Sinful in Scarlet: The Brothers Duke: Book One Read online

  Sinful in Scarlet

  by Felicia Greene

  Pembroke Manor, judged to be one of the finest houses in England for gatherings that required both rural splendour and proximity to London, stood glittering at the end of its long drive. The barouche containing the Duke brothers swept over said drive at a speed that bordered on unseemly, the grey horses sensing the tension coming from the inside of the carriage.

  ‘If you make us stay at this damned affair for more than three days, Thomas, I’ll cause mischief.’ Robert Duke looked darkly at his older brother. ‘I’m warning you.’

  Thomas Duke looked back at his younger brother with a deep, weary sense of inevitability as the carriage rattled and rocked. This tense atmosphere of unease was always present before a formal event; Robert began it, and soon the other brothers would say their piece. It had been happening ever since they had finally broken through the rigid lines of entry that demarcated the cream of London society from everyone else, and it showed no signs of stopping.

  ‘I already know the first ten conversations I’m going to have.’ Robert stared glumly out of the window. ‘Amusement at our surname despite our low origins, a gratuitous mention of how much they give to orphanages–you’d think we still lived in the damn orphanage.’

  ‘Don’t forget a comment about the evils of gambling or unwed mothers.’ John Duke was the third to speak. A dreamy-eyed man who was always sketching, he rarely made perceptive comments. ‘They always assume our parents were terrible people.’

  ‘Yes. Odd, that.’ Robert stretched. ‘There seem to be far more terrible people in White’s than there ever were in the orphanage. Perhaps I’m missing something thanks to our upbringing.’

  ‘They’ll do that too. One man in Boodle’s actually had the temerity to try and teach me how to use a fish fork.’ Edward Duke tapped his fingers on the carriage roof, his irritation evident. ‘She’s lucky I didn’t stab her hand with it.’

  ‘It’s comments like that which will have us back in the cold by breakfast-time.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me. I’ll be shouting it from the chandelier.’

  Normally Thomas let his brother’s complaints wash over him like seafoam. He was the oldest, after all–what he said would be carried out, however much they all moaned about it. But his head ached, he hadn’t slept properly in weeks, and… and there was something in him that he had wound tightly months ago, years ago, that was unravelling no matter what he did.

  Something had been building in him for a long time. A strange, anxious form of anger that threatened to leap out and bite everyone in the vicinity, and was taking its most potent form in the close confines of this carriage.

  ‘Fine.’ He hadn’t meant to speak, but damn it, he was going to. ‘We won’t go.’

  Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘We won’t go. We’ll turn around and go back to London without sending any sort of excuse, and Miss Pembroke will take very justified offence. She’ll complain to her brother, who will refuse to offer up that portion of land near Somerset that we were going to use to see if the new formula works.’ He was speaking faster now, louder, months of repression and irritation bursting out of him as his brothers stared. ‘With no land to use, the formula can’t be said to work and we can’t sell it. We lose all of our investors, all of our money, and can go back to living peacefully in poverty–as all of you seem so damned happy to do!’

  He paused, expecting an immediate response. Instead, Robert, John and Edward stared at him as if he’d grown an extra head.

  Only Henry didn’t look at him. Henry was bent over his folio, drawing what looked to be a stunning reproduction of a vase they had all seen about six months ago in an exhibition. Henry could always be relied upon to be thinking about something completely different to the issue at hand.

  Thomas normally found Henry comforting. Alas, all he could feel when he looked at his brothers was powerful, growing irritation. He had worked and slaved for years, now–what felt like his whole life, all to bring them out of the muck with him. Would it kill them to be grateful?

  ‘Do you think I’m not sick to death of all this? I am–just like you. More than you.’ He glared. ‘I’m the one who has to smile and nod through their ignorance and malice in a vain attempt to secure investment. I’m the one who has to prove myself to be a thousand times more intelligent, dedicated and reliable than any idiotic son of a duke who thinks he’s revolutionised agriculture by making his tenants work like slaves–and nine times out of then, the men with money will pick the duke’s son anyway.’ He sank back against the seat of the carriage, sighing. ‘I’m bored with all of it. Powerfully bored. But we’re three or four months away from being wealthy–properly, powerfully wealthy–and I’m damned if all of you acting like children is going to ruin us at the last minute.’

