The Trouble With Being a Duke (10 page)

Chapter 10

“I
’m sorry about the way the evening turned out, Mama,” Anthony said as he stood by the sideboard and poured himself a glass of brandy. He raised an empty glass toward Winston and Huntley, who were each occupying their own armchairs while their wives sat next to Anthony’s mother on the sofa. “Would you care for some?”

Both gentlemen nodded, so Anthony proceeded to pour for them as well.

“It wasn’t your fault,” his mother said, her voice sounding tired. “Not unless it was your idea to have Lady Rebecca shot on my lawn in front of everyone.”

“What a thing to say,” Louise gasped. She looked at Anthony. “Pour her a sherry, will you? And while you’re at it, Sarah and I would like one too.”

Anthony hid a smile. He loved his sister dearly and knew that she meant well, which was part of the reason why he rarely asserted himself whenever she tried to take charge. Not unless she was being unreasonable. Stubborn and willful best described her—traits that had resulted in her marrying Huntley when the alternative would probably have been a deep depression. Anthony knew she’d left not because she hadn’t cared but because she’d cared too much. Watching their father’s daily digression would have killed her—Huntley had offered her the excuse for escape, and as far as Anthony could tell, the two were getting along well enough, for which he was both grateful and relieved.

“The Griftons didn’t look very happy,” Winston muttered. “But then I suppose that’s to be expected. To believe that Lady Rebecca had remained behind at Roselyn Castle, locked away in her chamber, only to find her here, the center of a dramatic event.”

“For someone declared to be as mad as a March hare, she did sound rather succinct when I spoke to her,” Anthony said, handing the ladies their drinks.

“Neville sounded shocked when her condition was mentioned—as if he’d realized no such thing,” Winston said, accepting the glass that Anthony gave to him.

“All things considered,” Huntley remarked, “it would probably have taken a great deal for Neville to notice whether or not Lady Rebecca had a few bats loose in the belfry. He’s not very levelheaded himself.”

“That’s true,” Anthony heard his mother say as he strode back to fetch the final glass for Huntley. “He’s always been too carefree for his own good—much worse than Anthony and Mr. Goodard ever were, and that’s saying something.”

“I still can’t imagine who would do such a terrible thing,” Sarah said as she took a careful sip of her drink. Anthony watched her with the same sense of wonder he’d always reserved for his sister-in-law. Everything she did, from the way in which she moved to the way in which she spoke, was done with the same amount of care that one might apply to a piece of artwork. It was most peculiar.

“It’s very strange,” Anthony’s mother said, her brow knit in a tight frown.

“She can’t possibly have any enemies,” Louise said, looking to her husband, then to Winston and finally to Anthony for an answer.

Huntley shrugged. “It does seem unlikely. Perhaps it was an accident.”

“An accident?” Louise’s voice pitched. “One does
not
bring a loaded pistol to a ball and then proceed to fire it by accident.”

“Huntley’s right,” Anthony said. All eyes turned to him in surprise and, he surmised, expectation. “What if the bullet wasn’t meant for Lady Rebecca but for someone else entirely?”

“She was dancing with Neville at the time,” Winston said, following his statement with a large gulp of brandy.

“Now there’s a man that many would likely wish dead,” Anthony’s mother said as she shook her head a little sadly. “His uncle has his work cut out for him, reforming that boy so he can one day inherit. I certainly don’t envy him.”

“And I don’t envy Anthony,” Louise said. She gave her brother a look that was filled with genuine sympathy. “Not only are you faced with the challenge of solving an attempted murder but you also have Miss Smith to find.”

“As grateful as I am for your consideration, Louise,” Anthony felt compelled to say, “the constable will hopefully locate our villain with the help of law enforcement in other parishes, if necessary, which means that all I really have to do is discover Miss Smith’s whereabouts. I’ll begin tomorrow.”

“I say,” Winston remarked with the hint of a cheeky smile upon his lips, “she must have left quite an impression on you. I haven’t seen you this eager about a woman since I can’t remember when.”

“It does seem a bit rash,” his mother added.

Anthony rolled his eyes. “I am not engaging in a search for her because I’m smitten,” he said. At least that wasn’t his only reason. “But because the Deerfords are of the opinion that the gown Miss Smith was wearing was the very same one their daughter wore the night she disappeared.”

Silence.

“In my opinion it’s ridiculous,” he continued, pausing only to take a healthy sip of his brandy. “What on earth would Miss Smith be doing with Lady Margaret’s ball gown? It’s absurd.”

