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Chapter One

St. James Square, London

February, 1819

The duke was asleep on the billiard table.

“Your grace?”

There was no response. The butler waited a full ten seconds. “Your grace.”

Still nothing. “Your grace.”

The duke started and opened his eyes. “What? What is it?”

“Good morning, your grace." The butler bowed. "Mrs. Raines, the housekeeper, has arrived.”

The duke stared at the ceiling. He took a long breath. “Very good, Mr. Dobbins. Thank you.”

He sat up and rubbed the side of his neck. He’d used a rolled-up jacket as a pillow, but it had come unrolled in the night. His head ached. In fact, as he became more conscious, he began to think that the headache might have less to do with his stiff neck, and more to do with the tickle in his throat. Perhaps the long, cold journey from Paris had caught up with him.

And perhaps this had been a mistake. After all, he could have been spending several very comfortable nights at Mivart’s Hotel or the Pulteney. He could have enjoyed good fires, thick carpets... hot baths... luxurious featherbeds. He need not have slept under his greatcoat on a billiard table. Or had a mouse run across his face in the night.

Dobbins cleared his throat. “I have brought tea, your grace. And I have been to the post office and retrieved your correspondence.” He handed him a sheaf of letters.

The duke winced as he adjusted his shoulders, passed his hand over his bleary eyes and riffled through the letters. One was yet another missive from the solicitor—but four appeared to be invitations. “Dear God. They have found me already.”

Dobbins raised his eyebrows. “It would seem so, your grace.”

So his decision to hide had been for nothing. Word of his return to London was spreading anyway. He coughed.

“Shall I respond with regrets to all of these, your grace?”

“Regrets?” He struggled to suppress another cough. “Not at all. I shall read them, and amuse myself by seeing who now wishes to pretend that we have always been on friendly terms.”

“Very good, your grace.” Dobbins handed him a cup of tea. “The glaziers are expected shortly. I have instructed them to begin with the window in your bedroom. Mrs. Raines will take measurements of the bed frame and forward them to Heal’s. They can have a new mattress made up and delivered in a matter of a day or so. Then you will not have to… ah…”

“Sleep on the billiard table?”

“Indeed, your grace.”

“Well.” West swung his legs over the side of the billiard table. “That, at least, is welcome news.”

A distant clattering noise began. Dobbins pulled out his watch. “That will be the coal delivery. The chimney sweep and his men are also due to arrive. When they are finished, we shall be able to light fires and heat the house.”

“Excellent.” The remnants of a bird’s nest lying in the billiard room hearth were a reminder of why sweeping the chimneys was necessary.

West had hired Dobbins only the day before yesterday, on the recommendation of Tompkins, his valet. Dobbins, in turn, had recommended Mrs. Raines, who was already hiring housemaids. Meanwhile, Dobbins had hired several footmen, arranged for tradesmen to begin work on the most urgent leaks, and organized the delivery of an emergency hamper from Fortnum & Mason.

West, who'd spent most of the previous day signing papers at several different offices, stuck the bundle of letters under his arm and rubbed his sore neck. “Well. Thank you, Dobbins. I shall go locate the study and hope that it is free of rodents. If you hear a high, girlish scream, you may assume that it is not.”

Dobbins’s eyebrows went up. “Your grace?”

“Never mind.”

The day before yesterday he and Tompkins had arrived in London from Dover, where the packet ships from France docked. It had been a long, cold journey on the mail coach. In retrospect, he ought to have hired a post chaise. But the reality that he was now the Duke of March—and no longer had to pinch pennies—hadn’t quite sunk in.

Their first stop had been the hushed, frosty Inns of Court, where previous duke's solicitor had handed him a huge ring of skeleton keys. “I fear that you may find the place in some… disrepair, your grace.”