Cheers to the Duke

Book 3: Widow's Brew Series

by Sally MacKenzie

Genres: Regency Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

The "fallen" ladies of Puddledon Manor's Benevolent Home are restoring their reputations—and their future prospects—by operating their very own brewery and alehouse . . .



As the founder of the Home, Josephine Smyth-Waters is determined to be there for the women who need her. But when those same women conspire to accept an invitation on her behalf, she finds herself suddenly on the way to the christening party of the Earl of Darrow's baby. Guests at the party include her friends and former partners Pen and Caro—and Edward Russell, Duke of Grainger, the Home's generous benefactor and the man she's been writing to for months. While Jo decidedly does not have marriage on the mind, the duke's handsome looks and charming words are enough to make the lovely widow a little reckless . . .



Even after a year, the title of "duke" still sits strangely on Edward Russell's shoulders. When Edward encounters Jo—capable, fun, and utterly irresistible—he's delighted to find someone he truly connects with. A trick of fate has placed them on two different paths . . . but Edward is beginning to realize that perhaps he's not the kind of man who does the expected thing after all . . .



Contains mature themes.

Release date: October 5, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

End of June, Puddledon Manor

The widowed Lady Havenridge—Jo to her friends—strode up the path from the hopyard, Freddie, her brown and white spaniel, at her heels.

“The plants looked healthy, didn’t they, Freddie?”

Freddie tented his brows over his warm brown eyes and whined low in his throat.

Oh, hell. He was right, of course. He remembered as well as she did what Pen said every year at this time: It doesn’t matter how the plants look. Blight or bugs can destroy the entire crop overnight.

And if that happened . . .

No hops meant no ale. No ale, no income. No income, no Home. No Home, no place for her and all the other women and children to live.

Anxiety churned in the pit of her stomach. She worried about the hops every year, but this year was far, far worse. This year Pen wasn’t here to keep a close eye on things. Pen and Caro, their former brewer.

Now the crop—and the Home’s survival—rested solely on Jo’s shoulders.

Her anxiety boiled over.

“Ten years, Freddie! Over ten years. The three of us built the Home from nothing, and then”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that, they both marry and go off to live on their husbands’ estates, deserting me.”

Pen had wed the Earl of Darrow last summer; Caro, Viscount Oakland just after Christmas.

“I understand Pen. Her daughter must come first, and the earl is Harriet’s father. But Caro? You know how she feels about men.”

Freddie growled. He shared Caro’s low opinion of that breed.

“Oh, I’m happy for them.” And she was—when she wasn’t feeling abandoned and overwhelmed. “And I am thankful they got their husbands to contribute to the Home’s coffers, but . . .” She shook her head. “You know the old saying—out of sight, out of mind. They’ll get busy with their new lives—their new families—and all too soon the donations will stop, and then where will we be? We already rely far too much on the whims of the nobility.”

Freddie raised his brows.

Well, yes. He was right. The noble on whose whims the Home most relied—the Duke of Grainger, the man who owned the Manor and provided the bulk of their funds—had proven to be a dependable sort.

Thank God.

“I imagine it’s because he wasn’t born to the nobility, Freddie. You’ll remember that until a little over a year ago the man was just a London solicitor.”

That had been another stressful time. The influenza had swept through the Duke of Grainger’s principal seat when the old duke, his heir, and the spare had all been in residence. They, as well as a large part of the household, had taken ill and died in a matter of days, muddying the succession so much it wasn’t clear for months who was next in line. She’d combed the London papers daily, looking for any clue, dissecting every rumor. The Home’s future depended on the man. If he was a callous sort, if he decided he wanted Puddledon Manor for his own use . . .

Freddie bumped against Jo’s leg, and she reached down to scratch his ears.

“But he didn’t toss us all out into the hedgerows, did he, Freddie?” Things had turned out well, far better than she’d hoped. “You have to admit the duke’s been very supportive”—she smiled—“once he learned what the Home was, that is.”

Apparently, the estate books had been as muddied as the succession. The new duke had sent his friend, the Earl of Darrow, down to Little Puddledon last August to discover what or who was behind one cryptic entry.

And that was how the earl found Pen once more and learned he had a daughter.

Freddie barked his agreement; though, being a dog, he likely didn’t fully understand how much Jo had come to rely on the duke. The man was an excellent source of common—and not so common—sense. And he was a father himself, so he understood children’s needs.

She’d been corresponding with him since shortly after Pen married. Once Caro left her, too, she’d become even more dependent on his advice. She had no one else to consult.

Well, no one I trust.

A squirrel dashed across their path at that moment. Freddie gave a delighted—and perhaps relieved—bark and bounded after it.

For one mad moment Jo wished she could forget her worries so easily and hie off across a field—a figurative field—chasing any new thing that caught her fancy. That she could escape—

Escape? !