“Then again,” his mother said, her gaze coming to rest upon Anthony’s face, “we don’t really know anything about Miss Smith, not to mention that she did adopt Winston’s ridiculous idea about being from Flemmington.”

“I thought it was rather clever, unveiling her that way,” Winston said as he smiled across at Sarah, who was looking at him as adoringly as ever.

“It didn’t offer us much information about her though, other than her desperate desire to remain unknown,” the duchess said. She leaned slightly forward in her seat and looked at Anthony. “Whoever she may be, she attended this evening without invitation and proceeded to lie to us directly. The only reason she wasn’t escorted out was because you developed a weak spot for her. I can understand it in a way—her looks, coupled with that bit of mystery—most men would grovel for her attention.”

“I never grovel for anything,” Anthony said. His annoyance made the words come out harsher than he’d intended.

“Nevertheless, your interest in her was what kept her here—that and her attire, which indicated that she was every bit the gentlewoman she pretended to be. And I do mean pretend, Anthony, especially given the latest bit of news about the Deerfords. Heavens, she might be someone’s maid, for all we know.” The duchess’s lips twisted into a bit of a pout. “It promised to be such a lovely evening, and now . . . this.”

“It could be worse,” Sarah said, surprising them all with the sound of her smooth voice. “Lady Rebecca could have died while Miss Smith vanished without a trace. From what I gather, however, Miss Smith cannot be far from here. I was standing close to her when she mentioned seeing the fireworks as a child from her bedroom window.”

“How very observant of you, my dear,” Winston said, his eyes shining with pride.

“You are right,” Anthony told her. He then looked around at everyone else. “She must live within a ten-mile radius to have seen them clearly. If I go into Moxley tomorrow and visit the various homes—”

“You cannot possibly,” his mother gasped. “There are hundreds of houses, Anthony—Moxley may not be the biggest town in England, but it’s not exactly a village either.”

“I can help,” Huntley said, “if you wish it.”

Winston nodded. “So can I, and if we enlist the help of the footmen too, then it ought not take more than a day to visit all the homes.”

“Thank you, both of you.” Anthony reached for his brandy. “I’ll ask my valet to visit the peripheral homes—that should save us some time.” Tossing back the remainder of his drink, he rose to his feet. “If you’ll forgive me, it’s been a long day, and tomorrow promises to be quite grueling. I’d like to retire to my chambers and get some rest.”

“A wise decision,” his mother said, nodding. She looked as if she planned to say more but stopped herself.

“What is it?” Anthony asked.

Her eyes met his with such intensity that Anthony found himself taking a step back, hitting the heel of his foot against the chair behind him as he did so. “I know it’s been difficult for you the last few years, but I want you to know that I’m so proud of the way in which you’ve handled it all. I’m sorry about what I said earlier—about needing to take responsibility.” She sighed, a sad little smile playing upon her lips. “You’ve faced your obligations without the least bit of hesitation, and you’ve reformed. Most men would not have accomplished such a growth of character in so short a time.”

“I only did what was necessary, Mama,” Anthony said, feeling somewhat bashful from all the praise.

“Perhaps,” his mother conceded. “But that makes it no less impressive. I hope you find happiness for yourself, as Louise and Winston have done, for you deserve it. Perhaps Miss Smith—”

“A moment ago you were opposed to her,” Anthony said, surprised that his mother would mention Miss Smith in regards to his future.

“I only mean to caution you against acting rashly—at least until we discover more about her and why the Deerfords say they recognized her attire, though I must agree I think they’re mistaken in this regard. Don’t take me wrong, Anthony—I’m not in the least bit happy about Miss Smith’s deceit. Be that as it may, I can’t deny that I enjoyed her company—she’s a very likeable young lady.”

“She’s engaged,” Anthony muttered, then added, “
almost
engaged.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Louise asked. “Is she or is she not? It makes a big difference, you know.”

A moment ago, he’d been off to bed. Now he had some explaining to do. Resuming his seat, Anthony said, “I believe there’s a long-standing agreement, though the gentleman in question—whoever he may be—has not yet proposed.”

“Well then,” his mother said with a determined set to her jaw, “it’s not too late if she’s the one you want, though I can’t say I approve of a woman who sneaks around behind the back of the man she’s meant to marry, regardless of whether or not their attachment is formal.”

