How To Seduce A Duke

Chapter 12

After dressing, Mary did not go below stairs to join Anne and Elizabeth for breakfast. She turned the key in her bedchamber door, thus ensuring her privacy for at least a short while.

She had to consider the situation in which she now found herself, as well as the options-what few she still had-available to her.

With a nicked sterling spoon, she stirred the willow bark powder into a small amount of water and drank the mixture down. At least she assumed it was willow bark powder the young, mute maid had given her.

Mary had not even asked for the powder, but somehow the new maid had known-she always knew what the Royle sisters needed before they themselves thought of it-and had brought it right away.

How she did it, they did not know, so they decided that this was simply the way of her.

She had been engaged as a maid-of-all-things only two weeks past, after responding, Mary assumed, to the notice she had placed in Bell’s Weekly Messenger advertising the position.

During the short interview, which had consisted of a series of nods and head shakes in response to Mary’s questions, it had become apparent that the girl did not, or possibly could not, speak, nor did she exhibit the ability to write or cipher. Still, she had seemed to understand every word said to her.

And, after Anne’s constant quibbles with both the outspoken butler and brash cook, the fact that the would-be maid did not speak had actually been a tick in her favor.

Like MacTavish and Mrs. Polkshank, she had appeared upon Aunt Prudence’s doorstep without references, but, amazingly, she had seemed experienced in all manner of maid’s work, from scullery to intricate coiffures.

Her abilities, joined with the fact that she would accept the meager wage Mary could offer, had made her instantly welcome in the household.

Her name remained a mystery, however. Not even Mrs. Polkshank could pry it from her, therefore becoming quickly convinced that the brown-eyed beauty was, in truth, a French spy.

Mary and her sisters were not so convinced, but they humored Mrs. Polkshank by using the name the cook had given her-Cherie.

Mary rubbed her fingertips to her temples. What had she been thinking to have taken so much wine?

There was a soft knock at her door. Mary’s head snapped around, amplifying the noise all the more. “Who is there?”

When there was no reply, Mary removed the key from her dressing table and crossed the chamber to insert it, warily, into the lock. She opened the door but a crack and saw that it was the maid, Cherie.

Cherie’s huge brown eyes looked down at the portmanteau sitting beside her. She lifted it, which hardly seemed possible given her petite frame, but when Mary opened the door fully, she carried it into the bedchamber and hoisted it upon the tester bed.

Mary stared at the large leather bag, and moisture began to well in her eyes.

The maid waited silently for several moments, but when Mary made no move to remove it or open it, Cherie grabbed the handle.

“No! No, you are correct, Cherie.” Mary scrubbed a heavy tear that had caught in the edge of her eyelashes. “It is my only choice. I must return to Cornwall. It is only a matter of days, perhaps only hours, before all of London hears of my indiscretion.”

Cherie gave Mary a sad smile, and all at once, Mary broke down and gave in to the tears she’d been holding back.

“What a fool I was, Cherie. Such a fool. I was no match for his rakish ways, and still I thought to send him for the hills by playing the innocent who wanted him.”

Cherie took a handkerchief from the chest of drawers and wiped the tear from Mary’s cheek.

“But the wine, the wine ruined it all. And now I must leave. I cannot stay here and risk ruining my sisters’ good names as well.”

The maid touched Mary’s arm. Once she had her full attention, she pointed to herself with a pleading look in her eyes.

It took several seconds before Mary realized what the maid’s gesture meant, but then she knew. “No, I must go alone.” She managed a weak smile. “Besides, Anne could never part with you. You are the only member of our staff she truly likes.” Mary gripped both of the maid’s bony upper arms. “You will stay, won’t you, Cherie? Please.”

The girl nodded her head slowly, then turned and opened the portmanteau for Mary.

“Thank you, but I can manage the packing myself. If you have gone missing too long, Anne will come to seek you out, and I do not wish her to know that I am leaving before I am prepared.”

The maid nodded again before suddenly throwing her arms around Mary and hugging her tight. Then, she spun around and scurried from the room.

Mary followed the maid to the door and closed and locked it behind her.

She opened her wardrobe, removed a few articles of clothing, and settled them inside the portmanteau.

