Dukes of War #1: The Viscount's Tempting Minx

Chapter Two

Benedict St. John, Viscount Sheffield, had a complicated relationship with his pocket watch.
He wasn't married to it, of course. Besides being a silly notion, he still held the same view on marriage as he had for the past five-and-thirty years: Not yet. He simply had no time for a wife.
No, the problem-or the joy, depending on one's vantage point-of his relationship with his pocket watch was that eight o'clock occurred twice a day. Benedict cleaved to that magic number, for it demarcated two very different aspects of his life.
From eight in the morning to eight in the evening, he was focused, take-no-prisoners Lord Sheffield, with nary a second's thought spared on women or horseflesh or merrymaking. At precisely eight in the evening, however, the sands shifted.
Woe betide the fool who brought business matters to Benedict's ears during the precious hours when he distanced himself from the relentless weight of his duties as lord! For as assiduously as he focused his entire being on taxes and tenants and politics and land during his working hours, he threw himself just as wholly and as recklessly into mind-numbing entertainments during his evening hours.
It was the only way he could be breakfasted and at his desk by eight of the clock every single morning. He just had to throw every fiber of his being into his affairs until the clock tolled eight, whereupon he could finally throw every fiber of his being into his . . . well, also his affairs. The more pleasurable kind. Which he oughtn't be thinking about at the moment, because there was almost half an hour of office time left. If he kept his mind sharp, he could balance one more table of accounts before heading to the theater, where he intended to select a new mistress for a private season of off-stage performances.
Accounts. Right. Focusing, he dipped his pen into the standish and began totaling the first row of sums. He made it through the first few pages before his butler appeared in the doorway.
Benedict frowned. No one called upon him during working hours without prior arrangement. "Yes, Coombs?"
"I'm afraid there's a Lady Amelia Pembroke here to see you, my lord. She was most insistent."
"I trust you informed her that I was not receiving, and refused to let her in?"
"Of course." Coombs hesitated before continuing, "She said she would simply wait until you are receiving."
Benedict put down his pen. "Wait where, pray?"
"Upon the front step, my lord. I'm afraid the lady brought . . . the lady brought . . . a book. She cannot be budged."
Benedict tilted his head, impressed. Rather than attempt to barge her way in, she'd come prepared to wait him out-on the front stair, where every eye in every townhouse in the whole crescent was likely watching her. Intrigued despite himself, he tugged at his fob and checked the time on his watch.
A quarter 'til eight. Damn.
"Did the lady mention whether she was calling for business or for pleasure?"
"Both, my lord."
He coughed. "Both?"
"She would not elaborate. She said . . . she said explaining the intricacies of her design to a butler would be a waste of both our valuable time, and that each of us would operate far more efficiently minding the tasks in which we're experienced. Then she pulled out a book and a pair of spectacles and sat down on the front step to read."
Benedict mentally canceled his plans for the theater. He loved actresses, found them endlessly diverting in fact, but was forced to admit he'd never once been intrigued by one. They were beautiful, simple creatures, which was precisely what he liked about them. After a long day of arguing in the House of Lords or negotiating business contracts or managing tenant properties, he liked to disconnect his brain and let the rest of his body reign for a few hours.
At least, he'd always thought he liked that. He was beginning to suspect he liked being intrigued even more. He consulted the hour again.
Still a quarter to eight.
A sudden thought occurred to him. "Do you mean to say we've got a lady with her derrière freezing to ice atop our slush-covered concrete?"
Coombs shook his head. "Not at all, my lord. She brought several rugs and a warming brick, and had her coachman clear off the steps before she settled in. He's got eyes on her, even if he can't talk her back into the carriage."
Benedict drummed his fingers atop his leg. She hadn't just been prepared in case she had to wait-she'd known it would happen! She'd planned for the lost time, for the denied entry, for the slush upon the stoop, for the inclement weather . . .
He shoved his watch back into his pocket.
Business and pleasure, the chit had said. He certainly hoped so. "By all means, Coombs. Show the intrepid lady in."
He returned to his sums until footsteps sounded out in the corridor. Eight o'clock. Perfect timing. He sheathed his pen.
Let the games begin.
He pushed to his feet the moment the lady appeared in his doorway.
Her hair was a rich brown and her eyes a clear green, but despite the fine cut of her gown or the becoming flush upon her cheekbones, those were not the aspects of her appearance he found the most incredible.
She was dry.
There wasn't a spot of snow on her pristine slippers. No hint of dampness to her velvet-and-ermine pelisse. No sign of the book or the warming brick or the infamous rugs. She had not only planned to be kept out, she had also planned to be let in!
"Who are you?" he found himself asking, his tone at complete odds with his usual charm and decorum.
