The Heiress Gets a Duke

by Harper St. George

  It was a small victory, but it proved that she was neither cold nor unable to stir a man. She would take that victory and still figure out a way to beat Rothschild at his own game, because she was opinionated and intelligent, too.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning, needing to savor her time alone before dealing with the almost certain ambush of her parents as soon as she stepped out of her room, August slept late. After a distressing night of tossing and turning, the extra sleep that morning was just the thing to set her to rights again. She awoke feeling refreshed and eager to take on the challenge of thwarting a fortune-hunting duke.

  It wasn’t until Mary brought her a breakfast tray that she realized things were odd. For one, her maid seemed far more devoted to her duty than normal. A pretty woman only a few years older than her mistress, Mary tucked August’s napkin across her lap and added two lumps to her coffee as if she were taking care of a most treasured child. Her dedication, combined with her knowing glances, were undeniably more than her usual need to please.

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  Mary curtsied and mumbled, “Yes, miss.”

  It seemed that news of her waltz with the duke and its significance must have made the rounds downstairs. Fine. Gossip was inevitable, and she was prepared to ignore it. Things would die down when she made it clear that his interest was not returned.

  Next, the distant peal of the doorbell kept ringing through the house. It happened once while August was eating and scanning a contract from Papa’s secretary that had arrived yesterday, and two more times as Mary helped her into her corset and then while pinning her hair. Papa had a meeting that afternoon that she planned to attend. There were hours yet before the meeting, and no one would call before three in the afternoon. Would they? Suddenly afraid that she had missed something important, she hurried through the rest of her toilet and out her door.

  The doorbell had gone silent, leaving the corridor quiet. Too quiet. Usually, her mother would be up and ordering the maids to make some last-minute alteration to Violet’s planned costume for the evening. Had Mother gone out this early in the day?

  Rare sunbeams cast golden rays on the carpet through the panes of leaded glass at the end of the corridor. Perhaps the sun had lured her mother outside into the garden. Giving the maid polishing a brass lighting fixture a smile and a nod as she passed, August glanced out the window to find the garden empty.

  “Pardon me, but have you seen my mother?” she turned to ask the maid.

  The girl nearly fell over herself in her haste to straighten her skirts and bob a curtsy. “Yes, miss. Mrs. Crenshaw is taking breakfast in the garden parlor with Miss Violet, miss.” She curtsied again at the end for emphasis.

  The Crenshaws tended to run a more casual household than their English counterparts, or so August had been led to assume when the maids and footmen had all shown extreme reverence to the family the first several days after they took up residence in the townhome off Grosvenor Square. The reverence could have been because August had insisted the family pay higher wages to compensate for the positions being of a temporary nature. After a few gentle dissuasions, the servants had treated them with slightly less formality, and everything had settled to rights. Strange that the overly abundant display of deference had returned. August stared a moment at the top of the maid’s lowered head before muttering, “Thank you.”

  “Yes, miss.” The girl curtsied again and waited until August was well away down the corridor before turning her attention back to the fixture.

  The strangeness did not end there. Reginald, the butler, stood at the top of the stairs, directing a maid on what to do with an armful of folded linen, but he shooed the poor woman away toward the narrow servants’ corridor leading to the back as soon as he caught sight of August. He brightened immediately, as if he had been waiting for her. She had only ever seen him upstairs in the housekeeper’s domain when he was ushering a guest to Papa’s study. He didn’t tend the maids. It wasn’t his job.

  “Good morning, Miss Crenshaw.” The man had never stood so straight. It was as if a broomstick had been slipped down the back of his coat. “Your father has requested you join him in his study at your earliest convenience.”

  How long had the poor man been posted there waiting to relay the message to her? The one day she had slept late, and everything was off. “Thank you, and good morning, Reginald.”

  He bowed as she passed. He had never once bowed to her. To be sure, the man was cordial and respectful, but this was much more than that. If she hadn’t been certain before, August now knew that there was talk belowstairs about the waltz. The servants must all assume that she was to be the next Duchess of Rothschild. The talk must be all over London by now. She did not dare read a gossip column to see what might have been written about the previous night.

  Politely rapping her knuckles on the study door, she opened it at Papa’s entreaty. It was time to put an end to the needless speculation. She would tell him that the waltz had not swayed her in her intentions to keep the Crenshaws firmly away from Rothschild. Papa would likely grumble, but, in the end, he would let Rothschild down. It would be unseemly in the extreme for Rothschild to then move on to Violet, so hopefully he would find some other heiress entirely—one of the unwed Jerome sisters, perhaps—and leave the Crenshaws alone.