“She doesn’t wish to marry him,” Anthony said. He was tired, and now that they’d embarked on this topic and he was forced to address all that he had learned about Miss Smith during the course of the evening, he was beginning to feel discouraged. “But in spite of that, she kept saying that she
had
to and that anything else would be impossible. I think it’s a match arranged by her parents, and for whatever reason, she believes it to be final.”

“Whatever the case,” Winston said, “you’re a determined fellow. You also know how to seduce a woman. If I were you—”

“That’s enough,” the duchess said, her head turning toward her youngest son in dismay. “That you would even suggest such a thing is reprehensible, and in front of ladies no less. It’s so unlike you, Winston, whatever were you thinking?”

“Merely that my brother might consider drawing on some of the experience he garnered before he reformed,” Winston said, looking mildly uncomfortable. He’d always been the one to do as he was told and never stray from the dictates of Society, making his career choice all the more surprising. “I’m sure he can manage to charm both her and her parents into accepting a courtship. He is a duke after all.”

“My social standing didn’t seem to sway her opinion when I brought it up earlier this evening,” Anthony muttered. His eyes were beginning to hurt—he really ought to get some sleep. “She still insisted that I should dismiss any ideas I might have of seeing her again, courting her or marrying her. In truth, I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a woman more bent on turning me down.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps it would be wise to do as she asks and stay away,” Huntley said.

“That’s impossible. Especially now that the Deerfords are involved. No, I have to find her, if only for their sake.” But he knew he was lying to everyone, including himself, as he said it. The Deerfords were just an excuse. Once he saw Miss Smith again, it would be impossible for him to walk away from her without a fight. The sort of connection they’d shared, however brief it had been, could not be ignored. He’d been with countless women, so he knew—knew as well as he knew his own name—that there was something special between them, something most people never had the fortune to experience. He’d be damned if he was going to let it slip through his fingers.

Chapter 11

T
he following morning was bright and beautiful. It took a bit of organization to ready the search party, given that the staff was not informed of it until Anthony mentioned it to Phelps as he was heading in to breakfast. He asked that everyone be ready to leave within the hour, which put a bit of a strain on the butler’s features, but, being the dutiful servant that he was, he simply said, “I’ll see to it right away, Your Grace,” and then departed, leaving Anthony to enjoy his eggs and ham with Winston and Huntley.

It was nine o’clock by the time they set out, the horses as eager for a burst of fresh air as the men who rode them. Having made a simple plan during breakfast detailing who would cover which parts of the town, Anthony, accompanied by a footman, rode toward the eastern side of Moxley, while Winston, Huntley, and the rest of the footmen veered off in other directions.

Arriving at a neat row of houses, all white with black roofs, Anthony handed the reins to his accompanying footman and proceeded to climb the front steps. A butler answered, and, having stated his purpose, Anthony showed the man the sketch that the artist had made of him and Miss Smith the previous evening, inquiring if he recognized the woman. A shake of the head indicated that he did not, so Anthony moved on to the next house, where the process was repeated.

And so it went all morning, without the slightest bit of luck. Granted, the picture that Anthony had of Miss Smith was one where her face was partly obscured by the mask she’d worn, but he felt certain that anyone who knew her well would recognize her anyway. He let out a sigh of frustration, for it did seem as though the ground had somehow swallowed her up.

“Any luck?” he asked Winston and Huntley when they rendezvoused at the Sword and Pistol tavern in the middle of the day.

“None at all,” Winston said, chasing the sandwich he was eating with a gulp of ale. “Nobody has recognized her based on the drawing, and if you ask me, it’s a pretty good drawing, even though our copy was traced from the original.”

“We still have a few parts of town left to visit,” Huntley said, sounding optimistic. “I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.”

“You’re right,” Anthony agreed. Still, he couldn’t ignore the sense of doubt that settled over him. They’d visited all the homes belonging to the gentry, which meant that if Miss Smith did indeed reside in Moxley, it was becoming increasingly unlikely that she was of noble birth, or even the daughter of an affluent business owner. Unless of course her butler had deemed it necessary to protect her and had given no indication that he knew her.

Anthony sighed. It was possible—butlers were notoriously protective of their masters and mistresses. Of course it might also have been possible that her family had fallen on hard times and had been forced to move into cheaper accommodations. That would explain her need to marry a man who didn’t appeal to her taste, although, if that was the case, Anthony saw no reason why she couldn’t as easily marry him.

