Cheers to the Duke, page 1
Also by Sally MacKenzie
The Merry Viscount
What Ales the Earl
When To Engage an Earl
How To Manage a Marquess
What To Do With a Duke
Loving Lord Ash
Surprising Lord Jack
Bedding Lord Ned
The Naked King
The Naked Viscount
The Naked Baron
The Naked Gentleman
The Naked Earl
The Naked Marquis
The Naked Duke
Novellas
In the Spinster’s Bed
The Duchess of Love
The Naked Prince
The Naked Laird
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
CHEERS To The DUKE
SALLY MACKENZIE
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
THE MERRY VISCOUNT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Sally MacKenzie
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4673-8
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4676-9 (eBook)
For my amazing, brilliant, clear-eyed, patient editor,
Esi Sogah who, as always,
has worked her magic on this book.
For my agent, Jessica Faust,
who talked me down off the ledge.
For Katharine—welcome to the clan!
For Ian—I hope by the time this book is out in the world, we have been able to come see you.
For Kevin—as always.
And for my readers—thank you so much for welcoming my characters into your lives.
Chapter One
End of June, Puddledon Manor
The widowed Lady Havenridge—Jo to her friends—strode up the path from the hopyard, Freddie, her brown and white spaniel, at her heels.
“The plants looked healthy, didn’t they, Freddie?”
Freddie tented his brows over his warm brown eyes and whined low in his throat.
Oh, hell. He was right, of course. He remembered as well as she did what Pen said every year at this time: It doesn’t matter how the plants look. Blight or bugs can destroy the entire crop overnight.
And if that happened . . .
No hops meant no ale. No ale, no income. No income, no Home. No Home, no place for her and all the other women and children to live.
Anxiety churned in the pit of her stomach. She worried about the hops every year, but this year was far, far worse. This year Pen wasn’t here to keep a close eye on things. Pen and Caro, their former brewer.
Now the crop—and the Home’s survival—rested solely on Jo’s shoulders.
Her anxiety boiled over.
“Ten years, Freddie! Over ten years. The three of us built the Home from nothing, and then”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that, they both marry and go off to live on their husbands’ estates, deserting me.”
Pen had wed the Earl of Darrow last summer; Caro, Viscount Oakland just after Christmas.
“I understand Pen. Her daughter must come first, and the earl is Harriet’s father. But Caro? You know how she feels about men.”
Freddie growled. He shared Caro’s low opinion of that breed.
“Oh, I’m happy for them.” And she was—when she wasn’t feeling abandoned and overwhelmed. “And I am thankful they got their husbands to contribute to the Home’s coffers, but . . .” She shook her head. “You know the old saying—out of sight, out of mind. They’ll get busy with their new lives—their new families—and all too soon the donations will stop, and then where will we be? We already rely far too much on the whims of the nobility.”
Freddie raised his brows.
Well, yes. He was right. The noble on whose whims the Home most relied—the Duke of Grainger, the man who owned the Manor and provided the bulk of their funds—had proven to be a dependable sort.
Thank God.
“I imagine it’s because he wasn’t born to the nobility, Freddie. You’ll remember that until a little over a year ago the man was just a London solicitor.”
That had been another stressful time. The influenza had swept through the Duke of Grainger’s principal seat when the old duke, his heir, and the spare had all been in residence. They, as well as a large part of the household, had taken ill and died in a matter of days, muddying the succession so much it wasn’t clear for months who was next in line. She’d combed the London papers daily, looking for any clue, dissecting every rumor. The Home’s future depended on the man. If he was a callous sort, if he decided he wanted Puddledon Manor for his own use . . .
Freddie bumped against Jo’s leg, and she reached down to scratch his ears.
“But he didn’t toss us all out into the hedgerows, did he, Freddie?” Things had turned out well, far better than she’d hoped. “You have to admit the duke’s been very supportive”—she smiled—“once he learned what the Home was, that is.”
Apparently, the estate books had been as muddied as the succession. The new duke had sent his friend, the Earl of Darrow, down to Little Puddledon last August to discover what or who was behind one cryptic entry.
And that was how the earl found Pen once more and learned he had a daughter.
Freddie barked his agreement; though, being a dog, he likely didn’t fully understand how much Jo had come to rely on the duke. The man was an excellent source of common—and not so common—sense. And he was a father himself, so he understood children’s needs.