Her mind was filled with tasks to complete. She’d have to see to the household accounts before she left. Anne and Elizabeth certainly had no mind for ciphering, and Aunt Prudence, well, the dear was simply too old to manage.

She turned and gazed out the window onto Berkeley Square. Her sisters would have to be told, of course, but not until Mary called upon Lady Upperton and the Old Rakes to explain everything.

Laying her hand atop the lip of the faded leather, she closed the portmanteau and heaved it beneath her bed to conceal it from her curious sisters’ notice.

Lud, she should make her way to Cavendish Square right away. She couldn’t bear it if her sponsor learned of her disgrace from another.

Especially if that person was the absolute worst of debauchers, the Duke of Blackstone.

It was early yet when Rogan arrived in Cavendish Square.

He had arrived at Doctor’s Commons at first light and had waited for the archbishop’s office to open. Now, his business there completed, he held in his coat pocket the special license inscribed with both his title and Miss Royle’s name. They could be married this very day if she so desired, which he expected she would, since a wedding was obviously the purpose behind her clever plan.

He was not looking forward to this, but his own lust had cast him into this position, and there was naught he could do to change that.

He threw his leg across the saddle and dismounted, then wrapped the reins around the post ring outside of Number Two, Cavendish Square.

It was time to face Mary’s sponsor, Lady Upperton.

Within minutes of knocking at the door, Rogan was led down to the passage to the library where Lady Upperton was seated.

As his eyes fixed on the tiny woman, his ears picked up a distinctive metallic click, and from the corner of his eye he almost thought he saw a case of books move.

“Come, come in Your Grace.” Lady Upperton’s smile was as bright as the sun in the sky, and she beckoned to him to join her for tea. “We have-I have been expecting you.”

“Have you?”

“Indeed, I have.”

Rogan dropped his chin to his chest. This was going to be more difficult to stomach than he’d imagined.

He lifted his head. “Then you have already spoken to Miss Royle.”

“I was at the musicale last evening. Do you not recall speaking with me?” Lady Upperton chuckled merrily.

“I d-do.” What in blazes did she mean?

“Your Grace, do you forget that I was witness to your conversations with Miss Royle?”

Rogan stared blankly at the old woman.

“Oh, goodness me. Neither of you could say a civil word to the other. One might think the two of you dislike one another.” She leaned close and patted his knee. “And yet your eyes told a completely different tale.”

“I do apologize, Lady Upperton, but I do not understand.”

“Dear sir, everyone but the two of you could see how enamored you were with each other. Why, you and Miss Royle are the talk of the ton this day.”

“Are we?” Rogan did not like what he was hearing. Just how much did London society know of what had passed between him and Mary?

“I have heard rumors that White’s book is filled with wagers for a wedding before Michaelmas.”

Rogan cleared his throat and, without thinking, slipped his hand inside his coat pocket and touched the special license. “My good lady, you have seen my heart.”

Or rather, my conscience.

“If Miss Royle would accept me and you gave me your blessing, I would wed her this very day.”

The color ran from Lady Upperton’s face, and her lips began to tremble.

“Good heavens,” she stammered. “I must say, the depth of your feelings for each other are far more advanced than I had been aware. Why, this is wonderful!”

Rogan raised his hand. “I am wealthy and titled. I feel quite certain she will accept my offer.”

Lady Upperton narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Then why are you not more jubilant? If Miss Royle wishes to marry you, I will certainly offer my blessing, as will Lotharian.”

Rogan thrummed his fingers on his knee. “There is no question, she must marry me. My concern is only that she may still possess some fondness for my brother, Lord Wetherly.”

“Oh, dear.” She brought her fingers to her lips. “Are you certain?”

“No, I am not. I do not know her heart. However, I do know my brother’s…and his is held by Lady Tidwell.”

Suddenly there was a loud noise behind the bookcases. Rogan leapt to his feet, though Lady Upperton was quite unworried and remained in her seat.

He peered down at her for an explanation.

“Rats.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Just a few rats between the walls.”

“They must be rather large…rats.”

“Hmm, indeed.” She turned her round little face to the row of bookcases near the hearth and narrowed her eyes. “Do you, perhaps, know a good rat catcher?”

Mary swung her blue Bourbon mantle over her shoulders as she hurried down the stairs.