  She did not hear the other male voices until she opened the door. Two men sat across the desk from Papa, and her heart gave a start when she thought one of them might be Rothschild. But no. While the man was blond, upon closer inspection his hair was fairer than the duke’s and his shoulders were not as broad. He rose, along with the older man at his side, when she entered the room. She recognized them both as soon as they turned to face her as Lady Helena’s father and elder brother.

  “Good morning, darling.” Papa was dressed for business in a smart coat and tie. Rising from behind his desk, he walked around and took her hands as he kissed her cheek. “Did you sleep well? You look stunning.”

  She did not look stunning. She knew for a fact that there were faint blue smudges under eyes because it had taken her a long time to fall asleep. “Yes, thank you.”

  His attention had already returned to the two men in the room as he put a hand at the small of her back and presented her proudly. “I believe you have already met the Earl of Farthington and his son Viscount Rivendale. Gentlemen, my daughter.”

  She had met both men in passing at various functions but had never held a conversation with either of them. They both greeted her politely but seemed far too preoccupied to entertain pleasantries for long. The fact that Lord Farthington held a prominent seat in the House of Lords made the meeting even more auspicious.

  “Come join us, darling,” said Papa as he walked back to his leather chair.

  The earl, an older man with brown hair liberally mixed with gray, appeared flummoxed with his creased brow, and the younger one gawked at her openly before gathering himself to stare at the edge of her father’s desk. Fixing a placid smile on her face, she walked to her Chippendale desk near the window, a compact piece of furniture with a hinged door. Taking up parchment, pen, and inkwell, she carried the tray to her place at the end of her father’s desk. A carved rosewood side chair was already there for her, as it was where she normally sat during meetings so that she could easily keep notes of the discussion.

  “I apologize if I am late, Papa,” she said as she settled herself and the men resumed their seats. “I did not have this meeting on my schedule.”

  “Their visit is a pleasant surprise for me as well.”

  Lord Rivendale cleared his throat and gave her a bemused glance before addressing her father. “Yes, as we were saying, the issue is of some discretion. Perhaps it would be best if we continue in private.” His gaze slid to August in case there was any question of his meaning.

  “My lord, although Miss Crenshaw is my daughter, she
is also a trusted employee of Crenshaw Iron Works. I trust her discretion and her advice implicitly. You did say that this was a business issue?”

  Lord Rivendale paused before nodding a bit reluctantly. “Yes, very much so.” The words were slow to come, as if he were weighing the benefit of proceeding against the obvious drawback of her presence. Fixing a smile on him that could only slightly be construed as spiteful, she waited.

  He shifted, his shoulders twitching as if the perfectly tailored coat encasing them had been fitted with the pins left in it. Despite having met him in passing, she only now observed that he was one of those self-important people who somehow lacked self-assurance. Being important was his birthright, so he had never earned his place and had never bothered to acquire the knowledge of self that earning anything would give him. It was why he tended to look around things rather than directly at them. Much as he was looking around her now.

  Not all noblemen were that way. Rothschild wasn’t. A pleasant heat stole over her face as she remembered how he had looked right at her and seen her. Lord Farthington also did not seem similarly afflicted. He sat with his shoulders back, comfortable with himself, his gaze on Papa.

  Papa smiled. “Then I would very much like that she attend.”

  “If you prefer, I will not write down notes.” She slid the tray several inches away from her on the desk.

  Lord Rivendale glanced to his father, whose expression had not once changed from the befuddled grimace he wore when she appeared at the door. Lord Farthington gave precisely one nod, his lips in a firm line of disapproval.

  “Very well,” said the son. “But there can be no written record of this meeting.”

  Again, he spoke directly to her father and only deigned to shoot her a glance out of the corner of his eyes. She wondered if that was how he spoke to his sisters. Or perhaps he did not speak to them at all, preferring to give orders through the servants. August held up her fingers in a show of her intention not to touch her pen.

  “Of course not. Whatever is said here will be certain to stay within the confines of this room,” Papa assured him in his smooth negotiation tone. The voice that was never flustered no matter how disagreeable the adversary.

  “The matter is of some urgency,” Lord Farthington began. “What do you know of the Indian subcontinent?”

  Papa smiled. “Not nearly as much as I am about to learn, I assure you.”

  The earl nodded as if he had assumed as much. “Britain holds roughly one million square miles in India. Population estimates claim that is approximately two hundred million people. In contrast, England has a population of a mere twenty-two million souls but spread over fifty thousand square miles.” He raised a hand. “Give or take.”

  August leaned forward slightly, afraid to believe that this conversation could be going where her intuition believed it would lead. He could not be here to discuss railways in India. Those contracts had been notoriously difficult to obtain, given only to a select few firms based in Britain. But why else would he be approaching them? She found herself holding her breath as she waited.

  Papa inclined his head to indicate he understood. “Yes, yes, quite a difference in size.”

  “As can be expected, the railways in the empire have lagged behind those here in Britain and even your America,” Lord Farthington continued.