She dipped a pretty curtsey. "Oh dear, I have you at sixes and sevens. I am Lady Amelia Pembroke, sister of Lawrence Pembroke, whom you perhaps better know as the Duke of Ravenwood."
He peered behind her. "Where is your chaperone?"
"Elder sister," she enunciated crisply. "At nine-and-twenty, I find myself being a chaperone rather than requiring one. If you suspect I have come to trap you to the altar, have no fear. Once our brief partnership has concluded, you will have no need to lay eyes on me anew. In fact, interacting in person need not happen beyond just this once. It would be far more efficient for us both if I were allowed to handle our business from here on out."
He leaned back. "What, may I ask, is the nature of our business?"
She inclined her head. "Just so. It came to my attention earlier today that you had canceled the seventy-fifth annual Christmas Eve ball. I would have called upon you immediately, but I'm afraid a prior engagement tied my hands until this very moment."
He tried to make sense of her words. She was apologizing for not descending upon him more promptly for a meeting he'd never in his wildest dreams anticipated?
"I didn't cancel it," he found himself protesting. "The ballroom burned down. There's nowhere to have a party."
She beamed at him. "So you agree!"
He blinked. "I agree with what?"
"That the problem is the venue, not the soirée. It's settled, then. You may return to your business. I shall handle all the arrangements. We'll be ready to announce the new location by the end of the week."
"We . . . What new location?"
"I haven't decided yet, of course. I didn't wish to undertake any investigations until having spoken with you. Not only would that have been presumptuous, it would have been a shocking waste of time if you and I weren't in agreement that the party must not be canceled."
He shook his head. "We're in agreement?"
"Wonderful." She clasped her hands together. "Now, lest you think I am in any way out to swindle you, let's have done with the subject of money once and for all. Neither of us hurt for coin, so in the interest of expediency, I am prepared to finance this year's soirée from my own pocket. You're a very busy man, and I am certain you wouldn't wish me to hound your doorstep at all hours of the day, begging for pin money for this florist or that sous chef."
"No, of course I . . . Stop." He held a finger close to her lips. "No-don't open your pretty mouth until I've had a moment to think."
She returned his gaze with the most placid of expressions. He wasn't quizzed for a moment.
As he considered his extraordinary guest, it belatedly occurred to him that he'd forgotten to bow. Well, it was too late for that. The introductions, such as they were, had done. But it wasn't too late to take hold of this quickly deteriorating situation before it spiraled completely out of hand.
He hoped.
Lady Amelia was apparently so determined that his family party take place, she was willing to organize it herself and finance the entire endeavor. Unfortunately for her, those were the two arguments least likely to sway his mind. Unlike most peers, Benedict had inherited his title not from his father, but from a distant uncle. He had not been raised with the expectation of inheriting so much as a shilling, much less groomed for the role of viscount. He hadn't even been next in line. One day he'd been a happy-go-lucky poor relation, and the next he was attending a mass funeral after a devastating outbreak of scarlet fever.
Everything he knew about the viscountcy, he'd had to teach himself. Everything he now owned, every penny the estate was now worth, came from ten years of hard work. If there was one thing he was constitutionally unable to do, it was relinquish any control of his hard won self-sufficiency. And there was perhaps nothing more closely entrenched in the viscountcy itself as the annual Christmas Eve ball.
If there was a second thing he was constitutionally unable to do, it was allow some other parti to finance any aspect of his personal or business affairs. To allow outside help might suggest Benedict unable to perform his duties, but to incur a debt of any kind would prove it.
Plainly speaking, there was no chance in hell Lady Amelia would get her way.
On the other hand, it was after eight o'clock at night and Benedict saw no point in longwinded explanations or upsetting the lady. The best course of action was to act receptive until after she quit his townhouse, and then send an elegant note of apology on the morrow, indicating (in writing!) that after thinking it over, he had no wish to pursue the holiday party, nor was there any need for her further involvement. There. It was settled. He had only to humor her until then.
"That is a very interesting proposal," he said aloud, careful to keep his smile engaging but his tone noncommittal. "If we were to pursue such a route, where would you relocate the festivities?"
Her response was brisk. "The most obvious choice is Ravenwood House, my brother's Hyde Park estate. While most aristocratic families winter in townhouses just like this one, I don't believe I'm exaggerating if I say that the ducal grounds boast the same square footage as this entire crescent. While nothing can replace what you've lost, the Ravenwood ballroom can certainly accommodate the correct number of guests in a comparable level of luxury and style."
He was no longer surprised to hear she had a ready, well-reasoned answer. If anything, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself capable of scotching it.
"As generous as your offer is, I cannot accept it. I'm certain it is the sin of pride at play, but I could not in good conscience allow a Sheffield ball to take place under the Ravenwood roof. The guests would quite properly consider it the first annual Ravenwood ball, which, as it happens, is not a poor idea. Why don't you pursue that instead?"
