Once Upon a Duke Read online

  No other living person reminded him more of Christmases past. Seeing her before him was like inviting a specter into his heart, whisking him back through time to a different day, a different Christmastide, a different spark in the air.

  Five years ago, he’d still believed his grandfather might grow to love him. He would never have dreamed that the old man would steal the locket, much less have to die before returning it to Benjamin.

  Back then, his father had still been alive. Benjamin was not yet in the House of Lords, not yet spending every waking moment hunched over a desk or shouting at a podium before his peers.

  Back then, Benjamin had been naïve enough to believe he could kiss a pretty girl and maybe it would turn to more. That love was something he could keep.

  He had learned differently. Nothing good could stay. The only encounters he was meant to have were with those who wanted little from him except what they could have right now. A favor. A kiss. A moment of his attention. Not a lifetime of it.

  The Christmas after he’d left Noelle, Father had died. It was the last Christmas Benjamin had acknowledged. He refused to celebrate it… or even admit it existed.

  Until now. Until here. Until her.

  Everything about Noelle reminded him of Cressmouth. Everything about Cressmouth was designed to remind and evoke Christmas. Everything about Christmas reminded him of death and loss.

  Everyone he had ever cared about had been taken from him. Since childhood, he had lived in terror of losing someone he loved again, until he realized the simple solution. Don’t love.

  Such an ideology might not bring happiness, but nor did it bring despair. In a world where nothing lasted, it was better not to try, not to be disappointed, not to get hurt. He had left her because he had feared being left.

  The wise course of action would be to suffer through the next few days with as much distance and silence between him and his ghosts of Christmas past as possible. Especially the pretty one in the gold-rimmed spectacles. The more he interacted with Noelle, the harder it would be to go. No sense playing with fire. He should leave their brief connection in the past where it belonged.

  But temptation was so hard to fight. She was right here, on the other side of the room. A short distance. An eternity this time. When he left Cressmouth, he would not see her again. This was his last chance to gaze upon her face, to hear her voice. To be this close.

  He could not bear the silence. But what did they have to talk about, save the shared pain in their past? It would not do at all. He racked his brain for a new topic. A safer topic.

  “Did Tiny Tim receive a bequest in the will?” he asked. He had no idea who Tim was, save that the man was rumored to be in want of a duchy.

  Noelle stared at him for a long moment, her face devoid of expression. “No. Tiny Tim already embodies the spirit of Christmas. He wants for nothing.”

  Benjamin could not imagine what that meant. As much as he wished to avoid any conversation that included Christmas, he was more curious about Tiny Tim than ever. Or perhaps it was Noelle who made him curious. The more time he spent with her, the more intriguing she became.

  That way lay danger. He should focus on the task at hand, not Cressmouth’s townsfolk—and definitely not the woman seated across from him.

  No matter how tempting he found her.

  He forced himself to refocus on the aviary. “I don’t suppose you have a dossier of all bird purveyors in the region, as well as the ideal feed and habitat conditions of a captured partridge?”

  She glanced up. “I can compile it by tomorrow.”

  Benjamin blinked in surprise. He had been jesting. Noelle clearly was not. He leaned back in his chair. Grandfather might have appointed her to Benjamin’s side, but he had no intention of treating her like an employee.

  “No need,” he assured her. “Partridges are plentiful and research is unnecessary. It’s just a bird.”

  She lifted her shoulder. “I am a competent clerk. I don’t mind handling the partridge situation for you.”

  “It’s not a situation,” he said. “I myself am quite competent. If I can help run Parliament, I can handle a partridge.”

  “As you wish.” Her expression was skeptical at best, but she returned her attention to whatever she had been working on without further commentary.

  Benjamin tried not to be offended by her obvious lack of confidence in him. He might be out of place in Cressmouth but he was far from helpless. Such a simple project would be completed in no time. He would check the castle cellar for champagne, and stock the aviary with precisely one bird. Easy enough. He did not need her help.

