A Duchess by Midnight, page 2
“And what do you propose?” Now an orphan crashed into him and clung. He used his free hand to lift the boy by his collar and set him back on course for the chaos in the room.
“If we can stop the panic and simply keep calm, the birds will settle. Then we might collect them one by one into the cage and release them properly. But we must all . . .” she looked with frustration at the room of revolving birds, shouting people, rampaging boys, and barking dogs, “. . . settle.”
“Right,” he said, following her gaze at the room. “Only mildly ambitious.”
Drew let out a distressed laugh. She couldn’t help herself. He was handsome, and he was funny. And she was holding his hand.
Drew’s heart beat very hard and heavy in her chest. It felt like an egg that contained something very new and wild trying to hatch out.
“Please, sir,” she said, swallowing, “I should like to try.”
Drew stared at him, shocked that he didn’t argue. He looked back with wintery eyes, and the egg of Drew’s heart thumped again. Finally, he gestured to the room with a go-on-then nod.
Drew blinked, snatched her hand away, and turned back to the room. It was a din of wild birds and shouting people and braying dogs.
“Stop!” Drew called, pitching her voice at a shout. “Please! Everyone, if we could keep calm, and allow the birds to find somewhere to light. Please!”
There was no response. Not a single glance. She opened her mouth to try again.
“What about . . .” the man shouted to her, “the window?”
He pointed to a small, high window that looked out onto a stone wall.
He continued, still shouting, “Would you permit me to release them through the window?”
“Yes, that would be perfect,” Drew shouted back. “If you can manage it.”
The man wound his way through scrambling people and careening birds. The window was high but he reached it with little effort.
“It’s painted shut!” he called to Drew.
“There’s no help for it!” she called back, halfway to him.
A boy darted in front of her and she caught him up by the wrist. “You must stop running,” she pleaded. Another boy followed and she caught him with the other hand. The boys pulled and squirmed against her hold, trying to rejoin the fray.
He pushed at the window again but it wouldn’t budge. Meanwhile, a diving warbler swooped low and almost collided with his head. He swore and ducked. He was readjusting his hat when a second bird hit him, this time in the ear.
“Are you hurt?” Drew called, releasing the boys. He ignored her as he scanned the room. His gaze lit on the smokey fire, and he reached for the metal poker propped on the hearth. Before she fully comprehended his intent, he took up the poker, thrust it through the window, and thrashed it around, shattering glass and breaking panes.
The commotion cut through the din in the room, and for a long second, all the shouts, arm waving, and barking fell silent.
The man continued his task, tracing the poker along the outline of the sill, knocking it clean. Shards of glass and splintered wood rained down. When he retracted the poker, only the open square remained. They immediately felt the morning chill and smelled the murky River Thames.
Silence took up gradual residence in the room, all sound filtered out the window. Everyone gaped from the absent panes, to the man, to the shattered glass at his boots.
In less than a minute, the first warbler seized freedom. A dozen flock-mates immediately followed, launching themselves from the terror of the small room into the free world. Feathers wafted to the ground. A dog whimpered. A breeze swung the door on the birdcage with a creak.
They recovered their voices all at once.
“By what right do you have, sir? I ask you—”
“How dare you, them birds belonged to—”
“Oy! Did you see it?”
The callers were angry and confused. Every comment was punctuated by glass crunching underfoot. The dog chorus resumed.
The man ignored them all, removed his hat, and pulled a gray feather from his ear. He wound his way through angry people to the doors to the Throne Room. He glared at the thick oak as if he could open it with his mind. He replaced his hat.
Drew watched him in disbelief. She’d encountered many people in her life. Well-meaning people, compassionate people, hardworking and capable people, but she could never remember anyone doing anything quite so demonstrative or dashing as this.
Without realizing she’d moved, she came to stand beside him.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I did it for the birds,” he said.
She chuckled. Another joke.
One of the boys skidded to a stop beside him, brandishing the fireplace poker like a sword. He ignored him.
“Any notion of how long they usually make us wait?” the man asked Drew.
“No.” She shook her head. She forced herself to stare at the door and not at him. “Shattering windows cannot hurt. If we mean to move things along.”
Another boy appeared, and the first boy began to jab at him with the poker. Two nuns descended and hauled them away. Behind them, the argument about order of admission had resumed.
“What are you in for?” the man asked Drew.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why are you calling on the prince?”
“Oh,” said Drew, and she paused, trying to think of the best way to explain.
Later she would realize that the true damage of the day hadn’t happened when the birds were released or the window was broken.
Later she could see that the real damage of the day would happen now.
Now was when things went horribly, irrevocably wrong.
She said, “I’ve come to make the acquaintance of a potential client. Princess Cynde is my stepsister, and she is to make the introduction.”
And here, she should have stopped. He’d not asked for more details. She knew only that he was handsome and clever and together they had saved the warblers.
Unfortunately this was all she required to continue talking. Drew was a spinster and rather good at it, but she wasn’t dead. She’d excelled at style, and cleverness, and even confidence, but when it came to speaking to men, she was out of her depth. So very far out.
“I am in the business of turning out debutantes,” she said. “Not in the manner of a finishing school, not yet, but I provide a similar service. For private clients.”
