Dukes By the Dozen

The empty decanter winked at Bea from the side table, just as her brother winked at her from his position on the chaise longue. He sprawled over the cushions, cravat loose, the buttons of his coat and waistcoat open. He raised his glass, gestured vaguely at the room in general. “It’s a lovely time here, Sister, even if you won’t partake.”

“Lovely,” she repeated, eyeing the tableau before her.

Dice rolled between the shadows and firelight, and in one corner cards shushed against each other. Low laughter and murmurs floated between curls of tobacco smoke, swirled around bare feminine shoulders and rouged cheeks.

Bea quickly counted heads. As she’d believed, three gentlemen were missing. Some of her quarry were drunk on the drawing room floor and were of no use that evening, but others would be making their way through frozen trees to their own country homes.

She’d best get moving.

Still, she was mistress of the house until her brother married, and with that came responsibilities. Someone had to attend to them.

“I’ve instructed the butler to ensure your remaining guests have beds this night. Stewart has spoken with the housekeeper, who will see to it.”

“Excellent.” Her brother half-stood, raising his glass in an enthusiastic salute. As he listed to one side, gold liquid sloshed over the rim, dripping down his already soiled evening glove. He frowned, studying the newest stain. “Damn.”

A triumphant burst of sound rose from one side of the room. Bea watched money change hands over dice—so much money, with no purpose but gambling and drink. And perhaps to keep the laughing women standing beside the players. A pretty lot of courtesans made garish by rouge and paint and revealing gowns.

“Well, now. I think this requires a proper celebration.” The winner staggered to his feet, puffing out his chest so the embroidery on his waistcoat rippled with the strain.

Sir Winthrop. A close friend of her brother’s, who had asked for her hand three times the year of her debut. When it was clear she would remain a spinster, he’d twice suggested they be lovers.

Unlike her brother, Bea chose her lovers with great care—and marriage was out of the question with the life she led.

With a leer at one of the girls that jiggled the whiskers on his jowls, Sir Winthrop pointed to his empty glass. “We could call for another bottle. Share it, you know.”

The girl giggled through painted red lips and opened her mouth to answer, but Sir Winthrop had turned away and raised the glass high.

“Here! Another bottle!” he called out, plainly searching for a footman—only his gaze landed on Bea. Expression turning sly, he stumbled toward her. “Oh, ho, my lady. Come to play?”

“I do not think so, Sir Winthrop.” Bea attempted to keep the revulsion from layering over her voice. “Thank you for your offer; however, I am retiring. Enjoy your evening.”

Closing the drawing room doors behind her, Bea strode across the entrance hall and abandoned the guests without a backward glance. They would still be there in the morning, in various stages of drunkenness and disarray.

The men who mattered were those who had left.

With one hand, Bea removed the spectacles she didn’t need. With the other, she began to loosen the old wig of long, curling brown hair. Being a spinster of undetermined years buried in the country, no one cared if she still wore unfashionable wigs.

But they suited her purpose.

HE’D MISJUDGED THE WEATHER.

Howling wind kicked up the snow already covering the ground, mixing it with heavy, falling flakes. Only thirty minutes before, when Wulf had requested his horse be brought around to the front of Falk Manor, the moon had still been visible between the moving clouds. Now, between the impending snowstorm and the lack of moonlight, Wulf would be fortunate to return home. Ever.

He should have requested a room at Falk Manor, stayed until morning.

Even as he thought it, Wulf grimaced. Old childhood friendships still demanded attention, even though the tradition of a yule log, punch, and country dances had given way to brandy and women once the old earl died.

Now it was dissolution of the most juvenile kind.

Still, the duty was done, and Wulfric Standover, Duke of Highrow, was far enough from the festivities that the disgust clinging to his skin was slipping away.

Hunching his shoulders against the bitter wind, Wulf guided his stallion onto the narrow track between the trees. With luck, he would be standing before his own fire before the storm worsened.

“Stand and deliver!” The shout was sharp beneath the swirling snow, echoing between the silent, naked trees.

Cursing, Wulf lifted his forearm to block the white flakes and studied the shadows dancing between the wind-tossed snow.

The highwayman was not ten feet away, sitting atop a horse in the center of the path. His greatcoat swirled in the wind as he raised his arm, the double-barreled pistol he held appearing small and light.