  The silence that followed was deeply reflective. Thomas tried to soften his expression, wishing he could be more diplomatic. But he had never got anywhere with diplomacy–that was for the rich.

  He had always had to fight. Claw and kick his way out of the orphanage and the life of poverty that had awaited him. Until he and his brothers were safe, the rest of the world could go hang. There’d be ample time for revenge upon all of the ton’s idiots when he, Robert, John, Henry and Edward were safe.

  ‘Fine. Understood.’ Edward sighed, looking at Thomas with a hint of humour in his eyes. ‘But Thomas, please–do us all a favour and develop a vice. Something to take the sting out of your words.’

  ‘My words had no sting whatsoever. Would you like them to sting?’

  ‘Oh goodness, yes. A vice.’ Robert perked up. ‘Drinking. You’d be good at drinking. You can certainly afford good wine.’

  ‘I’m not going to become a drinker.’

  ‘No.’ John sighed, considering. ‘Gambling?’

  ‘I spend so much time and effort making money. I don’t intend to lose it as soon as I’ve made it.’

  ‘Comments like that will get us thrown out long before breakfast-time. They won’t even let you in the door.’

  ‘The only vice left of any note is women.’ Edward yawned. ‘I can give you an excellent list.’

  ‘Of women, or of brothels?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Stop it.’ Thomas glared at all of them. ‘No vices. Not until we’re safe enough to develop them.’

  ‘Goodness.’ Henry looked up from his folio, the vase perfect in every respect. ‘What on earth are we all talking about?’

  The release of tension was immediate as the brothers laughed. Thomas narrowed his eyes as he looked at Henry, wondering if the cleverest brother of all had said such a silly thing deliberately. Henry’s genius was wildly unpredictable, yes–but no-one could be that uncannily good at making anger turn to humour with a single turn of phrase.

  Still. There was no time to develop his analysis of Henry’s personality. They had arrived at Pembroke Manor, the barouche was coming to a stop, and his brothers were already making the interior of said barouche a festival of limbs as they all attempted to exit first.

  He looked up at Pembroke Manor as he jumped out, breathing in the night air. This was the sort of wealth he aspired to–the kind of money that could build a house in the countryside that was only a short ride from the centre of the metropolis. A house big enough to keep everyone he loved safe and cosseted for as long as he lived.

  This would only be the start. He would build orphanages and hospitals one day. But for now, he would look up at the façade of Pembroke Manor and dream of what could be. He would let the memories of the orphanage he grew up in fade–there was no need to remember half of the peopl
e he spent his childhood and adolescence with.

  Some of them remained in his mind. Vague shadows that had helped him become the man he was meant to be. And one figure–yes. Dorothea Radcliffe. The wealthy young woman who had played with the orphans despite her gilded status.

  What had happened to her? He vaguely remembered some trouble with the Radcliffe family. But he had barely listened to any of it, concentrating madly on his work. If he had time this evening, he would ask someone about the family’s fate.

  If he remembered to do it, of course. He barely remembered to do anything that wasn’t brutally essential. His life was rapidly growing too big for just one man, and he had to develop enough flexibility to live it just the same.

  Holding a finger to his lips, he waited until his brothers had reached an acceptable level of silence before ushering them onward. He gritted his teeth through the butler’s announcement of their arrival, a hush travelling over the ostentatiously decorated ballroom as the collected ladies and gentlemen took them in.

  Perhaps it would be different this time. Perhaps he and his brothers would finally be welcomed for who they were now, rather than who they had been.

  ‘Aha! The Duke brothers!’ An elderly gentleman examined him through his monocle, a smug smile on his lips. ‘When I hear the word duke, I normally have to make myself more presentable!’