  Yet he could not deny his admiration of her organizational skills. The documentation she had prepared on the local workforce had been incredibly thorough. He had no doubt she would be able to deliver just as exhaustive a report on the care and feeding of partridges, the ideal time and place to purchase fowl, and the best ways of encouraging nesting upon arrival. Whatever she thought of him, he did not wish for her to believe a duke might require such molly-coddling. In fact, this was a wonderful opportunity to prove himself.

  Due to his estranged relationship with his grandfather, Benjamin had correctly assumed he would neither inherit the castle nor its coin.

  Given his grandfather’s eccentricities, perhaps Benjamin should not have been surprised to discover the old man had left the castle in trust for the use of the entire town as a whole. It belonged to everyone and no one at once; the beating heart of a vibrant community.

  Such a philanthropic plan might sound neat and tidy to someone who had never actually had to manage a population of any size. Benjamin, however, had spent years dealing with budgets and infrastructure and dissenting opinions. Nothing was easy.

  No doubt, Grandfather had believed his mad decision to donate the castle to an entire town no more capricious than his decision to squander the Marlowe fortune on the creation of a Christmas village in the first place.

  Although Benjamin was unaffected personally by such whimsy—his title and wealth came from his father’s side of the family—he could not walk away without assuring himself that Cressmouth wouldn’t fall apart before the solicitor could make sense of the accounts.

  Benjamin let out a resigned breath. He dealt with books and numbers and policies on a daily basis. The least he could do was look over the journals of record to ensure the castle’s affairs were in as much order as possible.

  “Where are Fuzzy Wig’s notes?” he asked. “While I’m waiting on the aviary renovations, I might as well take a look at the accounts.”

  Noelle tensed as if the offer had caused offense. Nonetheless, she directed him toward low shelves at the rear of the room. The bookcase was packed with bound volumes with a year engraved on each spine. He frowned. For a short period of time around five to ten years ago, there were two journals for each year.

  Curious, he collected the volumes spanning the past dozen years and carried them to his desk.

  As Benjamin flipped through the books, Mr. Fawkes’s hand slowly and inexorably devolved from clean and precise to an unintelligible scrawl. Numbers were no longer summed, but scribbled. Annotations as to what items were even being referenced began to appear as afterthoughts at best.

  Unease churned in his stomach. This wasn’t something he could resolve in an afternoon. Organizing this level of chaos, checking the facts, filling the gaps… It would take months to put to rights.

  Months Benjamin did not have.

  Heart heavy, he reached for the next journal. This one was the first duplicate. He let out a deep breath before lifting the cover.

  This was a different hand. Bold. Confident. Unerring. He recognized it at once. Its architect was the same woman who had just handed him a fully researched report containing every detail even peripherally related to his grandfather’s aviary. His esteem rose even higher.

  Noelle had done more than fill in the blanks. She had checked and cross-referenced, trimmed duplicates and computed tallies. This
wasn’t merely a correction to Mr. Fawkes’s missteps. It was a masterwork. Its information and presentation more precise and illuminating than any previous volume.

  Quickly, Benjamin flipped through the remaining journals. He was not surprised to discover more of the same. Mr. Fawkes’s contributions, increasingly incomprehensible. Noelle’s, stunningly thorough. He was in awe of the quality. Parliament had voted acts into law that weren’t half as elegant and detailed as this.

  The year the duplicate journals ceased must have been the year she fully replaced her mentor. Benjamin was astonished Mr. Fawkes had managed to mentor her at all with the books in such disarray. Noelle must have taught herself everything she needed to know by performing the painstaking research required to remake Mr. Fawkes’s journals into something useful. Good God, she was clever.

  Noelle hadn’t become Grandfather’s “clerk.” She had become his savior, and Mr. Fawkes’s as well. The counting house—and every account the castle was responsible for collecting or paying—would be in complete disarray without Noelle’s timely rescue. Benjamin could not help being impressed at how smart and capable she was.

  No wonder she’d had every detail about the aviary at her fingertips. It wouldn’t exist without her. None of Grandfather’s projects would.

