Jilting the Duke (33 page)

“Are you sure it's the rose? It could be the bird that was out of place, the one that didn't feed on roses.” Aidan pulled her against his side, smelling the lavender in her hair.

“Hmmm. I thought the hummingbird was just a joke between Tom and Ian. So which is it: the hummingbird or the rose?”

He held her tightly against his chest. “What should we do first? Tell the Home Office? They will want to begin testing which word is the key. It should reveal some important information, now that we know where to begin.”

“After this long, there is no hurry.” She turned her face up to his, kissed him softly. “You offered once to show me your bedroom. But you haven't. Perhaps that was just an insignificant promise.”

“None of our promises were insignificant. And they never will be. Does this mean I'm forgiven?”

“Always. Always forgiven.” She touched her hand to his face. “I've never stopped loving you.”

“Nor I you.” He held her to him, and she turned her head to lay her cheek on his chest. “I know a path through the garden; it goes through the mews. I could show it to you.”

“I'd like to see it—and my garden; I've been wanting to see how my designs turned out. It will be our new start.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Charters sat in his study, his antiquities arranged as he'd wished. But their quiet history did not calm his mind. Instead, he couldn't forget what he could not have seen in the conservatory. It couldn't have been Tom. It was only an illusion: Lady Wilmot wearing her husband's clothes. But it had been Tom's face, his eyes offering recrimination. Tom protecting his wife. Charters had known the man his whole life. He hadn't made a mistake.

He wouldn't act against Lady Wilmot again. Even if she had the list of peers who had betrayed England, he wouldn't risk it. Besides, he had received another letter from Octavia—this one some twenty names long. His name had not been on it, though he still did not know if it had been on Tom's.

And he had other ventures to pursue. Other possibilities.

He'd raised more than ample funds with his forgeries. He was now a significant shareholder in a shipping firm. The first of his investments were now at sea in good weather. If only half of his ships came back safely, his return would be strong. And he'd made inroads into the criminal gangs.

He even had money left from the banknote robberies. The tutor had been wise not to mention his part in those, though he was still being transported for his part in the blackmail. To mollify the young tutor for shooting him, Charters had given him a substantial portion of cash, but not his full part. It was not kindness. It was forethought. Paying against a time when Charters's enterprises might lead into colonial markets.

Eventually he would have the power he deserved. But for now he was satisfied with the money.

He turned to his companion, who was carving another piece of wood. Flute had filled out over the last month. He was now once more the strong man he'd been when Charters had first known him. And completely loyal.

“Mr. Flute, what do you think about gambling hells?”

“I don't gamble. Or at least not with money.”

“Then I think we have a new venture. What do you think of calling it the Blue Heron?”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Walgrave entered the inner office to give his summary report on the Wilmot affair. But first he'd lost a bet with the men in the division, and it was time to pay.

Benjamin put down his pencil and motioned for Walgrave to take a seat. Joseph, as always, was close at hand.

“I'd prefer to stand, sir. I've been tasked by the men to press an issue of some importance.” Walgrave felt more ill at ease than he'd imagined possible.

“Then speak. What's troubling the men?”

“It's the issue of your new name, sir. Eventually one of us will slip up, say your name, and then all your sacrifices will be for naught. Your brother Aidan will step down in your favor. You will have to marry.”

Walgrave ignored the glances between Benjamin and Joseph.

“I'm listening.”

“Our recent investigations into the Methodist revivalists have led us to consider Biblical names that convey the . . . unique nature . . . of your situation.” Walgrave found himself unaccountably nervous.

“Unique?”

“Yes, sir. In a sense you have died and are now raised from the dead. So, Lazarus would be appropriate, or Jonah—he was trapped in the belly of a whale, sir. . . .”

“I'm familiar with the story.”

“Or there's Enoch and Elijah, who never died. Or we could look to other sources: King Arthur is the once and future king. Romeo is believed dead, then isn't. Of course he does die in fairly short order.”

“I take your . . . somewhat obvious point.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How about James?”

“James, sir?”

“Yes. I'm a version of my former self. Benjamin leads somewhat easily to James. As opposed to the other names you suggest, I might actually answer to it.”

“Mr. James,” Walgrave repeated. “Very good, sir. I'll inform the men.”