She’d been corresponding with him since shortly after Pen married. Once Caro left her, too, she’d become even more dependent on his advice. She had no one else to consult.
Well, no one I trust.
A squirrel dashed across their path at that moment. Freddie gave a delighted—and perhaps relieved—bark and bounded after it.
For one mad moment Jo wished she could forget her worries so easily and hie off across a field—a figurative field—chasing any new thing that caught her fancy. That she could escape—
Escape? !
She blinked, staring at Freddie but no longer seeing him.
People escape from traps. I don’t feel trapped, do I?
No, of course she didn’t. The Home—the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children—wasn’t a trap. On the contrary, it had freed her. It had given her a purpose when she’d most needed one.
When Freddie—her husband Freddie, the handsome, charming, irresponsible rogue she’d married when she’d been hardly more than a girl—had lost everything on the turn of a card, put a pistol to his head, and made her a widow, she’d been . . .
Not shocked. Freddie had lived recklessly. She’d half expected him to come to such an end. Nor sad, really, beyond the feeling of regret anyone would have for a life ended too soon. No, the emotion she most remembered feeling was dread, a horrible, paralyzing, sinking fear that she’d be sent home, back to her father’s house and her father’s control.
I didn’t stay paralyzed for long.
No. Within minutes, she’d stiffened her spine and vowed she’d not submit to a man—any man—ever again.
She was still a bit in awe of how she’d gathered her courage and asked the old Duke of Grainger, the man who’d won the game Freddie had lost, to let her come here to Little Puddledon. And then, once her mourning period was over, she’d persuaded him to let her turn Puddledon Manor into the Home, a place where women could live their lives free of male interference.
She took
I managed then, when I was young and on my own for the first time. I can manage now.
The squirrel had scampered up a tree and out onto a branch high above Freddie’s head. Now it chattered down at him while the dog jumped and spun below, barking wildly.
“Give up, Freddie. You don’t want that squirrel. What would you do with it if you caught it?”
Freddie stopped, looked at her, and then looked back at the furry rodent. He must have concluded she had the right of it, because he gave one last bark, lifted his leg to water the tree, and trotted back to her.
I do sometimes wish I could just piss on my problems and walk away, though.
Jo frowned. No, of course, I don’t. What is the matter with me?
She shook her head. It was past time to stop this foolish fretting and get back to her office. She needed to go over the books once more, looking for yet another way—or several ways—to economize.
Economizing isn’t going to solve your biggest problem.
She sighed. All right, yes. It wasn’t pounds and pence that kept her awake at night.
“To be honest, Freddie, it’s—”
Something moved in the bushes, and Freddie darted off again to investigate.
Jo heaved another sigh and adjusted her bonnet. Perhaps it was just as well she’d been interrupted. She’d not broached this subject with Freddie before, but it had been getting harder and harder to keep her tongue between her teeth.
When Caro had written to say she was marrying Viscount Oakland, she’d not sent the letter via the post. No, she’d had it delivered by the three London lightskirts she’d met at the viscount’s estate and who, she wrote, now wished to live at the Home.
There was the problem.
Oh, the lightskirt part was fine. Many of the Home’s residents had been in that trade. And while Fanny and Polly didn’t have any experience in what was needed here—agriculture and brewing—they were learning. Livy, however . . .
Lud!
It was Livy—Olivia Williams—who really bedeviled Jo.
Well, threatened might be a better word.
Which was silly. In many ways, Livy understood Jo’s concerns as none of the other women did. She’d been an independent businesswoman herself.
Except her business had been matching Cyprians with randy noblemen.
Which she could not do here. Jo had made that quite, quite clear.
Fortunately, there were no noblemen in the area. Livy wouldn’t make much money from the local farmers. Still, Jo had taken the precaution of putting a lock on the door to the estate’s folly, the gothic cottage that occasionally served as guest accommodations and where, she felt certain, Pen had conceived Harriet’s brother.
The baby whose christening Jo had declined to attend.
Regret brushed her heart. It would have been nice to see Pen and Harriet again—and the baby, of course. And Pen had written that Caro would be there, too, with her new husband. Jo would like to meet him. And Pen had asked Jo to be the baby’s godmother.
If only . . .
I can’t be away from the Home now. I have to keep an eye on the hop plants.
More to the point, she had to keep an eye on Livy.
