Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart

Book 1: Lords of Hazard

by Sabrina Jeffries

Genres: Historical Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

For readers of Regency romance by Julia Quinn, Lisa Kleypas, and Madeline Hunter, New York Times bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries debuts a brand new series in trade paperback in which a lord, detained in France during the Napoleonic war, returns home to find he’s inherited a dukedom and vows to make a match for his deceased mentor’s daughter.

Intriguing twists and sparkling wit entwine in this stunning new historical romance from the New York Times bestselling Sabrina Jeffries, as a once-exiled patriot returns home to a changed world . . .

Napoleon’s war has ended, and English captives detained for years in a French fortress are finally released. Returning to a London he no longer recognizes, and facing astonishing changes in his own family, Lord Jonathan Leighton learns he has inherited a dukedom. But the new nobleman carries the guilt of having wronged his late mentor. Now, he vows to fulfill his promise to find a suitable match for the man’s daughter, Victoria—even if it takes offering a nonexistent dowry to spark her interest in matrimony . . .
 
Sharp-witted Victoria would just as soon sculpt the Greek god who has come to take charge of her future. In fact, she has her sights set on founding a school for women artists. As Jonathan matches wits with the talented beauty, revelations from his past—and their connection to her father’s demise—threaten to unveil both of their closely held secrets and thrust them into a danger they can only escape together.

Release date: April 29, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Falcon House, London

June 1814

When the hackney carriage from the coaching inn drew up before the London residence of the Duke of Falconridge near dusk, what Jon saw took him aback. Between the scaffolding and scurrying workmen, he couldn’t tell if the house was being torn down, renovated, or repaired. And the funerary hatchment over the front door plus the black ribbon tied to the door handle struck terror to his heart.

It couldn’t be for his father, who’d died years ago. His half brothers and sister were surely too young, but Mother . . .

A chill skittered down his spine, making him stiffen. She couldn’t be dead. He wouldn’t believe it. Why, the ribbon and hatchment could be for anyone—an uncle, a cousin, a great-aunt. The place might even belong to someone other than his family by now.

No, the house couldn’t be sold—it was entailed upon his eldest half brother. But it wouldn’t be the same household to him, regardless. Once upon a time, he’d been the apple of his mother’s eye and the indulged youngest son of his aging father. As a child, he’d lolled about on the worn old sofa in his mother’s dressing room. He’d spent hours in Father’s library, poring over gilt volumes that spoke of adventures in foreign lands with unusual names like Zanzibar and Malaya.

That boy was gone. All that was left was the man with an ever-burdensome guilt and no place he belonged anymore.

So, even the fresh yellow drapes in the windows couldn’t cheer him. The iron door knocker of a fierce lion had been replaced with a gleaming brass one of a Greek goddess, and the door itself had been painted a bright turquoise, but that was all just appearances—it didn’t change the fact that here in this part of London, nothing was quite as it had once been.

His father was dead, his half brothers, Alban and Aubrey, were in charge and probably still bullying Jon’s mother—their stepmother—and he would have to figure out if he could find a place in this odd England with its gleaming new buildings, freshly laid roads, fancy equipages, and unfamiliar sounds.

He only had two promises to fulfill: the one he’d made to Morris concerning the man’s family and the one he’d made to himself the day they’d been recaptured and sent to Bitche—that he would find out who’d betrayed them and would make sure the villain or villainess paid for it. After that, he would do his best to get on with his life, such as it was.

Stifling a sigh, he stepped down and paid the hackney coachman from his small store of coin. Like most détenus, he’d had to go into debt in France just to find a way home. Unlike many of them, however, he intended to pay his debts once he gained access to his allowance. Surely, he still had some sort of allowance.

A footboy in Falconridge livery went running by with what looked like wrapped sandwiches for the workmen, and Jon hailed him with a word.

Jon asked the most pressing question first, “Who is being mourned here?”

The boy gaped at him. “Do ye not know, sir? It was in all the papers at the time. The duke hisself and his brother died near six months past.”

The duke himself? “You’re speaking of the Duke of Falconridge and his brother, Aubrey?”

“Aye. Who else?”

Both of his half brothers dead. Jon could hardly fathom it. “How did they die?”

“Drowned in the Thames when the ice broke at the Frost Fair.”

This sounded more fantastical by the moment. “Frost Fair! What the bloody hell is a Frost Fair?”

The footboy blinked at his profanity. “When the Thames froze.”

Ah. Jon had forgotten it did that sometimes. He’d been five the last time the great river had frozen, but it had been considered too unsafe for him to be out on the ice, so only his half brothers had been allowed to venture there.

