Of Dukes and Forbidden Words (Dashing Rogues and Ruined Librarians #1)

Chapter One

Combes House

Grosvenor Square, Mayfair

London

As well as the incessant rain that fell onto everything.

“You know, Travers, today I turned eight and forty,” he said in a noncommittal tone, not taking his gaze from the scene outside.

“And do you think the weather could cooperate? Do you think anyone around me would care to drop by and encourage me to celebrate?” He blew out a breath. “No, on both counts.”

From somewhere behind him, his valet chuckled. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do something to mark the occasion, Your Grace. There is much to fill the time with, but I’m afraid that even you can do nothing about the rain.”

“There is that.” With a sigh, he continued to peer out the window. Despite the horrid weather, a few closed carriages ambled along the streets, the lanterns on the outsides providing cheerful, golden illumination in the gloom. “The damned Christmastide season will be upon us soon as well.”

“I am aware of that, Your Grace.” The valet came behind him and fit a waistcoat of gray satin to Barr’s torso then did up the laces in the back.

“Yes, well, with everyone scattered, I had hoped to forget this year.” He frowned, and watched the reflection of the gesture in the glass. “I had thought life would have been… more than it is by the time the children were grown.”

In his life, he’d been blessed with two children, who had both reached their majority.

His son was six and twenty, and he’d married last Christmastide.

His daughter was two and twenty, but she was quite selective about finding a match and preferred to remain unattached until she could decide what—and who—she wanted from life.

The girl had enjoyed three Seasons already to the same results, and that suited Barr just fine.

Marriage was forever; she needed to be certain, and he wouldn’t force the issue like so many of his contemporaries with daughters.

“Forgetting what has made you essentially… you, is never a good idea.” Travers softly cleared his throat. “Could we please complete your toilette, Your Grace? Tea will be served soon, and despite the fact that you are alone, you always enjoy the respite.”

“Very well.” Barr nodded as he turned about and then padded closer to the open wardrobe where Travers stood, holding out a jacket of sapphire superfine.

“Where most people despise the rain, I have never hated it, especially in London, but the recent weather has taxed even my acceptance and patience.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “Good God, will it ever stop raining?”

“At this time, it is the way of things, Your Grace.” The calming tone of his valet’s voice was something he needed and appreciated as he held up the jacket for Barr to slide his arms into the sleeves.

“Bah.”

They were well into what historians and journalists alike were calling “The Year Without a Summer,” all due to a volcanic eruption on a tiny island near Indonesia that no one had heard of, let alone knew had existed at all.

Hell, most people in England couldn’t pronounce Indonesia, and he suspected half of those people didn’t even think of a larger world that went past the bounds of their own country.

National dimness was what happened when education fell only to the upper classes, and no one put any sort of value on the ability to read or write. But then, that was how the men in charge liked things; a stupid population was one more easily controlled, and it kept their fat arses in power.

Bah. A pox on the Regent.

Dismal thoughts indeed—perhaps even treasonous in some circles—made even more so by the daily drenching rains and cold temperatures. Despite the fact that it was December.

Add to that was the fact that the Christmastide season would soon come upon them all, and that would probably prove dismal as well, since supplies coming into the ports were slow and, in less quantities, because crops all around the world had failed, livestock died, and textiles unable to arrive on time.

From one tiny volcano on a tucked-away island halfway around the world.

A humbug indeed.

“You need something to fill your days, something to occupy your time so you can perhaps see things with a new perspective,” Travers said as he brushed a piece of stray lint from a corner of the jacket.

Barr grunted in return.

One saving grace of the whole debacle was that England was in a better position than other countries, say America, in that they did have many ports and were able to import supplies more often now than in the summer, but things still hadn’t returned to good, and no one could predict when that would happen.

Or when the damned sun would ever shine again.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you come the crab, Your Grace, nothing will change unless you take that first step.”

“Do shut up, Travers. This isn’t one of those days when I want cheered up.”

All that rain made travel hazardous. He would pass the holidays in London instead of traveling to his country estate, which was near Cornwall, almost in the wilds. Ordinarily, that would suit his soul, for life was very different these days, especially since he’d lost his wife.