The man beside her said nothing, but he slowly turned his head in her direction.
Now that she had his full attention, she felt compelled to add, “The potential client is a duke, actually. Lachlan, he’s called. A friend of the prince’s. He has twin girls that he wishes to bring out—that is, to launch into society for the next Season.”
The man narrowed his eyes. Was he intrigued? Fascinated? Her stomach flipped. She continued, “He is in need of help with the girls, and it is his business I’ve come to solicit. The duke’s. For his girls.”
Still, the man said nothing, but he was staring at her with intense interest. Drew was made a little dizzy by the attention.
She kept talking. “The duke in question was the cause of some scandal several years ago. His reputation was so damaged, he was forced to leave London.”
And now, Drew could actually hear herself saying too much, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
“It was a pity, really,” she went on, saying it all, saying things she didn’t even know to be true. “He’d shown great potential in the House of Lords. But he was responsible for an early Luddite riot. He incited the march and then betrayed his own tenants to the authorities. It was widely reported in the broadsheets. It ruined him really, which will make the debut of his girls very challenging, indeed. They’ll need to tread very carefully. But never fear, I specialize in these scenarios. It is my favorite sort of project.”
She had just said it, the words barely out of her mouth, when the doors to the Throne Room were thrust open. A liveried footman appeared.
“His Grace, the Duke of Lachlan,” the footman intoned, half question, half proclamation. A summons.
“Aye,” answered the man beside Drew. “Lachlan.”
To Drew’s great horror, the man beside her—the Duke of Lachlan—stepped around the footman, strode through the door, and disappeared into the Throne Room.
He did not look back. The doors slammed shut.
Drew stared in horror at the thick gray wood while her words revolved in her head like a swarm of Dartford warblers.
Chapter Two
“Mystery solved,” muttered Ian Clayblack, the Duke of Lachlan, coming to a stop before Prince Adolphus. He affected a stiff bow.
“What was that, Lachlan?” called Prince Adolphus, sitting on a throne that looked very much like an upholstered wingback chair. Beside him on a matching wingback-like throne was a young woman in streaming pink ribbons and bouncing yellow curls.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” Ian corrected in a clipped voice.
To the woman he said, “How do you do, Princess. Felicitations on your nuptials.” The words were pleasant but his tone was not.
“What mystery?” demanded the prince.
“The mystery of why you summoned me.” He looked around. “Here.”
“I summoned you because you amuse me, Lachlan.”
“Yes, but typically I amuse you over a pint of lager at the Ferryman Public House in Cumberland Road. I wasn’t aware that Kew Palace had a Throne Room. Nor that you held court.”
The prince made a dismissive gesture. “It’s no small thing to share the royal family with fifteen siblings, Lachlan. I must fight for my stake in this family. This is Mama’s embroidery room, if you must know. She allows my wife and me to use it the second Monday of every month to entertain causes that interest us.”
“So I’m a cause?” asked Ian, frowning.
Ian and Adolphus had served together in the army. They’d slept in a field and eaten gruel and roots and spit-fired salamanders. Ian considered Dolph an ally and a friend, but it was possible to cause real offense here; he was a bloody prince. He should force himself to tread lightly.
“Of course you’re not a cause,” the prince was assuring him. “And we shall drink together at the Ferryman soon enough. But now that I’m properly married . . .” he reached for his princess’s small hand, “. . . I am endeavoring to take my royal duties more seriously. We’ve a friendly history, it’s true, but let us not forget our larger roles. My father is Sovereign; you are a duke. You have goals in parliament, and I want to help you achieve them.”
“Right,” said Ian, not believing it for a second. This meeting was not about Ian’s goals, it was about—
“Pray tell me,” ventured the prince, “how are Evelyn and Ava?”
And there it was. Ian swore in his head. “Who?” he asked, knowing the answer—hating the answer.
“Your nieces, Lachlan.”
“Oh,” said Ian. “Imogene and Ivy.”
“Right, forgive me,” corrected the prince. “How are the dear girls?”
“My nieces are well,” bit out Ian, not entirely a lie.
“You’re cross,” said the prince.
“I’m confused, Highness. You’ve a waiting room filled with loyal subjects who are about five minutes from coming to blows. Someone has broken a window. I would not wish to waylay your allotted Monday with your many adoring supplicants.”
“Ever a selfless man of the people,” mused the prince sarcastically.
“Indeed,” said Ian, still trying to gauge his motives. When the prince said nothing, Ian took a deep breath and dove right in.
“Fine,” Ian said. “Since you’ve asked, I’ve urgent need of a recall to the export duties in Bournemouth. The livelihood of my tenants—of so many craftsman in Dorset—will cease if they cannot ship their goods beyond England without being taxed to the teeth.”
“Oh yes, yes, tenants and taxes,” mused the prince. “I will see what might be done. But let us return, for the moment, to the diverting topic of your nieces.” He gave his wife a wink.
Ian suppressed a growl. He reminded himself that he’d expected this. His old friend had summoned him, but Adolphus had almost no power. The export levy was an issue for parliament or the king.
