Dukes By the Dozen

Marcus would just have to show his family that he was well now, if not entirely whole. That he was sound of mind and judgment, no matter his injuries. That he was as fully capable as any officer in the fleet—more so, for he knew the cost of battle better than most men.

He also knew his duty, which was the only reason he had left his ship to return to a city he disliked with an intensity that rivaled his odium for his callous, authoritative older brother, Caius, Duke of Warwick.

A sentimental homecoming, it would not be, but a short one, Marcus hoped. Caius could not want him to stay long in London, either.

Ahead, a figure hailed his captain’s gig from the Hungerford Stairs. Marcus recognized an older version of Hodges, his brother’s stern-faced butler, extending his arthritic hand as if he would assist Marcus out of the boat. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

The sudden dread in his chest weighed him down like a cannonball in a canvas shroud. Marcus had to use his good arm to push himself to his feet in the boat. To meet the man’s eyes. To make sure what he had heard was no mistake. “Your Grace?”

There had been no news in the letter that had reached him off Recife. No hint that he was no longer the spare. Nothing in the short, formal lines insisting upon his return that his brother, the heir—the bloody Duke of Warwick—had finally done the world a favor and been put to bed with a shovel. Or a bullet between his eyes.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Hodges bowed his head in solemn confirmation.

The boat tipped beneath Marcus’s feet. Shock made his body heavy and his brain stupid. “Dead?” Caius had always seemed invincible—a reckless force of nature who had inherited his dukedom young and learned early to aggressively insist upon having his way.

“How?” Caius was little more than a year older than Marcus—a man in the prime of his life. A man safe ashore, who might be expected to live a far less hazardous life than Marcus, or any of his Royal Navy brethren, certainly had. “Accident? Misadventure? Revenge?” Caius had always done as he pleased. Perhaps he had done as he pleased with someone else’s wife?

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, Your Grace.” Hodges still held out his hand to help Marcus ashore. As if he thought Marcus so frail that he needed an arthritic old man’s help on the water-slick steps.

There was nothing for it, of course. With one well-aimed shot across his bow, Marcus was being made to quite literally give up his ship.

And so, he would.

Because Commander Marcus Beecham knew his duty. He planted his sea boots ashore and became a duke.

Damned if it wasn’t one hell of an unexpected demotion.

THE PALATIAL TOWNHOUSE on Grosvenor Street was as it had always been: stone-faced, curtained and immaculate, with not so much as a weed daring to poke through the clean-swept pavement. Inside was the same—nothing out of place, everything as unchanged and preserved as if it had been under glass for ten long years.

His mother, whom he had not seen since he was a raw boy of ten and four, barely looked at him. “Oh, Marcus, there you are.”

As if he had come from the next room and not half a world away. “Mother.”

“I prefer Mama—so much more elegant.” She chanced only a glancing look at Marcus, as if she were afraid to look at her own child. As if she couldn’t bear the sight of him.

Ten years away and he had become a hardened man—two minutes back in her presence and he was already as surly and uncomfortable in his own skin as the adolescent boy he had been when he left. More so.

The ache where his left arm used to be wasn’t helping his mood.

Marcus took a deep breath and resolved to be himself. “Well, Mama, I reckon what prompted you to send for me was that Caius has died.”

“Don’t say died.” The teacup in her hand trembled ever so slightly. “I prefer passed away.”

“I prefer no double speak.” His decade of service had given him a taste for simplicity and the character for honesty. “When did Caius die, and how?”

“Months ago. It’s taken you forever to get here.” The dowager duchess frowned into her teacup, as if she were put out at him for not being more conveniently located than the coast of Brazil. “You’re so awfully out of fashion with that ill-kempt beard and antiquated clubbed hair.”

No mention of what else about him that was more permanently altered.

Marcus worked to keep the slow match of his temper dampened. “Fashion doesn’t matter at sea, Mama.”

“Well, now that you’re finally here, you can see to such things. Martins is secretary.” She waved her wrist in the vague direction of the library, where this secretary was presumably to be found. “He can sort you out and do…anything you might need done for you.”

As if his missing arm made him incapable of doing anything for himself. “I can still write a bank draft, if that’s your worry.”

Her teacup shook enough to splash hot pekoe into the saucer. “We’ll have to make an effort right away,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him, “if we’re to have any luck a’tall before the Season is in full swing.”