  ‘See.’ Robert’s whisper seemed to fill the room. ‘I bloody told you.’

  Before Thomas could grimace, elide or kick the man in the stomach—all options he considered—William Pembroke’s cheerful voice sounded behind him.

  ‘Duke!’ He gave a short bow which Thomas returned, followed by a vigorous shake of the hand. William’s enthusiasm was welcome, but the words of the old gentleman still stung. Damn his brothers and their complaints. ‘Delighted to see you.’

  ‘Delighted to be here.’ He could say it with such eagerness now that it almost sounded natural.

  ‘Now, now. I know you’d much rather be in your office. When I move beyond the level of friendly acquaintance, I’ll be most content to see how you really spend your leisure time.’ William smiled. ‘Full of vice, no doubt!’

  He couldn’t do this. His brothers had poured poison into his ears. Or, more accurately, they had lifted the veil on all of his encounters and shown him all the ugly parts. Even William, a friendly and inoffensive man, was in danger of suffering the brunt of his low mood.

  ‘Can I retrieve the map of the land?’ He didn’t wish to sound brusque, but he knew he was managing it. William’s smile faded a little. ‘We can look at it during dinner. Or tomorrow morning over coffee.’

  ‘Of course. It’s where I usually leave everything. But you’ll be back, yes?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Thomas couldn’t decide if that was a lie. ‘It won’t take long.’

  He knew the house like the back of his hand. He had spent enough time here with William, poring over plans. Keeping his head down, ignoring the curious looks of his brothers, Thomas left the ballroom as quickly as he could.

  God, he needed a vice. Something soft, sweet and comforting that he could lose himself in. But then, vice wasn’t the correct word. If he thought about it, it wasn’t even the correct concept.

  He needed more. He had always needed more, in every part of his life. That was his blessing and his curse–the damned restlessness. It was as if he were searching for something he had lost, lost long ago, and nothing he had found had ever matched it.

  No matter. He would go and retrieve the papers for William, then spend a little time skulking in the dark. A little time in an empty part of Pembroke Manor, with nothing but his own thoughts for company…

  … yes. That could restore his peace, if not his happiness.

  The dressing room at Pembroke Manor was treated by many ladies of the ton as an unspeakable extravagance because they lacked the funds and nerve to insist upon a similar one for themselves. Charlotte Pembroke certainly didn’t lack funds, and she had enough nerve to ensure that the dressing room, a large, well-furnished space with any number of mirrors angled to see every part of one’s gown, was quite the finest in the country.

  If only her brother William would stop putting his papers in the small desk in the corner. That was the only thing that marred it. But Charlotte wasn’t thinking of her brother, or even of the dressing room–she was entirely focused on Miss Dorothea Radcliffe, the joy in her voice tinged with the slightest hint of dictatorship.

  At least, that was what Dorothea had gleaned. She looked down at the mass of scarlet silk in her hands, breathless at the sheer quality of the gown she was holding.

  ‘Dotty, dear one, you mustn’t be silly.’ Charlotte Pembroke smiled, clasping her hands as she looked at her friend. Her voice was a perfect combination of piteous appeal and decisive complacency. ‘You are wearing it, and that is that.’

  Dorothea laughed. It was the only true way to politely deflect the most extreme of Charlotte’s impetuous ideas; as forceful as her friend sounded, she rarely if ever grew angry if she were disobeyed. At least, not with Dorothea–other young women in the ton had suffered severe tongue-lashings if Charlotte’s whims weren’t treated with true deference. ‘It’s a beautiful garment, and completely impossible for me to wear tonight.’

  ‘But it’s so perfectly made for you! I made sure Miss Fletcher sewed every stitch of it to your exact measurements!’ Charlotte reverently stroked the shining fabric. ‘And the colour, my dear. The colour is so… so…’

  ‘So utterly unsuitable for me to wear.’

  ‘So perfect for your complexion that every bonnet you own should be the same shade.’