As to Ian’s nieces . . . Ian marveled that Adolphus had remembered the girls. If Ian had ever mentioned them, he had no idea why. Furthermore—
“Pray keep your dagger glares and ground teeth in check, Lachlan,” snapped the prince. “We’re not in a barracks and you’re distressing my wife. She is endeavoring to do the lot of you a very great favor.”
“Pardon, ma’am,” Ian bit out, bowing stiffly. “What favor?”
“Your two nieces have accompanied you to London, have they not?” asked the prince.
“They have,” Ian said, but in his head, he thought, No, no, no, you must be joking—No.
But of course the die had been cast.
The flame-haired woman in the antechamber had made this abundantly clear. What a terrible, seemingly unavoidable surprise. And Ian hated surprises.
“And you intend to host them in a Season and launch them into society?” said the prince.
“Something of the sort. If I can manage it.”
“You’re a duke of some means, Lachlan. Of course you can manage it. If you’re worried about that scandal with the rioters, surely that’s nearly forgotten.”
Or, thought Ian, it’s been remembered vividly—as evidenced by the woman who recited a distorted version of it to me just five minutes ago.
He said, “Yes, Highness.”
“Tell me what challenges you face with the girls?”
Nothing that has anything to do with you, thought Ian, but it was clear by the look on the prince’s face that he would have an answer.
“Ah, my sister—their mother—is a bit . . . distractable,” ventured Ian. “And the girls are very . . . raw.”
“Quite,” soothed the prince, his voice sympathetic. “This is what we’d heard.”
“Heard from whom?” Ian ground out. Beyond sending staff ahead to open the London townhouse, he’d told no one he was returning to London. Even less had been said about the girls.
“Oh, we have our sources, don’t we, Minnow?” the prince was saying, grinning at his wife. The princess scooted as close to him as their separate chairs would allow. She leaned over to whisper something in his princely ear. She was a pretty little thing, if your taste ran to sugary and young and petite, which Adolphus’s always had. And good for him. It was difficult enough to be a duke. Ian was certain that seventh son to a king came with a great many more challenges. Dolph should have his doll-like wife, but he should have her without treading on Ian’s already complicated life.
“If you can conjure the appropriate amount of respect and courtesy for my wife,” said the prince, “she would like to extend an offer—to you, for your nieces. Regarding their advancement.”
Why couldn’t people, Ian wondered, leave well enough alone? His only wish for himself and his family was to live their lives without comment or interference except to eradicate the bloody export duties on the livelihood of his tenants.
“My wife is offering to sponsor the girls,” said the prince. “Next spring. In their presentation at court. To Mama.”
Ian blinked. Surely he’d misheard.
“Presentation to the Queen,” Dolph clarified. “Of England.”
Ian forgot to be rude or respectful or even angry. “She’s what?” He gaped at Princess Cynde.
“You’ve heard me,” sighed the prince, leaning back.
Ian looked from his old friend, fat and self-important; to his petite wife, yellow hair framing her sweet face like curtains around a brightly lit stage.
“Thank you?” Ian ventured.
“You’re welcome,” chirped the princess, her first words. She had a twee voice that matched her ribbons.
Ian ignored her and waded through this wholly improbable offer in his mind.
Truth: he’d brought Ivy and Imogene from Dorset to host them in a London Season.
Truth: he’d intended to see the thing done properly, in the manner befitting a duke and his family.
Truth: returning to London was the absolute last thing he’d wanted to do, and he wasn’t certain, even now, if it was best for the girls.
Untrue: he’d expected Imogene or Ivy to be presented at court to the Queen of England.
It was a gross understatement to describe the girls as “raw.” They’d returned to Avenelle three months ago, and he’d yet to determine exactly what his sister had done to cultivate their strange combination of sheltered and wild. What was worse, he had no idea how to correct it. He’d brought them to London at significant personal toll; honestly, he’d been at his wit’s end. Wasn’t this what young women did when they turned sixteen? They embarked upon a proper London Season?
Ian’s vision for their Season had involved their making the acquaintance of other girls, fittings for new wardrobes, a handful of carefully chosen parties, and a modest debut ball. And nothing more.
The Lachlan title amounted to an inconsequential dukedom in Dorset. His own scandal had put a stain on the family name. The girls would not run into lofty circles or pursue life at court. If they were very lucky, they’d pick up one or two refinements in London and return to Dorset by summer.
The thought of Imogene or Ivy, God bless them, surviving a royal presentation without incident seemed impossible—as likely as him returning to parliament without inviting public scorn. At best, wildly aspirational; at worst, a disaster.
“I knew you would be ungrateful and difficult,” sighed the prince, selecting a sticky date from a bowl.
“Forgive me, Highness, I’m—”
“And that is why I intend to sweeten the deal,” continued the prince.
“The deal?”
“As part of the girls’ introduction to Mama, I will further facilitate a meeting between you and my brother George.”
“The prince regent?” Ian rasped. Surely he’d misheard.
“Of course the prince regent. That is your larger goal, is it not? To persuade George to release the export duties on your tenants’ lace? My brother, in turn, will pressure the Lords. George owes me a favor, and now you owe me one.”