"Because it is at odds with my goals. I have put together many successful events over the years, but frankly, no invitation carries the prestige and sense of tradition like one with 'Seventy-fifth Annual' embossed across the top. My soirées are well-attended. But yours? No one wishes to miss a fête their family has attended for three generations."
He tried to look sympathetic. "In that case, I am very sorry that it didn't work out."
She frowned. "Of course it will work out. All we've done is agree that it cannot be at your estate, and it cannot be at mine."
"You agree that it cannot be at Ravenwood House?"
"'Tis not my party. The location deserved to be mentioned, however, since it is the most convenient. Which brings us to independent venues. The expense of finding and staffing such a location is much greater at this late date, but the advantages are threefold. First, it is a neutral location, untainted by any other family's title. Second, the very fact of not being a traditional ballroom increases the possibilities for alternate forms of entertainment, which will be an even bigger draw to your guests. Third, choosing a fashionable location will ensure the attendance of those who wish to see and be seen. The more attractive the entertainment and the easier it is to attend, the greater the chance of realizing the entire guest list."
Another rational, well-thought-out answer. He crossed his arms. "Why are you doing this?"
She smiled benignly. "I manage things. You have a project that needs managing."
His spine snapped up straight. "I'm quite capable of managing my own affairs. I've done so for the ten years I've been viscount-"
"Yes, yes, and you've done a marvelous job." She patted his arm. "No one is doubting your ability to improve upon tradition and somehow make every year's Christmas Eve ball even better than the last. What I do doubt is that you have the next fortnight free to do nothing more than apply yourself to relocating this year's soirée without sacrificing any of the cachet."
"Exactly! I love Christmas and deplore the idea of breaking tradition, but I already devote twelve hours a day to far more pressing matters, and cannot possibly drive myself mad undertaking something so easily skipped." He crossed his arms. "The ball may be a highlight of the season, but it's necessarily a low priority. It's as simple as that."
She tapped a finger to her cheek. "Are you . . . laboring under the misapprehension that you are debating me? To my ears, it sounds very much like we arguing the same side. You want the holiday party. I want the holiday party. You don't have time to devote to it. I have all the time in the world. What am I missing?"
"That I don't want you to do it," he blurted out. "I don't need your money, nor do I wish my family tradition to be altered by someone who is not family."
"Ah. Why didn't you say so at once? That's the easiest of all things to resolve."
He blinked. "How?"
"You'll pay for every penny of it, of course. You'll have full approval of the venue. And I'll submit a change request log to you every morning in writing, to which you can respond by dashing quick checks or Xs next to each line."
A rushing sound filled his ears. "Change . . . request . . . log?"
"I have attended every one of your Christmas Eve balls since my come-out twelve years ago." She held up a hand. "No-don't apologize for not recognizing me. It is the one time a year we are under the same roof, and they are infamously glorious crushes. You'll be pleased to know that I took extensive notes every single year, and am reasonably confident that if your venue had not burned down, I could have recreated the exact experience to a button."
He stared at her. "You took extensive notes? On my holiday parties?"
"I would've been foolish not to. I was mistress of my brother's ducal estate by then, and what better example to copy than the most celebrated fête of the year?" She waved a hand in the air. "My point is that I, of all people, am uniquely qualified to not only follow your family traditions as closely as possible without draining your time with direct supervision, but I can also recognize when elements must be unavoidably altered, and provide you with a detailed list in plenty of time for final decision-making."
He couldn't believe his ears. "Christmas Eve is two weeks away! How is that plenty of time?"
"Twelve days, to be precise. I doubt I will require half of that if money is no object, and you respond to my daily missives within . . . three hours. Does that sound like an efficient plan?"
He narrowed his eyes at the casually dropped three hours. He'd bet his left arm that, if asked, she could recite compelling reasons why three-not two and not four-hours was ideal turnabout. He was equally certain that she'd purposefully framed her final yes-or-no question as asking whether he believed the concept to be efficient, instead of whether he wished to go forward with it.
Clever, clever girl.
"How about I let you know what I think after I've had a chance to consider these independent venues, as you put it. I suppose you have that chosen as well?"
"Not at all. I have narrowed it down to three. I won't be able to provide you with a recommendation until I have visited them all, with an eye specifically turned to replicating your family tradition as faithfully as possible whilst taking advantage of the new location's unique assets."
"I see. And I suppose you intend to start on this first thing in the morning?"
"I intend to make significant progress in the next few minutes. My coachman is awaiting me outside because my next engagement begins promptly at nine. You can expect my report on the Theatre Royal to arrive sometime before dawn."
The theatre. His lips quirked. How ironic. "And if I wished to be present on this investigative expedition?"
She arched a brow. "Do you?"
He was startled to find that he did. "I do."

"Then grab your coat. They're expecting us backstage within the hour."
###

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