Something stood in the way—to her mind at least. Only two solutions presented themselves. She or her parents had either made a promise that she felt honor bound to keep or . . . Anthony steeled himself. What if the Deerfords were right? What if the gown she’d worn
had
belonged to their long-lost daughter? He had no idea how Miss Smith might have happened upon it, though he supposed she might have received it as a gift from someone—perhaps Lady Margaret had been in need of money and had sold it. Miss Smith’s suitor might then have bought it, offering it as a gift. No, that would be inappropriate. Perhaps Miss Smith had stolen it then? Whatever the case, Anthony found himself unable to dismiss the possibility that Miss Smith was a simple woman from a simple family—a lowborn ignoble, to put it bluntly.

With renewed determination, Anthony kicked his horse into a trot and headed toward the less affluent part of town, his heart filled with a mixture of certainty and apprehension. He was a duke. He couldn’t marry just anyone, could he? Determined not to worry about it until his suspicions had been confirmed, he tried to relax. He’d always enjoyed a good challenge. Even if Miss Smith turned out to be the daughter of a blacksmith, he’d still find a way to make her his. He wasn’t sure how he’d do it, but he would. Somehow.

Two hours later, he’d visited every house situated between Mill Road and Hill Street. He’d walked down Church Lane and was now turning onto Brook Street, exhausted and lacking the hope he’d had when he’d set out in the morning. It was entirely possible that Miss Smith had only lived in Moxley as a child and had since moved away to another neighboring town. If this was the case, it would be near impossible to find her.

Leaving the footman to keep an eye on the horses, Anthony unlatched the gate leading into the front garden of a small thatched cottage that sat apart from the rest, on the very edge of the town. It was a quaint little place, with daffodils and hyacinths filling up the flowerbeds. Anthony stopped to stare at them, then looked toward the cottage. Miss Smith had spoken fondly of daffodils—they were her favorite flowers. A coincidence perhaps, but one that demanded further investigation.

Shoulders back, Anthony strode up the pathway toward the front door and knocked. Nobody answered. He knocked again. Still nobody answered. Discouraged by his lack of success, he turned to go, but paused at the sound of a door slamming somewhere toward the back. Someone was there; there was still hope that this last person would be able to give him a useful bit of information—unlikely perhaps, but possible.

Skirting the building, he rounded a corner to discover a maid who appeared to be busy at work in the vegetable garden. It looked as if she was digging up new potatoes and tossing them into a basket. “Excuse me,” Anthony said, keeping a reasonable distance so as not to frighten her.

The woman looked up and then immediately rose, bobbing a curtsy while she hastily tried to brush the soil from her hands.

“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but nobody answered the door when I knocked, so when I heard a noise coming from back here, I thought I’d see if anyone was at home—save myself the trouble of having to return at a later hour.”

“My apologies, sir, but the Chilcotts are not at home right now. You’re welcome to wait of course, or leave your calling card if you prefer.”

Anthony didn’t bother to correct the maid’s improper form of address. She’d no way of knowing that he was a duke, and detesting the thought of acting like a pompous aristocrat, he determined to keep quiet about his heritage. “It’s been a long day,” he said, feeling suddenly overcome by a heavy feeling of weariness. All he wanted was to go home and sit in his favorite chair in the Kingsborough Hall library and enjoy a glass of brandy. “I will be back tomorrow. Perhaps you can recommend a more convenient hour for me to call.”

“If it’s Mr. Chilcott you’re seeking, he’s hardly ever here except during the evenings and on Sundays.”

Anthony really didn’t feel like waiting or venturing back out later in the day. He gave the maid a pleasant smile. “Well, perhaps you can help me then. You see, I’m looking for a woman who attended the Kingsborough Ball last night. If you’d please take a look at this drawing, I’d be most obliged.”

Holding the piece of paper up for the maid to see, Anthony watched her frown. She took a moment, but eventually shook her head. “She holds no resemblance to anyone I know,” she said.

Well, so much for that.

Thanking her, Anthony slipped the drawing back inside his jacket pocket, turned, and began making his way back toward the front of the cottage when something caught his eye—a piece of fabric stuck in a window. It fluttered slightly, and Anthony watched it shimmer as the yellow threads captured a bit of sunlight. Leaning forward, Anthony reached out and gave it a gentle pull, freeing it. A smile tugged at his lips as he straightened himself. The maid had clearly lied to protect her mistress, for it did appear as though he’d just discovered Miss Smith’s whereabouts after all.