Good God, Alban and Aubrey. What a horrible way for them to die. Even they hadn’t deserved that. He tried to drum up some grief over their untimely end, but considering how they’d tormented him his entire childhood, and how long it had been since he’d seen them, he couldn’t feel much of anything.

The footboy waved his hand at the house. “The last duke started this renovation before he died. Now the duchess is trying to finish it for when the new duke arrives. They say he’s on his way from France.”

Oh, damn, the new duke. That must be him. He was now Duke of Falconridge? Father’s heir?

God help them all if he had to be duke. He could barely fathom the changes to England, much less the changes to a dukedom.

His dukedom.

His hands grew clammy inside his pathetically worn gloves. No. How did that make any sense? He’d been in a prison for years—how could he now be a man of such lofty rank?

Jon stood there lost. No one had ever expected him to be duke, and he’d never been trained to be duke. It was madness.

His stomach churned at the thought.

A voice cried from above him, “Your Grace!” and startled him.

Get hold of yourself, man. You’re duke now whether you accept it or not.

“Good afternoon, Kershaw,” he said as formally as he could manage.

Their butler marched down the front steps with distress and concern on his weathered face. Kershaw had aged a decade since Jon’s departure, and it showed in his gray hair and wrinkled brow.

“We did not expect you until tomorrow,” the man said in a choked voice. “Forgive me for not watching for you—”

“No, no, nothing to forgive. I hadn’t expected the roads from Dover to have improved so much in eleven years. We arrived faster than even I thought we would.”

“It’s so good to see you . . . Your Grace.” Kershaw gestured to a footman in the doorway, who came running.

“It’s wonderful to be here at last, Kershaw.” What an understatement.

The footboy Jon had hailed earlier was gaping at him as if at a god. “You don’t look like a duke,” he said, with a hint of suspicion.

Jon managed a smile. “Don’t feel like one, either.”

Kershaw waved the lad off. “Where is the rest of your luggage, sir?” he asked as the footman hauled Jon’s battered trunk from the back of the carriage.

“That’s all of it, I’m afraid.” Jon was wearing his only good suit of clothing. Through the years, most of his belongings had been sold or stolen. What remained was in no shape for wearing, especially after the weeks-long trek he and a few other détenus had endured from Bitche to Paris in less than decent weather.

“Well, you’re home now, Your Grace,” Kershaw said softly. “I can recommend an excellent tailor, bootmaker, glover, hosier—”

“Thank you. I’ll need all of those, I’m afraid.”

“You’re most welcome, sir.” Kershaw flashed him a kind smile. “I will have your valet, Mr. Gibbons, examine your belongings and make a list of everything you require, sir.”

“No need. Assume that I require everything, and just burn the clothes in my trunk. None are wearable in polite society. Wait until tomorrow, and you can burn these, too. All I want this evening is to see my family, eat a good English meal, and have a glass of—” He paused. “I assume the cellar and study are as well-stocked with ale and whisky as ever?”

“Whisky, sir?”

“I haven’t had any good Scotch in a decade, so yes, whisky.” His voice hardened. “I’ve drunk enough bad wine to last me a lifetime, and I shall never drink French brandy again.”

“I see. Then I can assure you that the cellar and study are more than adequately stocked, Your Grace. As you may recall, your brothers were wont to imbibe a great deal of spirits. Shall we go in so that you might choose a Scotch?”

Jon still hesitated. It felt odd being able to “choose” a Scotch when there’d been none available to him for over a decade. And Father had never allowed him any at seventeen. Certainly, Alban wouldn’t have offered any.

If the man were alive. Which he wasn’t. Neither he nor Father nor Aubrey were. That left only Jon as head of the family. Duke.

Kershaw went on, with a catch in his voice. “The duchess will be ecstatic to see you, sir. When your friend delivered your letter, your mother could hardly believe it. Until then, she thought you dead. We all did, after so many years without hearing from you. Your last missive from France was eight years ago, and we heard so many stories . . .”

“No doubt,” Jon managed to say. “So did we, at Bitche.” Stories of escapees being murdered, of gendarme cruelties . . . of why the war was dragging on. He thrust the memory from his mind. “But nothing much of England. I certainly never got word about my brothers.”

“Yes, well, you see before you a house still in mourning,” Kershaw said solemnly. “May they rest in peace.”

As the footman started up the steps with Jon’s trunk, a flurry of blue-garbed female flashed past the servant and down the steps.