  Had her patrons even realized what a treasure they had? If Grandfather truly cared about his aviary, he would’ve put Noelle in charge. She would have had it stuffed with partridges in a trice. Two of every bird in England, no doubt.

  He frowned. Why had Grandfather assigned the task to Benjamin, of all people? He knew the least about Cressmouth of anyone named in the will. Grandfather had to have realized Benjamin wasn’t invested in the outcome. He wouldn’t be bothering with the partridge and the champagne at all if the fate of his mother’s locket didn’t hang in the balance.

  “You’re scowling,” Noelle said suddenly. “Do the journals not meet your approval?”

  Before he could reply, the door swung open and a woman in a light blue gown and a colorful scarf rushed in.

  Splendid. His muscles tensed. Instead of a duke alone in a room with one female, now there were two. He gave the new arrival a closer look. Nearing thirty years of age, at least this one did not appear to be a debutante. Perhaps Noelle had summoned a chaperone after all.

  “I love it.” The woman rushed forward to envelop Noelle in a quick embrace before pointing both index fingers at her throat. “It’s perfect.”

  The scarf, Benjamin realized. Noelle must have gifted her friend a scarf.

  “Your Grace, I present Miss Penelope Mitchell.” Noelle’s laughing eyes were not on him, but her friend. “Penelope, this is His Grace, the Duke of Silkridge.”

  “Mr. Marlowe’s grandson,” she breathed, as if that were Benjamin’s greatest accomplishment. “How do you do? Isn’t this the cleverest scarf you ever saw?”

  “It’s a thoughtful gift,” he teased, “but I don’t know about ‘clever.’ There isn’t a colder corner of England.”

  Miss Mitchell laughed. “Or a more stylish one. I have dozens of scarves. This is the first one that has been personally knitted for me by Miss Pratchett.”

  His gaze flew to Noelle. Her organizational skills had not only conquered accounting journals, but also colored yarn. She was not just intelligent, but talented as well. Full of hidden layers.

  Deuce it all, Benjamin had not needed another reason to hold her in high esteem. He had found her unforgettable the last time. Fate was cruel indeed to make her all the more fascinating.

  “Of course you would think Cressmouth cold,” Noelle told him. “You weren’t even wearing your scarf when you arrived.”

  “I didn’t bring one,” he admitted. He had not planned on staying long enough for sartorial choices to matter. One night, no complications. And now…

  “Miss Pratchett could lend you one,” Miss Mitchell suggested. “She has an entire armoire full of scarves she knitted herself.”

  Noelle’s cheeks flushed pink.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Benjamin said quickly to extricate her from obligation. The next time he braved the horrid weather, it would be to climb in his carriage and go home.

  Noelle sat on the edge of her desk and faced her friend. “You did not come all the way up here to show me a scarf I knitted myself. Out with it.”

  “It’s a new perfume,” Miss Mitchell admitted. She removed a small glass vial from a leather satchel.

  Noelle brought the vial to her nose and lifted the stopper. “It smells… pretty?”

  “It’s supposed to this time. I’m looking for testers.” From her satchel, she pulled the smallest accordion bellows Benjamin had ever seen. “Individual drops are too inefficient a delivery method. I’m developing a new dispersal system.”

  “Silkridge volunteers,” Noelle said without hesitation.

  With a practiced motion, Miss Mitchell squeezed the bellows shut. An immediate cloud of perfume shot from the opening and enveloped Benjamin in a fog of vanilla and lilac.

  He coughed into his fist and waved a white handkerchief in the air to dispel the fragrant mist surrounding him. If his gesture of surrender also dispelled the diabolical women giggling to themselves, so much the better.

  Noelle stroked her chin. “I believe it’s too…”

  “Powerful?” Miss Mitchell guessed.

  “Feminine,” Noelle corrected with a laugh.

  “Perfect. This version is for women. The scent is meant to arouse the passions of gentlemen.” Miss Mitchell lowered her voice. “I hope the duke isn’t attracted to himself all day.”

  “I’m sure he’s used to that,” Noelle promised dryly.