Tucking the fabric safely away in the same pocket as the picture, and with more of a spring to his step than he’d managed all day, Anthony continued back to where the footman stood waiting. “Let’s go home,” the duke said, feeling both cheerful and relieved. He had plans to make now—plans involving a proper social call to Mr. Chilcott and flowers to . . . Miss Chilcott? He couldn’t be sure of her real name just yet, though it was fair to assume that she had to be Mr. Chilcott’s daughter. He would have to discuss it with his mother of course. She’d probably swoon at the thought of a lowborn woman becoming his duchess, while the gossip-rags would have a splendid time writing about it all in every detail—a price he was willing to pay nonetheless.

“D
o you have a moment, miss?” Marjorie asked shortly after Isabella’s return from the shops.

As usual, Isabella hadn’t bought anything—she never did, she simply liked to browse. And after everything that had happened last night, she’d been in desperate need of some fresh air, as well as something to distract her from all the guilt she felt at betraying her mother, her hasty departure from the ball, lying to everyone and getting her sister into trouble for helping her do all of these things.

And then of course there was Mr. Roberts to consider. He’d be joining her for afternoon tea tomorrow. However would she look him in the eye without feeling like the most wretched woman to have ever walked the earth? She could picture him now, all proper and perfectly starched as he sipped his tea, oblivious to the fact that the woman he meant to marry had snuck out of her house in the middle of the night, traipsed across the countryside, kissed a duke
and,
most deplorably of all, lost her heart to said duke.

She pushed the thought aside and eyed her maid. “Certainly,” she said, growing curious as she noted Marjorie’s troubled expression. “Right this way.”

They entered the parlor, where Isabella took a seat while Marjorie remained standing. “A gentleman came to call today,” Marjorie said without preamble. It was one of the things Isabella liked best about her—she was always direct.

“Oh? And did he have a name?” Isabella asked, frowning. The only gentleman who ever came to call was Mr. Roberts, but Marjorie knew him, so it had to be someone else. A growing sense of uneasiness began to tickle her skin.

“He didn’t give me one, but he showed me a picture, miss—one that looked an awful lot like you, if you don’t mind my saying so. I might be mistaken of course, given that there was a mask covering part of the face, but I’m familiar enough with your features to be sure.” Her gaze dropped to the floor and she quietly said, “It was a very good drawing.”

Isabella sucked in a breath.
Good Lord!
She swallowed hard as she tried to collect herself and stop her hands from trembling. “What did you tell him?” She grasped the fabric of her skirt and twirled it between her fingers.

Lifting her gaze, Marjorie looked directly at Isabella. “That I didn’t recognize the woman in the picture.” She paused momentarily before adding, “I think he believed me, for he seemed rather disappointed and left shortly after.”

Isabella nodded. “You did the right thing by not telling him that I live here. Thank you.”

The corners of Marjorie’s mouth tightened into an odd little smile. “There’s something else you ought to know, miss. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”

“
What?
” This wasn’t happening, it simply was not.

“Forgive me, but he’d already inquired as to when it might be more likely for him to encounter Mr. Chilcott before I realized that he was looking for you. I’m sorry if this puts you in a difficult position.”

“It’s all right, Marjorie.” Isabella’s voice sounded faint to her own ears. She felt light-headed and on the verge of falling into a state of panic. “You didn’t know.”

“Once again, I’m truly sorry,” Marjorie said, bobbing a curtsy as she exited the room, closing the door behind her.

Isabella sat in perplexed silence for a long while after. He’d found her, and all because he’d caught her off guard the previous evening during the fireworks display. She was sure that had to be it, because she’d been careful otherwise.

Blast!

Her mind whirled as she tried to think of how best to address the situation. He might be back tomorrow, but he still didn’t know that he’d found her. Perhaps she could talk to her father—warn him of the duke’s impending visit. And, she decided, she’d have to tell her mother as well. Isabella dropped her head into her hands at the thought of it and groaned. After their argument the previous evening, she’d rather hoped to avoid having to discuss the Kingsborough Ball with her again—had hoped that they could just carry on as if it had never happened. She didn’t want to tell her mother any more lies though.

With a deep sigh of resignation, she pulled herself together, rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen. She’d ask Marjorie to help her prepare a cup of hot cocoa. Cocoa made everything better—especially when it was served with scones topped with cream and strawberry jam.

“O
f all the stupid things you could possibly do,” Isabella heard her mother say as they sat across from one another at the dining room table that evening. Her father, seated at the head of the table, was being his usual nonconfrontational self and had said nothing as of yet. “Have you no pride?”