Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries
be helping me with estate matters. Clearly, you’re a shrewd negotiator.”
“Not for nothing have I tripled my dukedom’s income in the past thirteen years.”
“Well, if you can help me do that, too, I’d be most grateful.” His brother paused to gaze out the window at the dusk graying his land. “But somehow I fear that the Armitage legacy has fallen too far for that.”
“You’d be surprised what a bit of judicious investment and wise management can do to one’s properties.”
“We’ll see.” With a forced smile, Sheridan raised his glass. “To spying!”
“And to debuts,” Grey added.
Before they could drink any, the door opened and Thorn sauntered in.
With his chestnut hair and clear blue eyes, Thorn looked more like Mother than either Grey or Sheridan. But the resemblance stopped there. Thorn was far more of a rebel than Mother had ever been.
Thorn took in the scene, then went over to pour himself a glass. “What are we drinking to?” he drawled.
Grey exchanged a glance with Sheridan and said, “To brothers.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Thorn paused. “I forgot, I’m supposed to be corralling everyone for dinner.”
“Surely that can wait long enough for you to have a glass,” Sheridan said.
“True. And I can use a drink after today.” Thorn joined them as they toasted each other. Then he tossed back his brandy in one long gulp.
“Damn it, man, pace yourself,” Sheridan said.
Grey laughed. “You probably don’t realize this, but Thorn can drink all of us under the table. Eh, Thorn?”
The man winked. “I do my best. Now, bottoms up, lads. If we arrive late to dinner, Mother will blame me, and I refuse to be demoted from my position as favored son.”
That devolved into the usual jocular discussion of who was Mother’s favorite, a game Grey rarely enjoyed, since he was decidedly not. But he played along until the brandy in their glasses was gone, at which time they headed off to dinner.
“Wait,” Grey asked Thorn, “who will sit vigil while we’re dining?”
“One of the servants.” Thorn’s expression turned grim. “But I’m sure he won’t be there long. Mother has been loath to leave Father’s side today. She’s determined to be in that bloody room until the funeral procession.”
Thorn’s reference to Maurice as “Father” jarred Grey, though it was no different from how Thorn usually referred to their stepfather. Thorn and Gwyn’s father had died shortly before they were born, so Maurice had been the only father the twins had ever known, too.
“But now that you’re here, Grey,” Thorn went on, “you can coax Mother into attempting to get some sleep tonight.”
“Given that you’re the favorite,” Grey joked, hollowly, “she’s more likely to listen to you.”
Thorn laughed outright. “How do you think I became the favorite? By indulging her whims. Whereas she sees you as the personification of her first husband, who, from what I gather, ordered her about all the time. So she’ll listen when you order her about.”
That made him want to howl. Because he didn’t want to be that man. But it was too late to change anyone’s perception of him, so he’d play the role as usual.
After all, someone had to take charge of his unruly family. It might as well be him.
Chapter Five
Dinner at Armitage Hall was more informal than it had been under Uncle Armie. Not that Beatrice had dined here that often when he was in charge. Even when she and her brother had been invited, Joshua had refused to attend, and she hadn’t been about to have any tête-à-têtes with Uncle Armie.
But dining with Aunt Lydia’s family reminded her of the time years ago when her grandparents had both been alive and she’d lived at the hall, after Papa’s death. At ten, she’d been too young to live alone, especially with Joshua in the Royal Marines abroad. So she had lived here with her grandparents.
For a child, the dining room had been a magical place of glittering chandeliers, gleaming silver, and snowy tablecloths. Every time Grandmama had brought her down from the nursery to practice her dinner etiquette, she’d felt like a princess sitting at this table.
Unfortunately, teaching her the rudiments of polite dining had been about all Grandmama had managed before Grandpapa had died and Grandmama had fallen ill. But at least Beatrice knew precisely what fork to use for the cucumber salad and how to dip one’s spoon in the turtle soup properly. Thank heaven. Because given how Greycourt kept staring at her, he was just waiting for her to fail at it, the arrogant devil.
Tipping up her chin, she met his gaze and dipped her spoon with perfect form. As if he’d guessed precisely what she was up to, a knowing smile crept over his face.
Blast. That was an unexpected effect of challenging him. Best not to look at him at all, because every time she did, she got this odd sinking in her belly. It was the way she felt when bolting down a hill with the dogs—terrified and exhilarated at the same time.
She didn’t need to feel that with him, of all people. With any luck, he would leave the day after the funeral, and she’d never have to see him again.
So she turned her attention to the humorous story the Duke of Thornstock was telling. It seemed a bit salacious for mixed company, but since Aunt Lydia didn’t seem to mind, it was fine with Beatrice.
Although not quite as tall as Greycourt, Thornstock was the more conventionally handsome. His features were more symmetrical, his smile more polished, and his nose more perfect. His straight locks were reddish-brown rather than the inky hue of Greycourt’s wavy hair, and his eyes were a pure, crystalline blue.
Worse yet, he turned on the charm all too easily. After Uncle Armie, men like that always put her on her guard.
“So, Miss Wolfe,” Thornstock said amiably, “I assume we’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow.”
“Of course not. It isn’t allowed.”
Both Thornstock and Lady Gwyn were surprised. “What do you mean?” Lady Gwyn asked. “This is your uncle’s funeral!”
Aunt Lydia put down her spoon to regard her daughter with a steady gaze. “Women here do not attend funerals or join the procession, my dear.”
“Since when?” Thornstock asked.
Beatrice cleared her throat. “Since forever. It’s always been frowned upon.”
“How absurd! And hardly fair.” Lady Gwyn shifted her gaze to her mother. “But you’re going anyway, aren’t you?”
Aunt Lydia sighed. “I see no point in giving rise to gossip locally. England is now our home, and we have to adapt to its customs.”
“Well, I’m going,” Lady Gwyn announced. “They can’t stop me.”
“Good for you,” Thornstock said. “Sounds like a stupid custom to me.”
“Every English custom sounds stupid to you, Thorn.” Greycourt looked at Gwyn. “Do you promise not to cry at the funeral?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“That’s why women aren’t allowed. Because it’s believed that they show too much emotion in public, when they ought to be stoic.”
“Then Mother definitely mustn’t go,” Sheridan muttered into his soup, having wisely stayed out of the conversation until now.
“Sheridan!” Aunt Lydia said.
“Well, it’s true.