“You’re here! You’re finally here!” cried a voice he vaguely recognized as his sister’s. She halted in front of him, her green eyes sparkling. “We feared your impending arrival was a lie,” she said in a voice choked with emotion, “and you’d turn out to be dead, after all!”

She hugged him rather awkwardly, and he hugged her back, fighting to swallow the lump in his throat. “No chance of that, Chloe. I fought to avoid the grave just so I could see you and Mother again.”

Clearly, his sister was a woman now. Illogically, he’d expected to encounter the impetuous 8-year-old he’d remembered, as if she’d been frozen in time. It disconcerted him to see her otherwise.

He drew back to look her over. Even wearing a demure debutante’s gown with her black curls swept up into a sophisticated coiffure, she couldn’t hide how she’d filled out everywhere. And she was only a few inches shorter than his six feet—tall for a woman, like their mother.

“You grew up,” he said inanely.

“So did you.” She reached up to smooth a streak of gray at his temple. “You look like Papa.”

“You mean, old and grizzled?”

“Of course not! But your brown hair hasn’t darkened to black the way mine has and Papa’s never did. Plus, you’re . . . a lot thinner than I remember.”

He couldn’t resist the urge to chuck her under the chin. “You’re more ladylike than I remember. No more pinafores and pigtails, I see.”

“I grew out of the pinafores, I’m afraid,” she said with a light laugh. “And I cut my pigtails off years ago so you couldn’t pull them again when you returned.” She frowned. “I had no idea you meant to take your time about the latter.”

“Trust me, Mopsy, it wasn’t planned.”

Sadness flashed over her features before she managed to smile. “Don’t call me Mopsy—you’ll scare away my suitors. I’m in the midst of my second Season.” She lifted her nose in a mocking approximation of someone high in the instep. “My father was a duke, you know, so I am quite the catch.”

“Then why are you in your second Season?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Because there are no good men to be had in London, silly. But the war is bringing them slowly back, so perhaps I will have offers I can actually consider taking.”

That sounded worrisome. “How many offers of marriage have you turned down?”

“Several,” she said with a shrug. “I’m rather particular, as every sensible woman should be. But I do mean to marry if I can ever find a decent fellow.”

Apparently, he would have to add finding Chloe a husband to his list of responsibilities.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Which is why you simply cannot call me Mopsy anymore.”

“Very well. Would you prefer the more elegant Cockleshell Chloe or Denice of the Fairies?”

Clearly struggling not to laugh, she shook her head. “I’d rather you use my proper name. Or Sis, if you simply must be informal. You gave me those other nicknames eons ago—they’re hardly appropriate now. I give them back to you to stow away forever.” Her sly expression reminded him of her at eight, full of wild plans and silly pranks. “Otherwise, I shall call you Bonny Jonny as Mama did when you were young.”

“Ah.” The familiar nickname saddened him. That lad was a lifetime away from who he was these days. “Now I remember why I stayed away so long,” he managed to tease.

Lightly swatting his arm, she said, “Come, let’s go find Mama.” She tugged him toward the steps. “She’s upstairs overseeing the men putting in the new marble. Tory went to tell her of your arrival.”

He hesitated, caught off guard. “Tory?”

“My governess, Victoria Morris. You know, Dr. Morris’s daughter.” When he stared at her disbelievingly, she said, “Did you receive none of the letters we sent?”

“None after Napoleon’s edict in ’06. The commandant was ordered to confiscate whichever ones got through. I bribed a gendarme to get me one, but he lost his position over that, so that was the last I read, sometime early in ’07, I believe?” And once he’d been sent to Bitche, letters from home had been a distant memory, anyway.

“Well, that was nearly a year before Tory became my governess. It also explains why neither you nor her father ever wrote us back.” She took his arm and headed for the steps again. “We were most distressed.”

“As was I, not hearing from home.” He squeezed her arm. “Before we encounter Miss Morris, can you please explain how you ended up with her as your governess? She can’t be much older than you.”

“Seven years older, actually. Mama hired her after Mrs. Morris died when Tory was twenty.”

“Mrs. Morris died?” His mind reeled.

“Tory says she died of a broken heart. After a year of no letters, Mrs. Morris was convinced he was dead. She went into a decline after that. The doctors said she had consumption, but . . .”

He’d seen that happen to too many of his fellow détenus. Not having their families with them had sometimes made them waste away. It was why he believed people could actually die of broken hearts. And why he never intended to give his heart to anyone. Best to safeguard it.