  ‘Scarlet bonnets? Lady Beatrice would have nothing to say about that, I’m sure.’

  Oh, Lady Beatrice.’ Charlotte’s nose wrinkled as if she had smelled something sour. ‘Lady Beatrice needs a good shock. Something that will send her away to a sick-bed for a month or two.’

  ‘Now, now. Don’t wish too hard.’ Dorothea tried to smile but failed. ‘Remember who’ll be changing her pillows and bringing her cordial, if she sickens.’

  She tried never to speak of her work as a companion. Charlotte had never mentioned it–she had clearly seen how little Dorothea had wished to speak of it, and so kept silent. Speaking of it meant pushing their shared past into the background, and highlighting their horribly divided present when it came to both funds and the future. Charlotte would never need to consider cordial and pillows, even for her own sick children–she would have servants to do that. Dorothea, thanks to the fiscal stupidity of her parents, would need to change pillows and bring cordial to any number of elderly strangers for the rest of her life if she never married.

  What gentleman would wish to marry a poor companion? None that Dorothea knew of. None that she had met. Many of them considered a companion a sort of dressmaker’s dummy–one could manhandle them as one wished. At least with Lady Beatrice, horrible as she was, there was no danger of that.

  In a gown as splendid as this, no-one would think she was a companion. Quite the opposite–the owner of a gown like this would have legions of staff at her command, like Charlotte. She would be the only person in the ballroom that anyone was looking at.

  A wonderful outcome, two or three years ago. Now, in her changed world, it would bring her nothing but scandal and penury.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Charlotte’s smile had faded. ‘Sometimes, I… well, it’s not as if I forget, but I don’t wish to remember anymore.’

  ‘I know how you feel.’ Dorothea reached forward, squeezing her friend’s hand. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘It’s all so wrong.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But–but you are bearing it. Bearing it far more bravely than I. Oh, Dotty, why won’t you simply let me–’

  ‘No, Charlotte. No money.’ Dorothea knew she sounded firm, but it was the only way to keep the last scrap of her dignity. A companion was a difficult job, but being a poor relation or friend living off someone else’s charity would be far wo
rse. ‘I beg you.’

  ‘I’m fighting a losing battle, aren’t I.’ Charlotte smiled as she looked at her friend.

  ‘Yes. No hope of winning.’

  ‘I know. It’s rather comforting that you don’t break, however much I pick and poke.’ Charlotte sighed, her smile fading a little. ‘Perhaps it’s why we’re friends.’

  ‘We’re friends for many more reasons than that.’ Dorothea shyly proffered the gown. ‘Not least because you give wildly extravagant gifts that have no business being given.’

  ‘Wildly extravagant, I’ll admit. But that gown is yours, and remains yours. Keep it, even if you won’t wear it tonight. A day will come when you can wear it in front of everyone–I know it. I know it in my bones.’ Charlotte’s voice shook with the force of her conviction as she squeezed Dorothea’s hand. ‘And I shall look on very happily, and clap my hands.’

  Dorothea smiled. Such a future was unimaginable, but there was no harm in indulging her friend. ‘I’ll keep it. Keep it in the very bottom of my linen chest, but I’ll keep it.’

  ‘Anne Fletcher is a master modiste. I’m sure her gowns could be stored in a pond without losing any of their charm. Let’s go to the ballroom–I can point out a Fletcher gown in any crowd.’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Dorothea looked down at the mass of scarlet in her hands. ‘I’ll store this first.’

  ‘Of course.’ Charlotte gave her friend’s hand a final squeeze before she turned away. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

  She walked away, the extravagant skirts of her gown gleaming against the Turkish rug as she left the room. Dorothea watched her go, the gown impossibly light in her hands.

  Before she thought of herself, she had to think of Lady Beatrice. She hated having to do it–Lady Beatrice certainly never thought of her beyond orders or punishments–but thinking of Lady Beatrice helped her remember the stakes involved. If she didn’t consider the needs of the horrible woman who had employed her, she would find herself without food to eat or a bed to sleep in.