“I believe you have a report for me.”

Walgrave nodded. “We have been able to trace neither the paper nor the plates. The barn was rented through the mails, and the agent never met the man, a Mr. MacDonald.”

“If that's even a real name.”

“We think it's unlikely. The tutor indicated that his accomplice never appeared to him without a disguise.”

“Then, we'll have to wait. I fear we have a new player on the board. And we have no idea what he might want.”

Dear Reader,

If you love history as much as I do, I thought you might like a little more information on the background to Aidan and Sophia's story. Whenever possible, I use period magazines and newspapers for background over current history books. Sometimes with the benefit of hindsight, we understand events differently than a person living at the time would have, and I want to create a nineteenth-century world as the characters—had they been living then—might have experienced it. For the most part, this context comes up in small ways: Aidan is right when he says that the Wilmots in Naples were out of harm's way.

So, for those of you who want to know more about a book's historical events, here are some juicy details.

 

 

Still nestled alongside the Thames, the Chelsea Apothecaries' Garden, sometimes called the Physic Garden, was founded in 1673 by the Society of Apothecaries.
Physic
at the time meant “of the natural world,” and the apothecaries used the four-acre plot to train their apprentices in the healing properties of plants. The garden gained world renown, receiving plants and seeds from botanists around the world, during the fifty-year curatorship of Philip Miller (1691–1771). Miller also authored
The Gardener's Dictionary,
a comprehensive guide to plants that went through eight editions in his lifetime and quickly became the standard reference work. Sophia inherits Miller's
Dictionary
from her father and uses it to investigate Tom's proofs. William Anderson, the Scottish curator Sophia meets during her visit, is also a real historical figure: Anderson served as the garden's curator from 1815 to 1846. The description of the physic garden's buildings and beds comes from contemporary engravings and other notices.

During Miller's curatorship, a number of botanical classification systems for identifying plants vied for prominence. The one that eventually gained widespread acceptance was Carl Linnaeus's sexual system, which places all living things into hierarchic groups by genus and species. (We use Linnaeus's system when we identify human beings as genus
homo
and species
sapiens
.) Linnaeus even visited the Chelsea Physic Garden several times in the 1730s, and it is his bust that rests above Tom's books.

One well-known follower of Linnaeus's system was the beloved Queen Charlotte, George III's wife, an avid botanist. The queen's interest in the emerging science made it a popular and accepted pastime for girls and young women. As a result, the Regency book market was filled with books on botany geared to every segment of the market: children, students, dabblers, and specialists. Some books like the one that Sophia completes for Tom were hand-watercolored by women specially hired for the purpose (machine-colored illustrations are decades away). Purchasers really could choose how they wished their book to look, from the type of binding to the number and quality of the illustrations—and each option changed the cost of the book itself. The children's botany book Sophia reads—Priscilla Wakefield's—was first published in the late eighteenth century and frequently reprinted throughout the nineteenth as was Philip Miller's
Gardener's Dictionary.

For Sophia's nom de plume, I've stolen the name Mrs. Teachwell from Lady Ellenor Fenn, a prolific children's author who wrote from the 1780s to 1809. Contrary to popular belief, works by women writers filled the bookshelves during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. In fact, more than four-hundred female authors published between 1789 and 1824, though today most people can't name more than a handful of them. (For my list of the hundred best books written by women prior to 1900, check out my website.) In fact, between 1780 and 1830, the cost of novels differed based on the
gender
of the author! Women's novels cost the most, followed by books authored by anonymous authors (by a lady, by a gentleman, etcetera), and finally, books authored by men, which earned the very least.

 

 

I love words—and as much as I can, I use them as they would have been used in the period. So, even though I would have loved to have Aidan
empathize
with Sophia, the best he can do is
sympathize
. Empathy as a concept originated much later in the century with Sigmund Freud. I'm keeping a list of words characters can't use in 1819 on my website . . . for other word-nerds like me.

Having said that, I have chosen clarity over accuracy when I use the word
croquet
. As a game where one strikes a ball through a series of hoops in a particular order, croquet wasn't part of British culture until the 1850s. However, an earlier game similar to croquet called variously Palle-Maille, Pell-Mell, or Pall-Mall was popular in England from at least the seventeenth century. In that game, a hoop is placed at either end of the playing field. But for the purpose of conveying quickly and precisely what sort of game Sophia plays, I decided
croquet
was the word readers would understand best.