She sighed. “Anyway, having allowed Papa to send you on that grand tour in the first place, Mama felt responsible for Tory’s lack of parents. Or rather, lack of any who could help. So she asked Tory to be my governess. And Tory readily accepted.”

Jon stiffened. Of course, she had. Practically orphaned at twenty? What choice had she? He was glad Mother had swooped in to help the poor girl.

When they reached the top of the steps, he paused as he realized his father was truly gone. How strange that this house belonged to him now. But he would have given it up—given the entire dukedom up—to be able to see Father alive again.

The blow to his chest was swift and painful. Still, he masked it long enough to walk through the entrance with his sister. They were just in time to see their mother hurrying down the hall, her face wreathed in smiles.

He spotted the tears glimmering in her green eyes a second before she threw herself in his arms, and whispered, “Oh, my precious son, is it really you? You’re finally home!”

In the face of her tears, Jon felt helpless. His family had heard as little of what was happening to him as he’d heard of their affairs. Now he hardly knew how much to tell them. Should he be truthful about what he’d endured? Surely that would be cruel and accomplish nothing. On the other hand, he didn’t know if he could merely pick up where they’d left off as a family.

He settled for clutching Mother tightly while she sobbed.

At last, she drew back to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. “I’m just so happy to see you.” She gazed at him with such love that it warmed him to the depths of his battered soul. “And look at you! Why, you’re a grown man now!”

He laughed. “I was a man when I left, Mother.”

“Barely,” she said with a sniff. “More like a boy setting off on his first adventure.”

Meanwhile, she looked more like a matron than the youthful mother he’d remembered, especially in her black and gray mourning attire. Her hair was salt-and-pepper instead of its original inky color, and fine lines etched her face like the brush strokes of an artist. They told him only too well how much she’d suffered. It made him want to weep. He’d lost so many years with her.

“In any case,” he said, trying to hide his reaction, “it’s good to be home. I’m sorry you had to face Father’s death without me.”

“He tried everything to get you released from France before he died, you know, as did I.” She swallowed hard. “It was so horribly unfair and cruel you ended up in such an unpleasant situation there for so long.”

“Jon was in a prison, Mama,” Chloe chided her. “A bit more than ‘an unpleasant situation.’ ”

“It doesn’t matter what we call it, Sis,” Jon said, and patted her arm. “It’s over now.”

“It had better be,” Mother said, tears welling in her eyes again. “We’re not giving you back. With your brothers gone, we need you here more than ever.” She gazed at him and sighed. “I know that they weren’t always . . . kind to you, but Alban and Aubrey tried to be a help to me after your father died.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” And surprised. No, that was petty of him. He did have the occasional good memory of them when they hadn’t been resenting him for being indulged by Father. No doubt losing them both at the same time had been a great shock to Mother and Chloe.

If Aubrey and Alban had been here, might he have been able to mend fences with them after all his time away? He’d never know, and the thought choked him up a bit.

Determined to lighten the mood, he looked around at the signs of obvious construction. “I can see why you feel you need me. Someone must finish this project before it runs away from you.”

Flashing him a grateful smile as she wiped away her tears, his mother swept her hand to indicate the foyer. “What do you think? I know it’s only half-done, but surely you, of all people, can see the potential. You always did have an artistic eye.”

“Did I? It’s all so long ago.” He swept his gaze around, taking in the figured silk wallpaper in a pale lemon hue, the mahogany chairs with their Egyptian prints and black tassels, and the matching set of draperies, which he’d spotted from outside. “It’s perfect. You’ve always been more stylish than Father gave you credit for.”

“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten your mother’s talents.” She pointed to one end of the spacious area. “Later, I mean to have that wall taken out so we can turn our plain staircase into a grand double-curved one. Then, in the drawing room . . .” Catching herself, she added, “But I can show you that another time. I’m sure you’d like to rest after your travels.”

He flashed her a rueful smile. “I wish I could say otherwise, but the trip has been long and arduous, and what I want most right now is a warm fire and soft bed.”

“And some food, too, I would imagine,” she said. “I’ll make sure Cook sends up something warm for you to eat.”

“But Mama, I want to know—” Chloe began to protest.

“Hush, dear. Can’t you see that your brother is exhausted?”

Jon reached out to press Chloe’s hand. “You can quiz me all you like tomorrow, Sis, and I promise to answer.”

“Oh, all right,” she said petulantly. “But I will hold you to your promise.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Jon touched his mother’s arm. “I also need bed clothes for tonight and something to wear tomorrow. Is there anything in the house that would fit me?”

