Chapter Two

      Lincolnshire, England

      The Honorable Miss Beatrice Wolfe stood outside Armitage Hall surveying the entryway with a critical eye. The funeral escutcheon had been hung on the door—not crookedly this time—and the arches and windows were draped in black crape. It looked proper, the way it ought for a duke.

      She hadn’t taken such care with her uncle Armie, as she and her brother Joshua had always called the previous Duke of Armitage. Just the thought of Uncle Armie’s last years, of how he’d tried to paw at her or slap her behind every time she’d come to the hall, chilled her.

      By contrast, Uncle Maurice, who had inherited the dukedom after Uncle Armie’s death, had treated her with respect and kindness. He and her aunt Lydia had brought light and laughter and good times back to the hall.

      Now death hung over the place again. Tears welled in her eyes. Why, they’d only a week ago removed the black crape and funeral escutcheon signifying Uncle Armie’s death! Two dukes dead in a matter of months. It was a blasted shame. It really was.

      Her cousin Sheridan appeared in the doorway, looking like a wraith after the past few days. He’d been close to his father, and was taking his death harder than anyone except Aunt Lydia. No doubt it had hit Sheridan’s brother Heywood hard, too, but since Heywood was in the army and probably hadn’t even received word yet of his father’s demise, she wouldn’t know.

      Sheridan flashed her a wan smile. “Forgive me, Bea, for troubling you, but Mother asked me to check again to see if Grey has arrived.” He surveyed the drive beyond her. “I can see he has not. If he had, there’d be a monstrous grand traveling coach out here.”

      Beatrice laughed. She liked her cousin. At twenty-eight, he was only two years her senior, so she felt comfortable with him. None of the family stood on ceremony, but Sheridan in particular did not, though that would undoubtedly change. “You’ll have a monstrous grand coach yourself now that you’re Duke of Armitage.”

      “Probably not, actually.” A bleak sadness crept over his features. “The dukedom is in a bad state, I’m afraid. No money for grand coaches. With any luck, I can improve that, but it will take time. And I wasn’t expecting to inherit so soon.”

      “I know. I’m so sorry. How is Aunt Lydia faring?”

      He sighed. “Not well. This has taken us all by surprise.” Shifting his gaze to the wood beyond the expansive lawns, he tensed. “Is . . . um . . . your brother planning on attending the funeral?”

      She swallowed. Joshua was difficult, to say the least. “I’m sure he will.” That was a lie. She couldn’t be sure of anything with him.

      But her words seemed to relieve Sheridan. “Good. We don’t see as much of him as we’d like.”

      “I wouldn’t see him if I didn’t live in the same house as he. Joshua isn’t fond of people.” To put it mildly. Not that she blamed him, given his circumstances, but she’d do her damnedest to convince him that attending the funeral was the least he owed to the new residents of Armitage Hall.

      Particularly 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