Kieran Kramer - Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

“I hate when you do that. I want to work a long time, not be a flash in the pan. I’m aiming for the wall of unsung heroes, you see. I plan to be front and center.”

“Right,” Groop said dryly.

Groop had one serious shortcoming. He still couldn’t tell when Nicholas was being serious—and Nicholas was very serious about that wall.

Of course, Nicholas liked keeping Groop guessing. He didn’t need anyone to get close.

Close was reserved for his favorite horse, Fritz (who was now twenty-five and stabled at Seaward Hall), and his good friends, Lord and Lady Harry Traemore, Viscount Charles Lumley, and Captain Stephen Arrow of the British Royal Navy.

Everyone else could jump in a lake. Or go about their business. He didn’t care which.

“Lord Derby is a loyal subject,” Groop was saying. “Nothing to fear there. We told him he’d be doing a great service to his country and alleviating his own problems in the bargain if he would agree to your marrying his daughter, under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“He has to help expedite the betrothal if you run into snags. And he must agree to pay off your brother’s debts and help get your family estate back on its feet. We can’t have any financially insolvent dukes, you know. Leaves you open to blackmail.”

Nicholas propped his feet up on his employer’s desk. “My God, Groop, that’s brilliant. The government can keep paying me a pittance and let a private citizen award me the compensation I deserve for marrying a silly debutante who just might be off in the head. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Groop didn’t blink an eye. “The fact of the matter is, starting right now, you’re off assignment until your betrothal takes place.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“We’ve a particularly intriguing assignment coming up, too,” said Groop, “Operation Pink Lady. It comes with an MR, a rarity in our profession.”

Monetary reward, and Groop was right—they were hard to come by. Operation Pink Lady must be very important, which made Nicholas want to work on it all the more.

“How large is the MR?” he asked.

“Substantial. But you won’t need it if you align yourself with the house of Derby.”

“True, but—”

“But you want the assignment anyway.”

“Of course. Luscious assignments don’t come along as often as I’d wish. I want the monetary reward, too. The bigger the pile, the better. Seaward Hall requires a great deal of work, and in case Lord Derby’s tightfisted, that MR will be good insurance.”

“We should make a decision in the next day who shall handle it. If you want to be considered for it and if you care to continue working with the Service at all, you’ll betroth yourself to Lady Poppy tonight.”

Nicholas rose from his chair. “You dry-lipped devil. Why couldn’t you have told me this sooner?”

Groop shook out his cuffs. “I called you in a week ago. But you were too busy bedding Russian princesses to come in.”

“Oh, yes … right.” Nicholas sank back into his chair.

“This ultimatum should come as no surprise,” Groop said, steepling his hands under his chin. “On the first day of your training, you were told your IF.”

“Yes, but I thought I had several decades’ leeway.”

Groop’s gaze was unwavering. “Spoken like a true Impossible Bachelor. If you’d remained Earl Maxwell longer, you might have had another five years’ grace period. But the fact is, you’re now a duke. A duke should be married. Especially a duke who dabbles in clandestine work for His Royal Highness’s government.”

Nicholas scoffed. “I do much more than dabble.”

“We’re aware of that, Your Grace.”

“You know how I feel about marriage.”

“I do. If a brilliant, generous man like your father could be so deceived—”

“Then so could I.”

“Not all women are like your stepmother, draining away entire fortunes.”

“Yes,” Nicholas said, “but which ones aren’t? That’s the question.”

Groop sucked in his cheeks. “As you’ve no fortune to drain away at the moment, you’ve no need for concern in that regard.”

“Damn your cold, clear grasp of the situation, Groop.”

“Yes, you’re between a rock and a hard place, Your Grace. Your brother is currently in debt to Lord Wendell for a thousand pounds.”

“I know that,” Nicholas sputtered. “The half-shiner I’m sporting right now is what happens when an empty wooden keg thrown by one’s fleeing sibling meets with one’s eye.”

Groop steepled his hands. “Let me be blunt, Your Grace.”

“It’s your favorite thing to be.”

“Money and adventure. You and I both know you need them in equal measure. If you refuse to marry this girl, you’ll have neither.”

“I could go out on my own,” Nicholas said. “I could find my own wealthy bride, and I could certainly have my own adventures outside of the Service.”