She hoped to slip out the front door unobserved and to walk unaccompanied by her sisters to see Lady Upperton and the Old Rakes of Marylebone.

Her hand had just skimmed the newel post when Mrs. Polkshank called out from the far end of the passage. “Heard you had nothin’ to eat this morn, Miss Royle.”

Mary stopped and remained standing on the bottom step. She listened, hoping her sisters would not have heard Mrs. Polkshank and realized she had emerged from her bedchamber.

“I can prepare somethin’ for you, if you like. Just set the water to boil. I can make some tea in no time at all. Baked some fresh biscuits, too.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Polkshank, I was heading-” Then Mary caught sight of a rich red swath of fabric wrapped around Cook’s waist.

Slowly, she came down from the last step and walked over to view the material closer. “Your sash, may I see it, Mrs. Polkshank?”

The cook dutifully untied the swath and handed it to Mary, who shook out its folds and ran her fingers over it.

It was soft, and though it was quite badly stained in the center, there was no mistaking the gold-shot crimson fabric.

It was Kashmir.

A Kashmir shawl.

Anxiously, Mary carried Mrs. Polkshank’s shawl into the parlor and held it up to the sunlight washing through the windows.

“Where did you get this?” Mary turned and pinned Mrs. Polkshank with her gaze. “Did you know this is a Kashmir shawl? A very expensive shawl-when this was new it probably cost as much as a house. But it’s ruined now, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Polkshank blanched. “I didn’t steal it or nothin’, Miss Royle. Found it in the dustbin, I did. I figured nobody would mind the least bit if I cut it up for rags.”

Mary couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You were going to cut up this for rags?”

“Well, it didn’t look like that then, did it now? It was all dark and mussed with soot and such, like it’d been stuffed up the chimney to keep the drafts out.”

Mary studied the shawl again. “It certainly doesn’t look that way now.”

“Cherie washed it up real nice for me. She’s a good girl, even if she’s French and all. But you can’t choose where you come from, now, can you?”

“No, you can’t.” She lowered the shawl and held it tightly to her middle. “Mrs. Polkshank, I believe this shawl is the rag Elizabeth found inside Papa’s document box. I should like to keep it.”

The cook stared hard at the shawl, and her fingers twitched as if they wanted to grab the Kashmir away. “You said it yourself though, it’s ruined. Ain’t worth nothin’ anymore.”

“It mightn’t be worth much money anymore, but it may be worth quite a lot to Anne and Elizabeth.”

Mrs. Polkshank grunted.

Mary bit her lip, not really believing what she, frugal Mary, was about to say. “Would you take…a guinea for it?”

Mrs. Polkshank’s wide face began to glow, and a sly smile tilted her lips. “Well, it is Kashmir, like you said. The edges might be worth something. Did you see the gold threads?”

“Mrs. Polkshank, the shawl was found in this household. Rightfully, it already belongs to me.”

“Very well. Thank you, Miss Royle. A guinea is fair compensation for my savin’ the shawl.”

“You are welcome, Mrs. Polkshank.” Mary stepped past the cook and into the passage and peered up at the tall case-clock for the hour. “Where are my sisters? Have you seen them of late?”

“Oh, they’re in the library lookin’ over some papers. Shall I tell them that you are inquirin’ about them?”

Mary started for the library. “No, thank you. I am headed there myself.”

When she reached the library, she stopped just outside and spread the ornate crimson shawl carefully over her arm.

This is madness.

Utter madness.

But even she had to admit that with each day that passed, the tale of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s babies was getting harder and harder to deny.

Mary arrived at Lady Upperton’s Cavendish Square home two hours later.

She was not alone, for both Anne and Elizabeth were with her.

Nor did she arrive empty-handed. Carefully folded and concealed inside the basket swinging from the crook of her arm rested the Kashmir shawl.

Quite possibly, the shawl Lady Jersey had whisked from her own shoulders and used to swaddle the secret babies.

But they would need Lady Upperton and Lord Lotharian’s assistance to be sure.

When the Royle sisters were ushered into the library, Lady Upperton was, as she was oft found, sitting on the settee serving tea.

“Do not move your cup, Lotharian. Leave it still on the tabletop.”