I hope you enjoyed Sophia and Aidan's story, and that you are looking forward to the next installment in Charters's villainy.

I'm always happy to hear from readers; you can e-mail me at [email protected]. For more historical notes on JILTING THE DUKE, or to connect with me on social media, go to my website—rachaelmiles.com—which provides links to Twitter, Facebook, etcetera. While you're there, sign up for my mailing list, and I'll send you an announcement when the next book is coming out.

I'm happy to talk to book clubs and community groups. Drop me a line to set something up.

Loving the Muses' Salon Series?

 

Keep reading for
a sneak peek at

CHASING THE HEIRESS
,

available in June 2016
from Zebra Shout.

Colin Somerville woke, heart pounding, the heavy thud of cannon fire fading with his nightmare. Heavy brocaded curtains hung over the carriage windows to his left. Feeling suffocated, he shoved the curtains apart and breathed in gulps of crisp September air. Beyond the window, the sun fell gently on the green rolling hills of Shropshire. In the near distance, open pastures with grazing sheep gave way to enclosed land growing turnips. He fell back against the seat. He was in England, not Belgium. It was only a dream.

Judging from the position of the sun, they should reach Shrewsbury by dusk. He rubbed his face with his hands, pressing his fingertips into the tight muscles at his forehead and temples. To calm his heart, he used an old trick his brother Benjamin had taught him. He focused on naming the various scents in the air—wool, newly harvested wheat, dirt loosened to pull the turnips, and water. Likely the Severn.

His companion Marietta grew restless in her sleep. He stilled. She curled her hand under her chin and nestled further into the thick, down-filled pallet tucked into the well between the two carriage seats. Colin had bought her the pallet that morning at Wrexham. The gift had cost him more than he could easily afford, but her widening smile had been worth the cost. Since then, she had spent the day sleeping, her back to one seat riser, her swollen belly pressed against the other.

A line of bright sunlight from beneath the window curtains shone above Marietta's head like a nimbus. But unlike the Madonnas he had seen in Rome or Venice, whose faces were lit with an internal glow, Marietta—even in rest—looked weary. The dark hollows in her cheeks, the deep circles under her eyes, the blueish undertone to her lips, all reminded him of the El Grecos he'd seen at Toledo. He thought of his sister Judith's confinements—she had never looked so ill, not with any of her four boys. If the Home Office had sent him to bury another woman . . . He pushed the thought away.

It had taken Colin two days to travel to Holywell, two days in which he had steeled himself to smile and be charming. But ultimately the princess had charmed him. Heiress to a mining magnate, Marietta had caught the eye of a visiting (and impoverished) member of the Habsburg royal family. Though she had been impeccably trained at the best finishing school in Paris, when Colin arrived, he found her teaching the housekeeper's parrot to curse in five European languages. “Don't call me princess,” she whispered, casting a grim eye to the housekeeper, hovering at the edge of the terrace. “Or she will raise my rate.”

It had taken two more days to separate Marietta's possessions into two groups: those which the carriage could carry and those which would have to be shipped from Liverpool around the coast to London. Most difficult had been determining exactly which clothes she could (and could not) do without for her first week at court. Then, just when he had thought that they might set out, she had grown anxious that her belongings would miscarry, and she had insisted that his coachman Fletcher accompany her trunks across the inlet to ensure they were well stowed for their London journey. All told, he had been gone from London for more than a week before he bundled Marietta, her paints, embroidery, knitting, books, and a handful of magazines into the carriage and set off on their trip. But somehow he had not minded. Marietta was sweet, resilient, and companionable, anticipating the birth of her child with real joy. And Colin was already fond of her, treating her as a sort of younger sister.

Marietta moaned and tried to shift her weight. Why—he berated himself for the fiftieth time—hadn't he borrowed a better carriage to carry her to London? One with ample seats, thick comfortable bolsters, and better springs. Why hadn't the Home Office informed him that his charge was increasing? Had they intentionally withheld the information? Or had they not known?

He forced his attention back to the map. If Marietta gave birth on the road with only him and Fletcher for midwives, Colin would kill someone in the Home Office. He wasn't yet sure who. Perhaps the lot of them, but he would begin by strangling Harrison Walgrave.