She blinked, staring at Freddie but no longer seeing him.

People escape from traps. I don’t feel trapped, do I?

No, of course she didn’t. The Home—the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children—wasn’t a trap. On the contrary, it had freed her. It had given her a purpose when she’d most needed one.

When Freddie—her husband Freddie, the handsome, charming, irresponsible rogue she’d married when she’d been hardly more than a girl—had lost everything on the turn of a card, put a pistol to his head, and made her a widow, she’d been . . .

Not shocked. Freddie had lived recklessly. She’d half expected him to come to such an end. Nor sad, really, beyond the feeling of regret anyone would have for a life ended too soon. No, the emotion she most remembered feeling was dread, a horrible, paralyzing, sinking fear that she’d be sent home, back to her father’s house and her father’s control.

I didn’t stay paralyzed for long.

No. Within minutes, she’d stiffened her spine and vowed she’d not submit to a man—any man—ever again.

She was still a bit in awe of how she’d gathered her courage and asked the old Duke of Grainger, the man who’d won the game Freddie had lost, to let her come here to Little Puddledon. And then, once her mourning period was over, she’d persuaded him to let her turn Puddledon Manor into the Home, a place where women could live their lives free of male interference.

She took a deep breath and then blew it out slowly.

I managed then, when I was young and on my own for the first time. I can manage now.

The squirrel had scampered up a tree and out onto a branch high above Freddie’s head. Now it chattered down at him while the dog jumped and spun below, barking wildly.

“Give up, Freddie. You don’t want that squirrel. What would you do with it if you caught it?”

Freddie stopped, looked at her, and then looked back at the furry rodent. He must have concluded she had the right of it, because he gave one last bark, lifted his leg to water the tree, and trotted back to her.

I do sometimes wish I could just piss on my problems and walk away, though.

Jo frowned. No, of course, I don’t. What is the matter with me?

She shook her head. It was past time to stop this foolish fretting and get back to her office. She needed to go over the books once more, looking for yet another way—or several ways—to economize.

Economizing isn’t going to solve your biggest problem.

She sighed. All right, yes. It wasn’t pounds and pence that kept her awake at night.

“To be honest, Freddie, it’s—”

Something moved in the bushes, and Freddie darted off again to investigate.

Jo heaved another sigh and adjusted her bonnet. Perhaps it was just as well she’d been interrupted. She’d not broached this subject with Freddie before, but it had been getting harder and harder to keep her tongue between her teeth.

When Caro had written to say she was marrying Viscount Oakland, she’d not sent the letter via the post. No, she’d had it delivered by the three London lightskirts she’d met at the viscount’s estate and who, she wrote, now wished to live at the Home.

There was the problem.

Oh, the lightskirt part was fine. Many of the Home’s residents had been in that trade. And while Fanny and Polly didn’t have any experience in what was needed here—agriculture and brewing—they were learning. Livy, however . . .

Lud!

It was Livy—Olivia Williams—who really bedeviled Jo.

Well, threatened might be a better word.

Which was silly. In many ways, Livy understood Jo’s concerns as none of the other women did. She’d been an independent businesswoman herself.

Except her business had been matching Cyprians with randy noblemen.

Which she could not do here. Jo had made that quite, quite clear.

Fortunately, there were no noblemen in the area. Livy wouldn’t make much money from the local farmers. Still, Jo had taken the precaution of putting a lock on the door to the estate’s folly, the gothic cottage that occasionally served as guest accommodations and where, she felt certain, Pen had conceived Harriet’s brother.

The baby whose christening Jo had declined to attend.

Regret brushed her heart. It would have been nice to see Pen and Harriet again—and the baby, of course. And Pen had written that Caro would be there, too, with her new husband. Jo would like to meet him. And Pen had asked Jo to be the baby’s godmother.

If only . . .

I can’t be away from the Home now. I have to keep an eye on the hop plants.

More to the point, she had to keep an eye on Livy.

Freddie trotted back to her, and she stooped down, cupping his face in her hands, looking deep into his understanding eyes. She couldn’t keep her worries to herself a moment longer.

“What is the matter with me, Freddie? I know I need help running the Home. I should be happy Livy is here. But . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t trust her. Yet when I try to puzzle out why—what I think she’d do that would harm the Home—I draw a blank. Her ideas aren’t bad. I just don’t like them.”

Be honest. Freddie will keep your confidence.

She leaned closer. Dropped her voice.

“I think she wants to push me aside and take over. She’s got Fanny’s and Polly’s allegiance already, of course, and I suspect she’s trying to persuade some of the other women to favor her as well.”

Power struggles among the Home’s residents were nothing new, but being sucked into them herself was. She settled disputes. She was the calm one. Rational. Clear-eyed. Able to see both sides of any issue.

