Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries

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СКАЧАТЬ to Sheridan, his new landlord, who could toss them out of their home, the former dower house, whenever he wished. Especially since Sheridan’s mother was now the dowager duchess and might prefer to live in the house that was hers by right.

      Beatrice wouldn’t think of that. “Is there anything more I can do to help Aunt Lydia?”

      “Conjure my half brother Grey up out of thin air?” He shoved a hand through his ash-brown curls. “Sorry.”

      “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

      He uttered a harsh laugh. “I’m not. I can’t even be certain that he received Mother’s letters. Sometimes I think my brother has forgotten he even has a family. He’s too busy being the important Duke of blasted Greycourt.”

      She didn’t know what to say. Though she’d never met the “Duke of blasted Greycourt,” she’d read enough in the scandal sheets to know she wouldn’t like him. For one thing, he was said to have had several illicit liaisons with women, each more beautiful than the last, and that alone made her wary. It reminded her only too well of Uncle Armie.

      “Is it true what they said in the paper?” she asked. “That your brother runs a secret cabal of licentious bachelors?”

      “Honestly, I have no idea. Grey tells us nothing of what he’s doing. For all I know, he could be running charitable boards in his sleep.”

      “I doubt that,” she muttered, then realizing she was insulting his brother, added hastily, “but the business about the cabal does sound farfetched. Why keep it secret, for one thing? A duke can do whatever he wants with impunity, so why not have a regular cabal of debauchery? What’s a cabal, anyway? It sounds like a club. Is it a club? I mean—”

      It dawned on her that she was babbling as usual. Sheridan was certainly regarding her with amusement.

      She should stop. “Anyway, dukes are good at clubs. So it’s probably just a club.” One that kept the riffraff out. Because dukes were good at that, too.

      Especially Greycourt, from what she’d heard. He was richer than God, so he could afford whatever club he wanted. Supposedly, he’d gained his wealth by being ruthless in his business dealings, so he could also destroy whomever he wanted. That might be why society hung on his every word. Or perhaps it was because he rarely spoke without saying something of consequence.

      Despite her concern for her aunt, she rather hoped he didn’t come. Men like him exasperated her. Not that she met many of them way out here, but the few she’d encountered through Uncle Armie hadn’t left a good impression.

      Sheridan released a heavy breath. “Anyway, I fear I’ve dragged you into my annoyance at my brother, which I didn’t intend. You’ve already done so much to help us.” He waved vaguely at the windows. “All this. Handling the funeral arrangements. Keeping up with the household ledgers. What would we do without you?”

      The praise warmed her. Perhaps Sheridan wouldn’t be eager to kick her and Joshua out after all. “Thank you. I like being useful.” Especially to her aunt. Aunt Lydia was unlike any woman she’d ever met—full of vim and vigor, with a kind heart and a sharp mind. Rather like Sheridan.

      He nodded toward the entryway. “I’d best get back inside. Mother wanted me to choose the burial suit.” His throat moved convulsively. “She says she can’t bear to do it.”

      Poor man. “I can understand that. You’re a good son.”

      “I try to be.” He glanced down the drive again, and his face hardened. “Speaking of sons, let me know the moment Grey arrives, will you?”

      “Of course.”

      He started to walk inside, then paused. “One more thing. Mother wanted me to tell you that she intends to continue helping you prepare for your debut. It may just move more slowly.”

      “Oh!” Beatrice had forgotten about that. “Tell her not to bother with such a thing right now, for pity’s sake. I’ll be fine.”

      “Actually, Mother does better when she has a project to throw herself into. And she’s appalled that you never had the chance to be brought out properly in society. She intends to remedy that.”

      “It’s very kind of her.” Though it was also daunting. Beatrice felt more comfortable roaming the woods with the hunting dogs than roaming a ballroom. She hated having men assess her out-of-season attire, small breasts, and less-than-perfect features before dismissing her as unworthy of their attention.

      “Mother is only doing what’s right.” Sheridan watched her expression with cousinly concern. “We all know how lax Uncle Armie was in his duty toward you.”

      “Thank you.” If they thought he was only “lax” then it was a good thing they had no idea what her life had truly been like with him.

      She held her breath, praying that Sheridan said nothing more about Uncle Armie. When he continued on into the house, she relaxed. Having them all underfoot in the next few weeks might prove more complicated than she’d thought. She hoped that dealing with Uncle Maurice’s death kept them too busy to pry into her affairs. And Joshua’s. Especially Joshua’s, which even she didn’t have the courage to examine too closely.

      Thrusting that thought to the back of her mind, she took one more look at the exterior of the hall, then went inside. She sent a footman off to cover all the mirrors. That should have been done already, but Armitage Hall was woefully understaffed these days, and it was taking a while to get everything attended to in such a massive house.

      Next she turned her attention to the boxes of funeral biscuits delivered by the confectioner that morning. They needed to be laid out on a table in the foyer for the mourners to take as they left to join the funeral procession. She unpacked the boxes and began to arrange the biscuits, each of which was wrapped in white paper printed with images of death and sealed with black wax.

      The sight of so many little skulls, coffins, hourglasses, and crossbones arrayed on the table made her shudder . . . and remember. Caught up in memories of being ten years old and devastated at her own father’s funeral, she didn’t register the sound of footsteps until they were upon her.

      “What in God’s name are those ghastly things?” thrummed a deep male voice.

      She turned to find a stranger standing there, still wearing his greatcoat and hat, with his piercing gaze fixed on the table behind her. This must be the Duke of Greycourt, since his mourning clothes were very fine. She also noticed the family resemblance between him and Sheridan in the aquiline slope of his nose, the color of his eyes—like shattered green bottles—and the height of his brow.

      Not to mention his height in general. Although Beatrice was considered tall for a woman, Greycourt must have several inches on her at least. His height and attire and severe features were imposing, and undoubtedly intimidating to most women.

      Not her. She was used to dealing with the arrogance of lords.

      He shifted his frosty gaze to her. “Well?” he demanded. “What are those?”

      “They’re funeral biscuits,” she said stiffly, put off by his manner. “It’s the custom hereabouts to provide them to mourners along with a glass of port.”

      “Is it, indeed?” he said, removing СКАЧАТЬ