The carriage began to slow, the springs creaking into a new rhythm. Colin waited for Fletcher to offer the usual signals: two slow taps for an inn, a fast double-tap for a crossroads, and a heavy heel-kick for danger. But no taps, kicks, yells, or pistol shots alarmed Colin, except perhaps the nagging absence of any warnings.

Colin tapped on the roof and waited. No response.

He shifted one foot, then the other—both numb from inactivity—from the opposite seat to the floor. Colin slid several inches toward the middle of the bench and moved the cushion aside to reveal a built-in pistol cabinet, added by his brother, the Duke of Forster.

The door handle moved slightly as someone tried to open the door. But Colin had bolted it from the inside. Their attacker grew frustrated, pulling against the door handle several times.

Colin wrenched the pistol cabinet door open as the window glass shattered inward and the curtains were torn away.

Colin tried to stand, needing to place himself between Marietta and the broken window. But his feet found no solid purchase, just a river of down shifting beneath his weight. Losing his balance, he fell backward onto the seat.

Two hands in long leather gloves, each holding a pistol, reached through the window frame into the carriage.

As in battle, everything slowed. Both pistols pointed at a spot in the middle of Colin's chest. At this range, he had no hope of surviving. And he felt more relief than fear.

Colin held out his hands to show he was unarmed. He could see nothing of the highwayman. Only a dark duster and a mask.

The guns didn't fire.

One pistol shifted to the opposite seat. But Marietta wasn't there. Seeing her on the floor, the highwayman repositioned his sights.

Colin moved, flinging himself between Marietta and the barrel. He heard the cock of the trigger, saw the flash of fire, and felt the hit of the ball in his side. Black powder burned his flesh.

Dark smoke filled the cabin, and he choked, coughing.

His ears rang from the boom of the gunshot, but he saw the flash of the second pistol firing, along with a shower of sparks from the side and barrel of the gun. He felt Marietta's scream. He pulled himself up, half-standing, one hand against the carriage roof to steady himself. His side stabbed with pain at each expansion of his lungs.

Marietta tried to rise behind him, choking as well. She pulled against the clothes on his back, but he pushed her hands away. When the smoke cleared, his body would stand between Marietta and their assailant. Marietta beat the backs of his legs. Some of the lit sparks from the pistols had fallen onto the down-filled bed. Colin assessed the dangers automatically. Once the embers ate past the woolen cover and fire caught the feathers, the danger would spread quickly.

Still on the floor, Marietta pushed herself to the opposite door, kicking the smoldering bolsters and pallet away from her. With each kick, she further entangled his feet. He couldn't reach her, at least not easily. And he couldn't reach and load a gun without stepping from his defensive position in front of her. Thick smoke burned his eyes.

With neither sound nor sight to help him, he had to choose: the dangers of the fire, growing with each second, or those of the highwaymen who could be waiting outside to rob or murder them. Tensing, he unbolted the door, pushed it open, and leapt out. His leg hitting wrong, he fell and rolled into the ditch beside the road. He raised himself cautiously. The highwaymen were gone, having attacked, then left. Not robbers then.

He pulled himself to standing. He should worry about Fletcher, but there was no time. Smoke from the feather-stuffed pallet billowed from the coach. He could see Marietta's legs, vigorously kicking the smoldering bed away from her. She was alive, but trapped against the locked door on the opposite side of the carriage.

Ignoring the pain below his ribs, he pulled hard on the pallet, dragging a portion through the coach door. Already, the smoldering feathers were breaking through the wool in patches of open flame. He heaved again, releasing all but a third from the coach. Flames began to dance across the pallet.

If the pallet broke apart before he could remove it, he'd have to sacrifice the carriage, and then he could offer little protection to Marietta. He pulled once more, hard, and the pallet fell onto the verge next to the road. Then, to protect neighboring crops and livestock, he dragged the pallet, flames licking at his hands, into the middle of the road, cursing at each step. Once carriage and countryside were out of danger, he hunched over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath without expanding his lower ribcage.

After taking a few minutes to recover his breath, Colin looked up at the carriage. Fletcher remained at his post, his body slumped forward.