  Benjamin glared at them both. “You’re going to need a smaller bellows.”

  “She’s a scientist, not an engineer,” Noelle said. “Her perfumes sell to apothecaries by the drum.”

  “Although I had hoped…” Miss Mitchell gave her pocket-sized bellows a frown. “Ah, well. I suppose clients can continue applying perfume drop by drop if that’s what the public wishes.”

  “It’s a lovely scent,” Noelle said firmly. “No matter how one applies it. Where are you off to now?”

  “Back to the laboratory.” Miss Mitchell returned her items to the leather satchel. “All that’s left is proof of efficacy. A few more trials should do it.”

  “Be sure to come out of your workshop by tomorrow night,” Noelle said. “You won’t wish to miss The Winter’s Tale.”

  Miss Mitchell brightened. “I would never.”

  “The Winter’s Tale, the Shakespeare play?” Benjamin asked.

  Noelle’s eyes shone. “Fuzzy Wig adores Shakespeare. He started the tradition.”

  Of this, Benjamin had no doubt. “I didn’t realize Cressmouth had a theater.”

  “No theater,” Miss Mitchell explained. “At least, not the enclosed variety. We’ve an amphitheater on the other side of town that we use for plays.”

  “Are you mad?” He stared at the women in disbelief. “You sit outside for three hours in this weather? On purpose?”

  Noelle’s eyes laughed at him. “I told you. It’s a Christmas tradition.”

  “It’s January,” he reminded them.

  “Not the holiday of Christmas,” Miss Mitchell explained helpfully. “The town of Christmas.”

  “For the last time, it’s not—” Benjamin gave up.

  “Will you be attending?” Miss Mitchell asked him.

  Benjamin gave a theatrical shudder. “Absolutely not. I want nothing to do with Christmas.”

  Miss Mitchell frowned. “The town or the holiday?”

  Benjamin heroically refrained from pointing out that the constant confusion would end if they left the village’s original name alone.

  “Both,” Noelle said. “He’ll leave it all behind as soon as he’s able.”

  “When he does, there will be one less duke in Christmas,” Miss Mitchell said with a sigh.

  Benjamin stared at her. “Not you, too.”
r />   Noelle raised her brows. “Not her, what?”

  He was starting to believe the entire town had conspired to drive him mad. “At the reading of the will, some woman claimed there were twelve dukes in Cressmouth.”

  Noelle exchanged glances with Miss Mitchell.

  “The mathematics appear sound,” her friend confirmed.

  “Low, if anything.” Noelle tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips as if counting mentally.

  “There are not twelve dukes in Cressmouth,” Benjamin burst out in annoyance.

  “How would you know?” Noelle asked reasonably. “Can you even name twelve people in Cressmouth?”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “I challenge you to name all twelve dukes, then.”

  “Well, there’s you,” Miss Mitchell began. “Obviously.”

  “And the Duke of Azureford,” Noelle continued. “And Olive Harper’s famous stallion.”

  “You’re right,” Miss Mitchell said. “Everyone says he’s an excellent stud horse.”

  “‘Duke’ the stud horse?” Benjamin said in disbelief. “That’s one of your dukes?”

  Noelle raised her brows. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Everyone’s heard of him,” Benjamin said, exasperated. “But he’s a stallion. The literal kind. You can’t count a horse as a duke.”

  “Why not?” Noelle asked innocently. “I’ve certainly met dukes who are absolute beasts.”

  He bit back a choked laugh. The insult was not even thinly veiled.

  “Thank you again, Noelle. I’m off to work on the formula.” Miss Mitchell paused at the door before disappearing into the stairwell. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. I’ll select a more appropriate test subject in the future.”

  Surely she didn’t mean that to sound so ominous.

  “She’s a lady perfumer?” he asked Noelle after Miss Mitchell had gone.

  “She’s a chemist,” Noelle answered. “Who sometimes makes perfumes.”

  He decided against further questions. The answers were unlikely to illuminate the matter. He needed to focus on returning to Parliament as quickly as possible.