“I heard you the first time, dear lady.” Lord Lotharian glanced up. Noting the presence of the footman waiting to announce the sisters, he brought a finger to his lips to silence the girls.

“All I need to do is touch this cord and…” She reached out and gently pulled a piece of corded silk.

She wrung her hands and held her breath as a metal contraption of some sort wheeled forward until it bumped the tea dish.

Elizabeth, unable to restrain her curiosity, crept forward and stood behind the settee where Lady Upperton sat.

“Watch now.” The old woman began to giggle with excitement. “The tea server has not spilled even one drop since I made the adjustment to the handle tension. Not one drop, I tell you.”

Though Mary was near bursting with the news about the Kashmir shawl, she knew that at this moment, nothing was more important to Lady Upperton than her tea-pouring mechanism.

Lady Upperton’s invention stood at least two feet high, quite large for such a small tea table. At least a dozen or more metal wheels spun and connected and resembled, more than anything else, the moving workings of a grand clock.

The server lowered a thin wire a finger’s width into the cup. A tiny bell began to ring, and a silver teapot tipped forward and poured steaming tea into the dish until the liquid met the wire tip.

Abruptly, the teapot was righted, and four small wheels transported the server to its starting position on the far end of the table.

“Brilliant!” Lotharian cried out. “Why, ladies all over England shall be clamoring for a mechanized tea server.”

“Well.” Lady Upperton angled her head, making her appear very proud indeed. “They can clamor all they like. No one shall have a server such as this but me.” She giggled again. “Honestly, I have begun working with the power of steam. I have finished with tea servers for now.”

“My lady, if I may.” The footman cleared his throat. “My lady, Lord Lotharian, the Misses Royles have arrived.”

The elderly inventor raised her brows. “Yes, I see that. Do be seated, gels.”

She looked at the young women and reached out her hand to greet each one, before returning her gaze to the footman once more. “Mayhap I should begin designing a mechanized announcement system.” She lifted a white eyebrow at her inperturbable footman.

Mary hurried to sit down on the settee. “Lady Upperton, I must speak with you on a matter of great importance.”

The lady and Lord Lotharian shared a private, knowing glance.

“No doubt you do.” She settled her hand atop Mary’s and squeezed it. “I have already had one young visitor this day. Would you care to guess who that might have been, Miss Royle?”

Confusion was plain on Anne’s and Elizabeth’s faces.

Mary had not yet decided how to admit to her sisters what had happened between her and the Duke of Blackstone. But she did know that doing so now, and in the presence of Lord Lotharian, one of the most famed rakes of all, was not the best way.

“Lady Upperton,” she began. “I will venture to guess that the Duke of Blackstone called upon you. But please, let us not speak of him now. Please.” Mary hoped her pleading gaze imparted the meaning she hoped.

Elizabeth rose and snatched Mary’s basket from her. “We have stumbled upon a clue…no, more than that-we may have evidence of our noble birth!”

“Evidence?” Lotharian leaned forward, his interest highly piqued. “What have you got there in the basket?”

Elizabeth plunged her fingers into the basket, but before she could withdraw the shawl, Mary stilled her sister’s hand.

“First, we need to know if you can get us into the Harrington gallery without raising suspicion.” Mary looked pointedly at the elderly pair.

“Why, certainly.” It was clear that Lady Upperton could not wait to have the contents of the basket revealed to her. Her words came forth in a torrent. “I can appeal to Sir Joseph’s pride in his paintings. And Lord Lotharian, here, is a master of distraction. But why, dear, do you need to enter the gallery?”

“Because we found something hidden inside one of Papa’s document boxes,” Anne announced.

“Last night, during the musicale,” Mary explained, “I might have seen something in Lady Jersey’s portrait that quite closely resembles-this.”

Mary gave Elizabeth a nod, and her sister slowly lifted out the fragile Kashmir shawl and laid it across Anne’s awaiting arms.

Lord Lotharian lifted his stunned gaze from the ornately patterned crimson shawl and looked straight into Lady Upperton’s widened eyes.

“Good Lord. Could it be?” he asked.

“I daren’t allow myself to believe it.” Mary swallowed deeply. “But, yes, this may be Lady Jersey’s shawl.”

“Do you know what this may mean, gel?” Lotharian asked.

“I do,” Mary replied solemnly.