Freddie trotted back to her, and she stooped down, cupping his face in her hands, looking deep into his understanding eyes. She couldn’t keep her worries to herself a moment longer.
“What is the matter with me, Freddie? I know I need help running the Home. I should be happy Livy is here. But . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t trust her. Yet when I try to puzzle out why—what I think she’d do that would harm the Home—I draw a blank. Her ideas aren’t bad. I just don’t like them.”
Be honest. Freddie will keep your confidence.
She leaned closer. Dropped her voice.
“I think she wants to push me aside and take over. She’s got Fanny’s and Polly’s allegiance already, of course, and I suspect she’s trying to persuade some of the other women to favor her as well.”
Power struggles among the Home’s residents were nothing new, but being sucked into them herself was. She settled disputes. She was the calm one. Rational. Clear-eyed. Able to see both sides of any issue.
She was none of those things now.
“The Home was my idea, Freddie. Mine. Pen and Caro helped, but I was the one who came up with the notion. I was the one who got it started.”
The Home was her life. It had given her a purpose all those years ago, but, more importantly, it gave her a purpose now. If it was taken from her—
Freddie licked her nose, and she laughed, dropping her hold on him and standing up. He always knew how to make her feel better.
“You’re right. I just need to give myself time to adjust. There have been a lot of changes. Once we get through the next few months, once the hops are harvested, I’m sure I’ll feel better.”
Freddie gave her what might have been a doubtful look, but she let it go without comment and started walking again, up the path, past the brewhouse, across the crushed stone yard toward her—
“Jo!”
Jo’s stomach sank. That was Rosamund Lewis.
She looked over to see Rosamund hurrying toward her from the front of the house, Winifred Williams striding along behind.
“Livy sent me to get you.”
Jo’s stomach sank lower. Rosamund had that sparkle in her eyes that suggested she was gleefully awaiting some emotional fireworks.
But there was a sparkle in Winifred’s eyes, too. That was very odd. Winifred was in charge of their stables—their very small stables, Jo’s aging horse, Bumblebee, being the sole occupant. The only time Jo could remember seeing Winifred this excited was last August when the Earl of Darrow had left his Arabian with her for a few hours.
The earl wasn’t here now, of course. He was at his estate with Pen, getting ready to welcome a houseful of guests to celebrate the christening of their son, his heir, Philip Arthur Edward Graham, Viscount Hurley.
This time regret plopped its heavy hindquarters smack down on her heart.
She shoved it away. “Is there a problem?”
Rosamund smiled slyly. “Not yet.”
Jo frowned at her, but then her attention was claimed by Winifred, who was now close enough to grab Jo’s arm.
“You have to see them, Jo.” Winifred squeezed and gave her arm a little shake.
Jo winced. Winifred might be getting on in years, her hair gone quite gray, but she was still very strong.
“Ah.” Jo stepped back, and, thankfully, Winifred let her go. She did hope she wouldn’t find bruises later. “Them?”
“The horses. Four beautiful chestnuts. Not as beautiful as the earl’s Arabian—or, at least, not beautiful in the same way. But still, beautiful.” Winifred sighed with pleasure.
Before Winifred could continue her paean, Jo turned to Rosamund—who was smirking.
This was very bad. “Horses?”
Rosamund’s smirk grew more pronounced. “The earl sent his traveling coach for you. It’s very fine.”
Jo’s jaw dropped. Her eyes might have goggled. “Earl? T-traveling coach?”
“It must have caused quite a stir when it came through the village,” Winifred said. “I’m surprised Tom didn’t follow behind.”
Winifred’s tone was a little gloating. Winifred and Tom, the ostler at the Dancing Duck, had a bit of a friendly rivalry, not that either of them often got to tend to any horse worth gloating over.
“You’ll have a lovely journey to Darrow, Jo,” Winifred said. “I wish I could go along.”
“I am not going to Darrow. I sent my regrets.”
Winifred frowned at her. “But the coach is here.”
Jo looked at Rosamund. “I wonder why.”
Rosamund shrugged. “Maybe the earl wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Jo did not think that was the case, but she also thought that, while Rosamund might have a good guess as to what had occurred, she wasn’t the one who had meddled.
This had Livy’s fingerprints all over it.
“Come on, Jo. You don’t want to keep the horses standing.” As always Winifred kept her priorities straight.