“I’ve no doubt you could find that wealthy bride, Your Grace, but adventure? Where shall you find that adventure outside of the Service? At Seaward Hall?” He gave a bitter little laugh. “You’d slowly give up the idea that adventure exists, and you know it. You need me to seek it out for you, to put it in your lap, and to remind you that you’re more than a duke.” Groop drew himself up tall. “You’re a clandestine agent for His Royal Highness’s government,” he concluded dramatically, which for Groop meant his facial muscles twitched.

Nevertheless, Nicholas was shaken. Groop was right. Again.

Frank’s problems … Seaward Hall’s decay … to forget his personal troubles, he was foolishly indulging in too much brandy and too many women—sly women like Natasha, for example, who could have killed him if she’d wanted to.

He’d allowed himself to be vulnerable—was acting like a dilettante, as a matter of fact—and it was now time to shore up his defenses. A discreet mountain of money to dispense as needed, a meek bride, and a boring title would help restore some stability to his otherwise topsy-turvy life.

“Fine, then,” he said, never afraid to admit he was wrong. “But I’ll do the thing on my terms.”

The Service and his obligation to it always won out in the end, but he had to throw in a bit of rebellious rhetoric to keep things amusing.

“You’re wise not to waste time lamenting the current state of affairs,” his impervious advisor said over his spectacles. “Lord Derby will meet you at White’s at eight o’clock so he can make his own assessment of you, as any good father would. If you pass muster—which I’m sure you will—you’ll go to the Grangerford ball on your own and do your duty. If all goes well, by the end of the evening, you’ll be betrothed.”

“God help me.”

Groop tossed Nicholas something.

He caught it handily and looked down. It was a ring. A lovely one.

“It belonged to your mother,” Mr. Groop said.

“How’d you—”

“We have our ways.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Groop gave him an odd smile—half paternal, half wistful. “Might as well get used to the look of it.”

Yes, he might as well, Nicholas mused as he left Groop’s office in search of a bride. But he didn’t have to like it, did he?

“You—the young lady with the chamomiles in her hair!” The heavy Russian accent coming from behind Poppy at the Grangerford ball almost made her jump.

She inhaled a shallow breath and turned around to see a sturdy gentleman with broad shoulders and a large mustache who wore the uniform of a Russian army officer.

“Take those off,” he said, lifting his chin at her head.

My, he was rude!

But Poppy kept her head high and her demeanor cool. “Why?” she asked calmly. Inside, she was flummoxed—

And hurt on her mother’s behalf.

Every time Poppy went out, she tried to wear one thing she used to see her mother wear when she went out to parties. Some nights, she’d put Mama’s special mother-of-pearl bracelet on her wrist or wear Mama’s rings on her fingers. Other nights, she’d don her mother’s favorite kid slippers, the ones with the embroidered peacocks on the toes that she’d had resoled twice now. Still other nights, she’d wear one of her mother’s favorite fringed shawls or put fresh flowers in her hair, as she had tonight.

A beautiful young woman with glossy ebony hair knotted in a fanciful twist appeared from behind the man. She wore an exquisite gown in bold scarlet silk adorned with intricate black beading, a heavy diamond necklace, and many rings on her fingers.

It was Natasha, Sergei’s sister.

Poppy forgot her pique and was thrilled to see the princess in person for the first time. She had the same dark beauty as her twin brother.

Was Sergei right behind her? Poppy had been on pins and needles all week hoping to see him, but they’d yet to cross paths.

Now the princess stared at Poppy’s face, her hair, and her gown—and gave her a slightly bemused smile.

“Introduce us, please,” she said to one of her escorts. Several had appeared around her in the last few seconds, two of whom Poppy recognized as her father’s cronies from Parliament.

The uniformed man, probably serving as the princess’s bodyguard, moved back. One of the Englishmen, Lord Wyatt, stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Princess Natasha, this is Lady Poppy Smith-Barnes, daughter of the widowed Earl of Derby.”

Poppy inclined her head. “Honored to meet you, Princess.”

Lady Natasha inclined her head, as well. “I see Russian flowers in your hair,” she said in flawless, honey-thick English. “Chamomiles. I saw them from the top of the stairs, in fact.”