She was none of those things now.

“The Home was my idea, Freddie. Mine. Pen and Caro helped, but I was the one who came up with the notion. I was the one who got it started.”

The Home was her life. It had given her a purpose all those years ago, but, more importantly, it gave her a purpose now. If it was taken from her—

Freddie licked her nose, and she laughed, dropping her hold on him and standing up. He always knew how to make her feel better.

“You’re right. I just need to give myself time to adjust. There have been a lot of changes. Once we get through the next few months, once the hops are harvested, I’m sure I’ll feel better.”

Freddie gave her what might have been a doubtful look, but she let it go without comment and started walking again, up the path, past the brewhouse, across the crushed stone yard toward her—

“Jo!”

Jo’s stomach sank. That was Rosamund Lewis.

She looked over to see Rosamund hurrying toward her from the front of the house, Winifred Williams striding along behind.

“Livy sent me to get you.”

Jo’s stomach sank lower. Rosamund had that sparkle in her eyes that suggested she was gleefully awaiting some emotional fireworks.

But there was a sparkle in Winifred’s eyes, too. That was very odd. Winifred was in charge of their stables—their very small stables, Jo’s aging horse, Bumblebee, being the sole occupant. The only time Jo could remember seeing Winifred this excited was last August when the Earl of Darrow had left his Arabian with her for a few hours.

The earl wasn’t here now, of course. He was at his estate with Pen, getting ready to welcome a houseful of guests to celebrate the christening of their son, his heir, Philip Arthur Edward Graham, Viscount Hurley.

This time regret plopped its heavy hindquarters smack down on her heart.

She shoved it away. “Is there a problem?”

Rosamund smiled slyly. “Not yet.”

Jo frowned at her, but then her attention was claimed by Winifred, who was now close enough to grab Jo’s arm.

“You have to see them, Jo.” Winifred squeezed and gave her arm a little shake.

Jo winced. Winifred might be getting on in years, her hair gone quite gray, but she was still very strong.

“Ah.” Jo stepped back, and, thankfully, Winifred let her go. She did hope she wouldn’t find bruises later. “Them?”

“The horses. Four beautiful chestnuts. Not as beautiful as the earl’s Arabian—or, at least, not beautiful in the same way. But still, beautiful.” Winifred sighed with pleasure.

Before Winifred could continue her paean, Jo turned to Rosamund—who was smirking.

This was very bad. “Horses?”

Rosamund’s smirk grew more pronounced. “The earl sent his traveling coach for you. It’s very fine.”

Jo’s jaw dropped. Her eyes might have goggled. “Earl? T-traveling coach?”

“It must have caused quite a stir when it came through the village,” Winifred said. “I’m surprised Tom didn’t follow behind.”

Winifred’s tone was a little gloating. Winifred and Tom, the ostler at the Dancing Duck, had a bit of a friendly rivalry, not that either of them often got to tend to any horse worth gloating over.

“You’ll have a lovely journey to Darrow, Jo,” Winifred said. “I wish I could go along.”

“I am not going to Darrow. I sent my regrets.”

Winifred frowned at her. “But the coach is here.”

Jo looked at Rosamund. “I wonder why.”

Rosamund shrugged. “Maybe the earl wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Jo did not think that was the case, but she also thought that, while Rosamund might have a good guess as to what had occurred, she wasn’t the one who had meddled.

This had Livy’s fingerprints all over it.

“Come on, Jo. You don’t want to keep the horses standing.” As always Winifred kept her priorities straight.

True. The sooner Jo had a word with Livy, the sooner the coach could be on its way—without her.

“Very well.” She headed for the front of the house, Freddie loping along beside her, leaving the other women to keep up as best they could. She turned the corner—

Lud! She’d half hoped Rosamund and Winifred had been telling her a tall tale, but no. There was indeed a carriage in the drive—and a footman in what she supposed was Darrow livery loading a large trunk onto it.

And Livy, directing the man.

“Livy!” Jo strode toward her.

Livy didn’t bat an eyelid. Oh, no. The witch smiled as if nothing was the least bit amiss.

“I’m glad Rosamund and Winifred found you so quickly, Jo. All’s ready here. The coachman says if you set off within the hour, you can reach the Horse and Pelican—which he assures me is a very comfortable inn—in time for supper. You’ll stop there overnight and then arrive at Darrow midmorning.”

White-hot fury exploded through her. No one—no one—made decisions for her anymore, and certainly not someone who was scheming to take control of her charity whilst her back was turned—or, more to the point, whilst her back was miles away.

“I am not going to Darrow,” Jo hissed through clenched teeth.

Livy smiled at the coachman, whose eyes had gone round as saucers. “Give us a moment.”

She grabbed Jo’s arm—fortunately not the one Winifred had mauled.