Colin climbed the side of the coach, gritting his teeth against the pain. Blood oozed through the hair at the back of the coachman's head. Pressing his fingers to the older man's neck, Colin felt the beat of the artery. Alive.

Listening and watching for trouble, Colin weighed his options.

They needed to move, to get off the open road. But for that, he needed Fletcher conscious. At least he wouldn't have to explain to Cook how her man had been killed on a quiet English road after surviving a dozen campaigns against Boney.

Still unable to hear, he poured water from the flask under the coachman's seat over the back of Fletcher's head. Tenderly cradling the older man's head, Colin washed the blood away. The wound ran in a long gash slantways from the back of Fletcher's ear toward the back of his head. Colin pressed his fingers against the gash. Long but not deep and worst at the curve of Fletcher's head where the weapon had bitten hardest through the skin.

Fletcher moaned.

Colin lifted Fletcher's chin. “Pistol shot. Can't hear.” Colin picked up the fallen reins and held them out. “Can you drive?”

Fletcher took the reins in one hand.

Colin's strength suddenly faded. “How far to the next inn?”

Fletcher held up two fingers, then three. Two to three miles.

Colin moved slowly to the open carriage door, calling out in case Marietta's ears had recovered from the pistol shots. “Marietta, there's an inn within the hour.”

He stepped in front of the open door. Marietta was seated on the floor, leaning against the backward-facing seat riser, her legs bent at odd angles. Her eyes closed, she held one hand to her chest; the other cradled her belly. At her shoulder, blood seeped through her fingers, covering her hand and staining the front of her chemise. Blood pooled on the floor below her.

Colin's chest clenched. He swung himself into the carriage, yelling “Fletcher! Drive!” as he pulled the door shut behind him.

He pulled off his cravat and tore it into strips to make a bandage, then crawled beside her.

To stage an attack and steal nothing.... Not robbery. Murder. He needed to think. But first he needed to slow Marietta's bleeding.

* * *

Lady Arabella Lucia Fairbourne plunged her hands into the wash water, reaching for another dish. By pure luck, she'd found work as a scullery maid at an inn—and with it servant's lodgings. A place to hide. She'd even taken a servant's name: Lucy.

Several times in the last fortnight, the innkeeper's wife, Nell, had offered Lucy the easier work of waiting on guests in the dining hall, but each time she had refused. The dining hall was too public. Someone might recognize her.

She pulled her hands from the water and examined them, first on one side, then the next. Fingers puckered, cuticles split, palms roughened and red. Her hands looked like those of a woman who worked for a living. The hands of a scullery maid doing hard but honest labor. She smiled. She was exhausted, but free.

She preferred useful labor to idle luxury . . . even if that work was washing dishes rather than caring for the wounded in her father's regiment. Others would consider working in a tavern kitchen a reversal of fortune, but then, they had never lived in her cousin's house. She pressed her palm against the seam of her dress on the outside of her leg. She felt the comforting thickness where she had sewn in the letter her great-aunt Aurelia had entrusted to her. “Take this to my old love, Sir Cecil Grandison.” Aurelia's frail hand had patted Lucy's gently. “He'll understand what to do.”

Lucy dried a silver platter with a soft cloth. From the windows far above her head, a soft light suffused the kitchen. Evening. Her favorite time of day. Guests, servants, and family all fed, the kitchen cleaned for the night, and Alice the cook leaving Lucy alone to finish the washing. Even so late in the day, the autumn sun would be out for another hour or two, allowing her some time in the inn's private garden. Separated from the public yard by a high wall on the courtyard side and thick hedges on all others, the garden made her feel almost as safe as being in the kitchen.

But feeling safe was different from being safe. The roads were still too full of her cousin's men to try another move. Only that afternoon, she'd seen the one called Ox (“Oaf,” she thought, would be more appropriate) looking around the stable yard while his horses were changed.

He hadn't seen her. She had been looking out of the window of the attic room she shared with Mary, the cook's helper.

Ox had seemed preoccupied, almost as if he wished not to be noticed, keeping to himself rather than joking with the other stableman as he typically did. Had they given up on finding her? Certainly no one would expect her to be so close. After all this time, she had hoped that they would have moved the search to London by now. She watched until Ox mounted a horse and rode away.