had also preferred officers with titles and aristocratic lineages. When conversation in the officers’ mess had turned to women, war, and wagering, Hamish had brought up breweries, distilleries, and commerce.
Trade in all its plebeian glory.
As a result, Hamish had no idea what sort of small talk was expected when calling on a duchess.
“Colin, you’ll accompany our sisters inside,” Hamish said, while Rhona and Edana perched on the very edge of the coach’s forward facing seat. The vehicle was more properly a traveling coach than a town coach, because four MacHughs did not fit comfortably in the toy carriages favored by polite society.
“Hamish, Miss Megan invitedyou,” Rhona said.
“And the duchess orderedyouto come along with us,” Edana added. “The Duchess of Moreland, who can ruin somebody with the lift of her eyebrow.”
Hamish knew exactly which duchess, though the woman would probably be bored merely ruining somebody. If she took a man into dislike, there’d be nothing left of him toberuined. She was the worst variety of foe—the worthy sort in full command of her foot, horse, and cannon.
Colin opened the carriage door and sat back. On the cobbles, Old Jock stood by, chest puffed out, doing his best to uphold the dignity of the house of MacHugh.
