Undercover Duke

Book 4: Duke Dynasty

by Sabrina Jeffries

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

In the fourth Duke Dynasty novel, New York Times bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries, one of the best-known names in historical romance, weaves an enchanting Regency romance with a mystery at its core, as stepsiblings investigate the truth about their mother’s succession of beloved husbands—and their own surprising identities as eligible young nobles. For an uptight duke still nursing a broken heart, the last thing he needs is a pretend engagement with a vivacious and alluring young woman. As they’re drawn deeper into secret schemes, could she solve not just the mystery of his family, but the riddle of his heart as well?
Bridgerton fans and readers of Madeline Hunter, Eloisa James, and Lisa Kleypas won't want to miss this humorous and clever new love story from the historical romance legend.
Along with his stepsiblings, Sheridan Wolfe, Duke of Armitage, is determined to finally solve the mysteries behind the suspicious deaths of their mother’s three husbands. Tasked with investigating a possible suspect, Sheridan finds himself in dangerous proximity to her captivating daughter, Vanessa Pryde. But still haunted by a tragically lost love, the duke is resolved to resist the attraction—and avoid any “scheming” husband-hunters. Besides, lovely Miss Pryde seems utterly smitten with a roguish London playwright …
Vanessa thinks a little scheming may be in order—for it’s Sheridan she truly has her sights, and her heart, set on. Her theatrical flirtation is intended only to break through his business-like demeanor and guarded emotions. And as Sheridan’s jealousy becomes aroused, the two soon find themselves propelled into a scheme of an altogether different kind, involving a pretend engagement, a secret inquiry—and a perhaps not-so-secret leap into true love …

Release date: May 25, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

“The Duke of Greycourt is here to see you, Your Grace.”

Sheridan Wolfe, the Duke of Armitage, looked up from the list of horses in the stables of his family seat, Armitage Hall, to find his butler in the doorway. “Show him in.”

Grey, his half brother, was supposed to be in Suffolk. Thank God that wasn’t the case. Grey would be a welcome distraction from trying to decide which horses should be auctioned off. Sheridan didn’t want to get rid of any of the truly superior mounts or prime goers. But the Armitage dukedom was being crushed by a mountain of debt, thanks to his late uncle’s overspending and the fact that Sheridan’s father . . .

A lump stuck in his throat. The fact that his father—Grey’s stepfather—had died much too soon.

Sheridan shoved the list aside. Damn it, it had been a year already. Why did Father’s death still haunt him so? Even Mother seemed to be handling it better than he was. If not for Grey’s arrival, he could take Juno out for a run in Hyde Park to get his mind off of it.

Perhaps later. The Thoroughbred mare had a knack for—

With a groan, he remembered that Juno no longer belonged to him. She’d been the first he’d had to sell to keep the estate afloat. He’d hated to do so—she was the best saddle mare in his late uncle’s stables—but it was either sell her or one of the racing Thoroughbreds, and he could still get money out of those in stud fees and racing prizes, even if they didn’t make good saddle horses.

What a depressing thought. He rose and walked over to the brandy decanter. He supposed midafternoon was early for spirits, but if he couldn’t ride, then he needed a brandy and a pleasant chat with Grey. He poured himself a glass and was about to pour one for his half brother when the butler showed Grey in, and Sheridan’s idea of a pleasant chat evaporated.

His brother looked as if he’d drunk one too many brandies already and was now about to cast up his accounts. Pale and agitated, Grey scanned the study of Sheridan’s London manor as if expecting a footpad to leap out from behind a bookcase at any moment.

“Do you want anything?” Sheridan asked his brother, motioning to the butler to wait a moment. “Tea? Coffee?” He lifted the glass in his hand. “Brandy?”

“I’ve no time for that, I’m afraid.”

Sheridan waved the butler off. As soon as the door closed, he asked, “What has happened? Is it Beatrice? Surely you’re not in town for the play, not under the circumstances.”

In a few hours the rest of the family would be attending a charitable production of Konrad Juncker’s The Wild Adventures of a Foreign Gentleman Loose in London at the Parthenon Theater. Although Sheridan barely knew the playwright, his other half brother, Thorn, had asked him to go because the charity was a cause near and dear to his wife’s heart: Half Moon House, which helped women of all situations and stations get back on their feet.

Grey shook his head. “No, I came to fetch an accoucheur to attend Beatrice. Our local midwife says my wife may give birth sooner rather than later, and she is worried about complications. So I’ve rushed to London to find a physician to examine Beatrice, in case the midwife is right. The man awaits me in my carriage even as we speak.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Sheridan said, “I would suspect you of having taken Beatrice to bed ‘sooner rather than later,’ but you’ve been married ten months, so this is hardly an early babe.”