Jo shook her off. “Livy—”

“Hear me out, Jo.” Livy walked a few yards away, just out of the coachman’s earshot, and looked back.

The coachman cleared his throat. “Pardon me, madam, but the horses . . .”

Winifred and Rosamund had caught up, and Winifred added her appeal to his. “You don’t want to keep the horses standing, Jo.”

Indeed. What she wanted was to send the man and his bloody horses away at once, but it would likely be tidier to deal with Livy first.

“Yes, yes. I’ll just be a minute.”

Jo—with Freddie—stepped over to Livy, opened her mouth to tell the woman precisely what she thought about her shocking meddl—

“I know you weren’t planning to go to the christening, Jo,” Livy said softly before Jo could get a word out. “I saw your note. I freely admit I tore it up and sent a letter of acceptance instead.” Her lips curved into what looked like an apologetic smile.

Livy’s words made Jo’s fingers twitch, eager to wrap around the woman’s neck, but her tone . . .

Was that compassion she heard in Livy’s voice? Understanding?

It couldn’t be, and yet—

“You need a break, Jo. A holiday.”

She remembered how she’d felt watching Freddie chase that squirrel across the field.

“You are driving yourself mad”—Livy shrugged—“and everyone else mad as well.”

“W-what?” Livy was wrong. She must be. Yes, Jo might have been feeling a bit tense lately. Who wouldn’t be tense after losing two longtime partners? But she had herself under control.

Most of the time.

It was just that she felt she had to do everything now. Or at least supervise everything. Fanny and Polly were so new at their jobs. If they failed, the Home would fail and all the women and children living there would be, well, homeless. What would become of them?

What would become of me?

Her chest tightened.

She felt a light touch on her arm, pulling her away from the edge of the dark abyss she was teetering on and bringing her attention back to the present and Livy.

“Fanny is in a constant fidget, Jo. She’s worried that something will happen to the hops and you’ll throw her out on her ear.”

“What?! ”

Winifred, Rosamund, and the coachman all looked Jo’s way.

Jo lowered her voice. “Where did Fanny get that daft idea? I’ve never thrown anyone out of the Home.” Even when Rosamund’s daughter had been torturing Harriet last summer, Jo hadn’t threatened Rosamund with eviction.

Livy was shaking her head. “Fanny’s not stupid, Jo. She knows you’re constantly going down to the hopyard to inspect the plants. She sees how you look at her.”

Had the world turned topsy-turvy? Jo felt as if she needed to put out a hand to steady herself.

She put both hands on her hips instead. “How I look at her? What do you mean by that?”

Was that pity on Livy’s face? Perhaps she would wrap her hands around the woman’s neck—

She took a deep, steadying breath. Good Lord! Maybe I have lost a bit of perspective.

“You wrinkle your brows like this,” Livy said, scrunching up her face in a comical—and sadly familiar—way. “And you stare, though it’s clear you aren’t really seeing the person you’re staring at.”

“Oh.”

“It upsets Fanny. She’s come to me in tears on more than one occasion.”

“Ah.” How could I not have known that? Caro always said I was the tenderhearted one.

“You do it to Polly, too, but Polly just gets angry. So far, she’s only complained to me, but I’m afraid if matters don’t improve, she’ll soon start venting her spleen to anyone who will listen.”

That’s not good.

Livy might well have heard Jo’s thought. “I’m not saying anyone will take her side, but just having sides is a bad business. I’ve always found it best to nip such things in the bud the moment I become aware of them.”

Jo nodded. Livy was right. “I’ll have a word with Polly—and with Fanny, too.”

Livy raised a skeptical brow. “Oh? And what will you say?”

Jo opened her mouth—and stopped. What would she say?

Livy was shaking her head. “You’re worried about what might happen, Jo. You’ve got no complaint with either Fanny’s or Polly’s actual work, do you?”

“N-no.”

“Madam.” Urgency and deference battled in the coachman’s voice. “The horses.”

“You’ve had a rough time of it, Jo. Everyone knows that. You depended on Caro—and Pen—and now they’re gone. But you can’t bring them back by frowning and glowering.”

Livy’s voice was warm and soothing. Jo felt comforted—

No! Livy just wants to get rid of me so she can take over.

Was that true? Or had she let stress and anxiety twist her thinking?

Jo looked down at Freddie to see if he could advise her.

He was too busy scratching his ear to offer her any thoughts.

“Madam.” The coachman’s voice had a touch of panic now. “Please.”

“Yes, Jo.” That was Winifred. “Think of the horses.”

“You really do need a break, Jo. A fortnight away will give you a fresh outlook. It will be good for you”—Livy grinned—“and for us.”

“But . . .” But what? Jo felt the tide of everyone else’s opinion—and, yes, perhaps . . .