An unexcepted ache squeezed around his heart.

It didn’t happen much these days, but grief wasn’t exactly a straight line.

It had been five years ago. Some days he was perfectly able to conduct his life, then others, grief held him in a tight grip.

Where he’d assumed he’d have a lifetime with Georgiana, fate had other plans.

And had left him very much alone. Which brought his thoughts back to the steady rain drumming on the windows.

His two children weren’t in London just now and couldn’t get back even if they’d wanted to due to the wretched state of rural roads, so Edwin would remain at Scarborough Hall while Beatrice would stay with her cousins—his sister’s offspring—in Derbyshire.

Perhaps that was best, for they would each have a lovely holiday season, while it would probably prove more miserable than not here.

Amusement danced in his valet’s eyes. His blond hair gleamed like gold in the candlelight. “You can’t close yourself off during the Christmastide season.”

“I’m not. I’ll keep myself busy by finishing the ongoing renovation of this townhouse.”

“Which has been lingering since the autumn of last year,” Travers said with a raised eyebrow.

“Because of the damned volcano in a far-flung section of the world.”

Travers shrugged. “Does it matter? For whatever reason, you are dragging your feet on the renovations. I can only wonder why.”

“You know why. So do I.” He met the valet’s eyes. “Once it’s finally finished, I won’t have any other projects to fill my time, and I might feel compelled to circulate in society.”

“And we both know you will only do that as a last resort.”

“Indeed.” Barr shrugged. “Come. We’re headed for the attics.

I want to poke about and see if there is anything up there I can incorporate into the new décor for the drawing room.

” It had been the room he’d recently finished, and yet now it lacked a certain…

something to reflect his personality and the sense of adventure he’d once had.

“Must I?”

“You must. Since you are so keen on giving me advice, you might as well assist me in dragging down a few things.” With what felt like a cheeky grin, Barr led the way out of the room. “Shouldn’t take that long.”

Since no one could travel much due to the wretched weather, Travers consented to spend Christmas in London. That suited Barr just fine because they’d been friends for years, and he was one of the handful of people on the earth that he trusted.

They had been friends since meeting in India where Travers had worked for an English general.

When that man retired, since Barr was returning home from checking on his investments with the East India Company, he’d hired him, and they’d been together ever since.

The valet had helped him through the grieving process when Barr’s wife died five years ago, had been there when Barr’s son had married then left for Cornwall.

Conversely, Barr was there when Travers’ daughter died of consumption a few years back.

The valet’s wife served as the cook at the London townhouse, and there’d been many nights, especially in the winters, that they gathered in the kitchen around the hearth, drinking toddies together and playing cards.

There was no need to stand on ceremony or demand class divides amidst friends.

By the time the men poked through trunks and boxes stored in the attic section of the townhouse, they were cracking jokes and reminiscing about the antics of guests and children during prior years when he and his wife had hosted Christmastide balls.

“Might I speak freely, Your Grace?”

He glanced at Travers with a frown. “Of course. You know this.”

“Thank you.” The valet nodded as he sifted through clothing and slippers inside one of the trunks. “In my honest opinion, you do need to put yourself out into society more often. Accept some of the invitations being sent to you, especially during this time of year.”

“Thank you for the concern, but I’m not ready for any of that.”

Compassion reflected in Travers’ hazel eyes. “It’s been five years since Her Grace died, Barr. I rather doubt she would have wanted you to ignore everything and hide.”

“I’m not hiding.” Damn but time passed quickly yet alternately it went too slowly. “Besides, I’m a father.”

“Yes, with grown children who now have lives of their own.” The valet shook his head and shot him a knowing glance. “That doesn’t mean you’re dead.”

“Perhaps.” He set a box away from him that contained nothing more than old miniature portraits of various members of his family, now long gone from this mortal coil. “But I am busy with the renovation.”

Travers snorted. “Only because you refuse to hire the required number of laborers. It could have been completed months ago.”

“True, but I enjoy working with my hands.”