“No, indeed. And the midwife might be wrong, but I can’t count on that. That’s why I stopped here on my way out. I need a favor.”

Sheridan cocked his head. “Sadly I have no skills in the area of bringing babies into this world, so—”

“Do you remember how we decided I should be the one to question Aunt Cora about those two house parties we suspected were attended by my father’s killer?”

“I do indeed.”

Their mother’s five children had finally concluded that her thrice-widowed status had not been just a tragic confluence of events. Someone had murdered her husbands, including Maurice Wolfe, the father of Sheridan and his brother Heywood, and the previous holder of the title Duke of Armitage. They suspected the person behind the murders was one of three women, all of whom had been at the house parties underway when the first two husbands had died. So Sheridan and his siblings were now engaged in a covert investigation, and had each taken assignments. Grey’s was to question his aunt Cora, otherwise known as Lady Eustace, who was no relation to any of the rest of them.

Sheridan suddenly realized what the “favor” must be. “No. God, no. I am not doing that.” Damn.

“You don’t know what I’m going to ask,” Grey said.

“I can guess. You want me to be the one to question Lady Eustace.”

Grey sighed. “Yes, given the situation.”

“You’ll be back in town soon enough. It can wait until then, can’t it?”

“I don’t know. I honestly have no idea how long I shall have to be in the country.”

Sheridan dragged in a heavy breath. “Yes, but why ask me to do it? I barely know her.”

“The others don’t know her at all,” Grey pointed out. “But you at least are friendly with Vanessa, and that gives you an excuse.”

Which was precisely why Sheridan didn’t want to do it. Because questioning Lady Eustace meant being around her daughter, Miss Vanessa Pryde, who was too attractive for his sanity, with her raven curls and lush figure and vivacious smile.

“I’ve chatted with Vanessa a handful of times,” Sheridan said. “That hardly makes me ideal for this.”

“Ah, but my aunt and I hate each other. That hardly makes me ideal, since it’s unlikely she’d tell me the truth.”

It was a poorly kept secret in their family that Grey’s uncle Eustace had badly mistreated Grey as a boy, hoping to force him to sign over several properties. That Grey’s aunt Eustace had looked the other way while her husband had done so.

Sheridan sipped some of his brandy. “And why should your aunt tell me the truth?”

“Because you’re an eligible duke. And her daughter is an eligible young lady. Not that I’m suggesting you should even pretend to court Vanessa, but her mother will certainly see the opportunity, and be more likely to let her guard down.”

“I’m not so sure. Your aunt has always been cold to me, probably because I’m a poor eligible duke. She’s looking for a wealthy man for Vanessa. And Vanessa will need one, to be honest. The chit is spoiled and impudent, a dangerous combination for a man who can’t afford expensive gowns and furs and jewelry for his wife. I’m already barely treading water. A wife like Vanessa would drown me.”

Grey narrowed his gaze. “Vanessa isn’t so much spoiled as determined to get her own way.”

“How is that different?”

“A spoiled girl has had everything handed to her, so she expects that to continue once she’s married. Trust me, while Vanessa has been given certain advantages, she’s also had to grow up in a turbulent household. Hence her determination not to let anyone ride roughshod over her.”

“Still, marrying such a woman means having constant strife in one’s marriage.”

“Gwyn and Beatrice are both of that ilk, and so far Joshua and I are quite content. Indeed, I rather like being married to a spirited woman who knows what she wants.”

“Good for you,” Sheridan clipped out. “But you have pots of money to indulge her if you wish, and I don’t. Nor does your wife have an absurd fixation on that damned poet Juncker.”

“Ah, yes, Juncker.” Grey stroked his chin. “I doubt that’s anything more than a girlish infatuation.”

“Trust me, I’ve heard her babble on about Juncker’s ‘brilliant’ plays plenty of times. She once told me some nonsense about how Juncker wrote with the ferocity of a ‘dark angel,’ whatever that means. Frivolous chit has no idea about what sort of man she should marry.”

“But you know, I take it,” Grey said with an odd glint in his eye.

“I do, indeed. She needs a fellow who will curb her worst excesses, who will help her channel her youthful enthusiasm into more practical activities. Sadly, she has romantic notions that will only serve her ill, and those are leading her into wanting a man she thinks she can keep under her thumb, so she can spend her dowry as she pleases.”

“You mean Juncker,” Grey said.

“Who else? You know perfectly well she’s been mooning after him for a couple of years at least.”