She assessed him with a gaze that misted over again. He knew what she was seeing: a too-thin frame for a man of his height, a gaunt face, and that pesky gray at his temples.

“Actually,” she said shakily, “y-your own clothing from before you left might fit, even though you were younger.” Her voice steadied a bit. “It will be out of fashion, of course, but it should be fine until you can arrange for new attire.”

“What about Aubrey’s or Alban’s clothes?” Chloe suggested.

His mother shook her head. “No, those would be too big in some parts and too short in others, as would your father’s, I’m afraid.”

“My old clothes will do for now, I’m sure,” Jon said.

Mother nodded, then forced a smile as she turned to the butler, who’d been standing nearby, obviously trying hard not to listen to the conversation. “Kershaw, could you arrange a tray to be brought up, along with some clothing for Jon?”

“Of course, Duchess.”

As Kershaw headed off, Jon’s mother took him by the arm. “I’ll show you to the master bedchamber.”

“The master bed—” Jon caught himself. “Right.” That was where the head of the house slept. And he was now head of the house. How would he ever get used to it?

He wanted to tell his mother he still knew his way around the house well enough to find his new bedchamber, but he suspected she merely wanted to spend a few more minutes in his company, and he couldn’t deny her that. Knowing how many détenus hadn’t made it home, he was grateful just to be one.

She brought him into the room and glanced around. “I hope it won’t bother you that this was previously your brother’s bedroom.”

“It was also Father’s, which is what I remember.”

“Well, then.” She hugged him. “Kershaw will have you settled in shortly, and I’ll see you in the morning. We have much to discuss about the—” She caught herself. “But it will keep until tomorrow.” Gazing up into his eyes, she smiled tremulously. “It’s so good to have you home, son.”

He bent to kiss her forehead. “I’m glad to be home. Now go on. I’m sure you must dress for dinner. Things can’t have changed that much.”

“Not as long as I am mistress of this household,” she said with a smile. Then she left.

Looking around the room, he tried to discern what had changed, but too many years had passed for him to even remember what Father’s bedchamber used to look like. No matter, he would make it his own eventually. Or he would try, anyway.

If he could ever become accustomed to being duke.

When Jon first awakened the next morning, he couldn’t remember where he was. His bed felt softer than anything he’d slept in for a decade, and the heavy curtains kept the room so dim, he wasn’t even sure what time it was. But since he’d had his first dreamless sleep in years, he wasn’t complaining.

He sat up and looked about. Only then did he remember he was home. In Father’s bedchamber. Because he was now duke.

Right.

Running a hand through his hair, he left the bed and opened the curtains, shocked to see how high the sun was.

A scratching at a nearby door was all the warning he got before a man entered. Father’s valet, Gibbons, who was apparently Jon’s valet now.

Gibbons set down a tray holding a full coffee and tea service and a newspaper. “I wasn’t sure which you preferred to drink in the morning, Your Grace, so I brought both.”

“Coffee. Please.”

Gibbons set the tray on a little table by the window and poured a cup of coffee. “If The Times is not your first choice for reading material in the morning, I can offer you a selection of other papers. And do tell me if the coffee is to your liking. I wasn’t sure how strong to make it.”

Jon sipped some. “This is perfect, thank you, and The Times will be fine.” When Gibbons visibly relaxed, Jon realized the man was as out of sorts as he. The staff must be nervous about serving a duke whom they hadn’t seen in over a decade. “Did Kershaw tell you I’ll need new clothes? I can’t wear the ones from my youth forever.”

Gibbons nodded. “The tailor comes this afternoon at three to take your measurements. In the meantime, I have put a selection of your most suitable older attire in the closet. If you wish to try them on now, I can take them in as needed.”

“Excellent.” He rose from the bed and went to examine his old clothes. “Have I slept too long for breakfast?”

“Hardly. We’re still in the midst of the Season, so the ladies often don’t come down for breakfast until the afternoon.”

“Ah.” He’d forgotten how late everything was during the Season.

“Although, actually, your mother is waiting for you in the breakfast room.”

He chuckled. “That is hardly a surprise.”

After being shaved by Gibbons and getting dressed, he headed downstairs to find his mother drinking tea in the breakfast room. She rose to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. “I trust you slept well, son.”

“Any man would sleep well after a hot bath and the meal I had last night. Thank you for arranging those.”

“It’s the least a doting mother can do,” she said fondly.

“Of course. I’m just . . . not used to it is all.”

“How could you be?”

Waving him toward the breakfast sideboard, she returned to her seat and waited while he filled a plate and sat down . . .