“And that bothers you?”

The query caught Sheridan off guard. “Certainly not.” When Grey smirked at him, Sheridan added with ill grace, “Juncker is welcome to her. She could do better perhaps, but she could also do a hell of a lot worse.”

“You’ve convinced me,” Grey said blandly. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“You’re merely chafing at the fact that she thinks dukes are arrogant and unfeeling, or some such rot. So she would never agree to marry you.”

“Yes, you told me.” More than once. Often enough to irritate him. “And I’m not looking for her to marry me.”

“I suppose it’s possible you could coax her into liking you, but beyond that . . .”

When Grey left the thought dangling, Sheridan gritted his teeth. “You’ve made your point.”

Not that Sheridan had any intention of making Vanessa “like” him. She was not the right woman for him. He’d decided that long ago.

“Didn’t you agree to fund Vanessa’s dowry?” Sheridan added and swallowed more brandy. “You could just bully Lady Eustace into revealing her secrets by threatening to withhold the dowry unless your aunt comes clean.”

“First of all, that only hurts Vanessa. Second, if my aunt is cornered, she’ll just lie. Besides, all of this depends upon our pursuing our investigation while the killer still thinks she got away with it. That’s why I haven’t told Aunt Cora or Vanessa that we’ve determined my father died of arsenic. Which is another reason you should question my aunt. She won’t suspect you.”

“What about Sanforth?” Sheridan asked. “Originally we decided I was to ask questions in the town. What happened to that part of our plan to find the killer—or killers—of our fathers?”

“Heywood can manage the Sanforth investigation perfectly well.”

That was probably true. Sheridan’s younger brother, a retired Army colonel, had already made significant improvements to his own modest estate. Compared to that, asking questions of Sanforth’s tiny populace would be an afternoon’s entertainment.

“So you see,” Grey went on, “there’s no reason for you to even return to the country. As long as you’re in town for the play this afternoon, you might as well pop into the box my aunt’s brother has at the theater and see what you can find out. You can pretend you’re there to chat with Vanessa.”

“That’s assuming they even attend the play,” Sheridan said. “Charitable productions don’t sound like things Lady Eustace would enjoy.”

“Oh, they’ll be there,” Grey said. “Vanessa will make sure of it. It’s Juncker’s play, remember?”

“Right.” He stared down into the shimmering liquor and bit back an oath. “Very well. I will endure Lady Eustace’s suspicions to learn what I can.” Which meant he’d also be enduring Vanessa’s foolish gushing over Juncker.

His throat tightened. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t care.

“Thank you,” Grey said. “Now if you don’t mind . . .”

“I know. Beatrice is waiting for you at the estate, and you’ve got quite a long journey.” He met his brother’s anxious gaze and softened his tone. “Everything will be fine. The Wolfes come from hardy stock. Not to mention our mother. If she can bear five children to three husbands before the age of twenty-five, I’m sure my cousin can give you an heir without too much trouble.”

“Or give me a girl. I don’t care which. As long as Beatrice survives it, and the child is healthy . . .”

“Go.” Sheridan could tell from Grey’s distracted expression that the man’s mind was already leaping forward to the moment he would reach his wife. “Go be with her. I won’t disappoint you.”

Sheridan knew firsthand the anguish love could cause, how deep it ran, how painful the knot it tied around one’s throat. Helene hadn’t meant to, but she’d made him wary of love.

That was precisely why he never intended to be in such a situation again. Just seeing Grey’s agitation was more than enough to caution him. Love could chew a man up and spit him out faster than his Thoroughbreds could run. Sheridan already had plenty of things to worry about. He didn’t intend to add a wife to that number.

“Wait, girl,” Vanessa’s mother said as she stopped her daughter from entering the Pryde family box. “Your headpiece is crooked.” She shoved a hat pin into Vanessa’s fancy turban, skimming her scalp.

“Mama! That hurt!”

“It’s not my fault it won’t stay put. Bridget must have put on the trim unevenly. Serves you right for not buying a new turban.”

Her mother always wanted her to buy new instead of remaking something. Unfortunately, the estate of Vanessa’s late father didn’t produce enough income—and the widow’s portion for her mother never stretched far enough—for Vanessa to spend money recklessly. So Vanessa and her lady’s maid, Bridget, were always practicing small economies to ensure she and Mama lived within their means.

Mama didn’t see the point of that. First, she was incessantly trying to impress someone with how lofty they were. Second, she was pinning her hopes on Vanessa marrying well.

“It’s not the trim, Mama,” Vanessa grumbled. “The whole thing is lopsided from your fooling with it.”

“I’m merely trying to fix it. You must look nice for the gentlemen.”

Vanessa really only wanted to look nice for one gentleman, but he would probably ignore her as usual. If he did, she would have to give up hope of ever gaining his attention. So far, nothing seemed to have worked in that regard.

Uncle Noah Rayner, her favorite relation next to her cousin Grey, patted Vanessa’s arm reassuringly. “You know your mother—always thinking about your suitors.”

“And with good reason,” her mother said. “The girl doesn’t have the sense God gave her when it comes to men. She should be married to Greycourt, but instead she dragged her feet, and now he’s married to that low chit Miss Wolfe.”

“That ‘low’ chit,” Vanessa bit out, “is the granddaughter of a duke just as I am. So if she’s low, then so am I. Besides, I like her.” Beatrice had proved a fitting match for Grey when Vanessa had despaired of ever seeing him wed.

“Of course you do.” Mama fussed a bit more over the turban. “You always prefer the wrong sort of people.”

“I find they’re generally more interesting than the right sort,” Vanessa grumbled.

“Like that playwright you’re enamored of?” Her mother shook her head. “Sometimes I think you want to marry the poorest fellow you can find just to vex me.”

“Mr. Juncker is very talented,” Vanessa pointed out, for the very reason her mother had given—to vex her. Despite his very German name, Konrad Juncker had been raised in London, having been born to German immigrants. He was handsome, too, with a winning smile, teasing eyes, and good teeth, but Vanessa didn’t care about any of that.

Her uncle huffed out a breath. “Are we going to enter the box sometime before the end of the century, Sister?”

“Oh, stubble it, Noah. The orchestra is still tuning its instruments.”

“That sounds like an overture to me,” he said. “Which is why the corridor is empty except for us.”

“Almost done.” Her mother finally left off adjusting Vanessa’s turban, only to give Vanessa’s bodice a tug downward.

Vanessa groaned. “It will just creep back up. Honestly, Mama, do you want me looking like a strumpet?”

“If it will catch you a good husband? Absolutely. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

Her mother pinched Vanessa’s cheeks. Hard.

Vanessa winced. “I fail to see how pinching rolls back the years.”

“You must trust your mother on this,” Mama said. “I swear, someday I hope you have a child as recalcitrant as you. ’Twould serve you right.” When Uncle Noah cleared his throat, Mama scowled at him and opened the door. “Very well, now we shall go in.”

Thank heaven. Navigating Mama’s machinations and attempts to wed her to “the right sort” was as perilous as sailing a ship on the deepest ocean. One moment a light breeze carried it along on wings of silk, and the next moment stormy seas threatened to engulf it. She never knew which to expect of her mother—bad temper or cool disdain or syrupy kindness as false as it was cloying. Mama had kept her off-kilter her entire life.

“Are you expecting someone in particular tonight?” Vanessa asked as they entered the box. Her mother usually primped her, but this went beyond the pale.

Mama lowered her voice as she scanned the boxes. “I heard that the Marquess of Lisbourne might attend.”

An involuntary shudder passed through Vanessa.

Her mother went on without noticing. “They say he owns more property than even your cousin. And if he does come to the play—”

“He will magically decide to marry me because my cheeks are rosy and my bosom is half-bare?”

“Men do that, you know,” her mother said. “Anything to make him notice you is good.”

Heaven help Vanessa if Lord Lisbourne noticed her. She would have to join a convent.

“Lisbourne is sixty if he’s a day, Cora,” Uncle Noah said.

“A robust sixty,” Mama said.

And a notorious debauchee to boot.

Uncle Noah shook his head. “Personally, I think my niece should set her cap for Armitage. He’s closer to her age, very eligible, and related to your nephew.”

“But according to the gossips, Armitage has pockets to let,” her mother said.

“He’s a duke,” Uncle Noah said. “As long as he’s not a gambler, he can get money.”

Her mother’s voice turned steely. “Then let him get it from Greycourt and not my daughter’s dowry.”

“My dowry is provided by Grey, Mama. So Armitage would be getting the money from Grey either way.”

“Yes, but if Armitage uses your dowry to pay his debts, then Greycourt has kept the money in his family and hasn’t had to lay out both a dowry and financial help for his brother. I don’t need to fatten his family’s coffers, do I?”

Uncle Noah blinked. “That makes no sense. And what do you have against Greycourt, anyway?”

“He’s Mama’s nemesis,” Vanessa explained with a sigh. “I don’t know which she considers worse—that Grey resisted her attempts to marry him off to me, or that I think of him as the big brother I never had.”

Mama snorted. “If you’d had a big brother, there would be no problem. Your brother would already have inherited your father’s estate, and we wouldn’t need to rely on my pitiful widow’s portion to live. But since you didn’t have an actual big brother, you should have married Greycourt.”

“Mama! I didn’t want to marry him, nor did he wish to marry me. Besides, he has been more than kind to us.” Especially considering how her parents had treated him when Vanessa was in her infancy. “Aside from my large dowry, he has paid the rent on our town house so we can remain in London, which is more than generous.” And he’d done it so Vanessa could find a husband. Very kind of him indeed.

“All the same,” her mother said, “I mean to make sure you don’t marry Armitage. If you marry Lisbourne, who by all reports is rich, you’ll have pin money to spare.”

Which Mama was undoubtedly hoping to get her hands on through Vanessa.

“But if you marry Armitage,” her mother went on, “and your dowry goes to the man’s debts, which it will, you won’t have any pin money at all. Indeed, Grey undoubtedly doubled your dowry because he knew he could get it back into his family by arranging for his penniless half brother to marry you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Vanessa said. “Sheridan—I mean, Armitage—isn’t penniless. Besides, he has no interest in marrying me.” More was the pity.

Her uncle nudged her. “I thought you were friendly with him.”

“Not exactly. We know each other, and we’ve shared a few dances, but—”

Someone nearby shushed them, and they took their seats.

From the moment of her first dance with Saint Sheridan—she would never get used to calling him Armitage—the dratted fellow had relegated her to the position of pesky little sister, even though he was only twenty-nine years old to her twenty-five. By their third dance, Vanessa had realized she didn’t want to be his pesky little sister. She wanted to be his wife. It was most annoying.

Why him? He wasn’t her sort at all. Her firmest requirement was that the man have no secrets and be incapable of subterfuge—in other words, be as opposite to her late father as possible. So whom did she fancy? Sheridan, of all people, with his well of quiet that hinted at nothing but secrets. Worse yet, all she ached to do was uncover them, drat him.

Why was he the only man who made her blood roar and her pulse falter? Was her body that stupid? Because somehow, despite his aloof manner and a typically duke-like reticence she fought to ignore, he gave her goose bumps . . . and then goose bumps on her goose bumps.

She’d think he was playing some game to catch her, but he didn’t seem to play any games. He certainly didn’t seem to notice her in that way. Or care if she was drawn to him. It maddened her.

If she could just figure him out, she could prove whether he’d make a reliable husband. It was all she could hope for these days, with Mama going to increasingly desperate lengths to catch her a rich fellow. Vanessa lived in daily fear that her mother might trick her into being caught in a compromising position with the likes of Lord Lisbourne.

Fortunately, Sheridan wasn’t known to be a debauchee. Unfortunately, after their initial three dances, Sheridan had avoided her. At first, she’d chalked it up to his being in mourning. But mourning had ended for him at the beginning of last season, and still he’d kept her at a distance. Meanwhile, Mama had nearly thrown Vanessa into Lisbourne’s arms half a dozen times. One day she would succeed . . . if Vanessa didn’t find a husband herself before that.

Her uncle leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “If it’s not Armitage you have your eye on, who is it? Juncker, perhaps, as your mother claims?”

Oh, dear, this was a dicey conversation. “Mama doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“No? She’s not the first person to say you’re enamored of him.”

That was her own fault. She cursed the day she’d told Grey she had a tendre for some unnamed poet. She’d said it just to tease him . . . and to keep him from guessing she really had a tendre for Sheridan. Because if he were to tell Sheridan and Sheridan were to disdain her for it, she would die of mortification.

After that, at Grey’s wedding, Sheridan had asked her, rather condescendingly, about the identity of the poet she was romantically interested in. First, she’d wanted to brain Grey for telling him about her “poet” at all. Then, desperate to think of a poet she might know, and having just read a book of Mr. Juncker’s poetry, she’d told Sheridan it was Mr. Juncker.

From there, her white lie had run amok with her life. Mr. Juncker had discovered it and had started flirting with her. Grey had learned of it and started teasing her regularly about it, while Thornstock had taken her aside to warn her about Mr. Juncker’s raffish ways. Even Mama had heard and now lectured her frequently about not being taken in by people of Mr. Juncker’s “sort,” whatever that was.

Out of that, however, had come one distinct advantage. Sheridan had seemed jealous. She couldn’t be certain, since he was mostly as inscrutable as ever. But having him regard her as a grown woman—no matter how infrequently—was better than not having him regard her at all.

Which prompted the questi. . .