  August nodded in agreement. “I have read that your rail works have laid over fourteen thousand miles of track here. For contrast, the people in India are making do with a mere four thousand miles.” August could not pretend to understand all of the problems facing the people in India, but she knew that four thousand miles was not nearly enough to help ease the effects of drought and the subsequent famines sweeping through the country.

  The earl hesitated, but to his credit he did look at her. “Four thousand at the beginning of the decade,” he confirmed. “At that time we pledged to have ten thousand miles in ten years.”

  “You’re nearly five years in, then. Are you on path to meet your goal?” Papa leaned forward, his fingers laced together on top of his desk.

  Lord Farthington’s brow creased, and his voice lowered almost imperceptibly, as if what he was about to say was confidential. “If you ask publicly, you will hear much boasting and swagger, but the truth is that we are lagging behind, which is why I am here. We need more railroad companies. Men who know how to get the most out of their labor. Men who are efficient and knowledgeable.”

  “It sounds that way. What exactly are you suggesting, my lord?”

  The earl paused, and his nostrils trembled the tiniest bit as he took a breath. “Privately, I would consider it a personal favor if you would submit a proposal from Crenshaw Iron. Your reputation with your own transcontinental railroads precedes you, and since your arrival on our shores, we have found you to be a man of substance. You and your company are who we need in India.”

  The viscount let out a breath as if in relief. “Yes, someone of your expertise might find it a welcome challenge to expand your investment portfolio. If you could be persuaded to take on this project, then you are certain to not only find financial profits, but you would also gain favor with many.”

  “India.” Despite his many years of playing at subterfuge and practiced nonchalance, Papa could not keep the wonder from that one word. He had always been an adventurer. Stories of his travels as a young man had become legend in their family. But then he had married and started a family, and his father had died, leaving him to run Crenshaw Iron, and that had been that for his adventuring. She could almost see the memories of his exploits running through his head.

  “What would such a commitment require of us, my lord?” August asked, sensing that while the allure of the Indian railway system was hard to resist, accepting would come with its own price.

  Lord Farthington reluctantly pulled his gaze away from her father to her. “Crenshaw Iron Works would be required to open an operation here in Britain. We cannot open the doors to all of America, you understand. Having an operation here would help perception, and I am given to understand it aligns with your own goals for expansion.” When she nodded, he turned his attention back to Papa. “Of course, you will find that many of the restrictions that might have prevented an earlier attempt will be eased for you.”

  “I am afraid that we must insist on autonomy, if we agree to this,” August said, drawing attention back to her. “We control our own operation, and that includes our relationship with our workers. We pay them a wage that we determine to be fair.” Max had begun the work of making certain their laborers were compensated fairly when he had entered the family business nearly a decade earlier. She had supported him in that, even though some of their contemporaries had bristled at the move, preferring a standard of depressed wages to control competition.

  Lord Farthington appeared to be on the verge of arguing, but then he gave a nod of agreement. “Your contracts are your own to negotiate.”

  She let out a quiet sigh of relief that she hadn’t needed to fight harder. The ethical and fair treatment of the people she employed, be they laborers or servants, was important to her.

  “How extensive of an operation do you mean?” asked Papa.

  Lord Farthington shrugged. “All details that can be arranged later and that I am certain will not pose an issue. You will find your investments here very lucrative.” Sensing that victory was close, Lord Farthington’s gaze narrowed in assurance. “After all, the Duke of Rothschild clearly believes you are someone with integrity and honor. How could we believe any less?”

  August only barely managed to hide her gasp. To disguise it, she looked down at her hands clasped firmly in her lap and swallowed. These men were here because of the betrothal they assumed would be forthcoming. She would bet her last dollar on it. Had it truly meant that much to everyone?

  “Well.” Papa’s smile was in his voice. “We are looking forward to becoming better a
cquainted with His Grace.”

  “Now, Papa, I believe it is far too early to—”

  Both father and son looked at her. The earl with gleaming speculation, and the viscount with faintly veiled disdain. Perhaps he was thinking that he could not possibly conceive of lowering himself to marry a common woman for money. He himself had married a marquess’s daughter, a nod above his own station.

  Wishing only to wipe the smugness from his face, she said, “The duke is a good friend to us.”

  The older man gave a nod and seemed to relax, while the younger turned his attention away from her. The conversation continued for the next few minutes as Papa gleaned pertinent details about the potential deal. As far as the men were concerned, August was attentive and an active participant, but inside she was quaking. She had severely misjudged the reach of the duke’s influence, and now walking away from him did not seem nearly so straightforward as it once had.

  Finally, the viscount turned to his father and said, “We must be leaving if we are to make our next appointment.”

  Although nothing was remotely settled and there were far more details that begged to be discussed, Lord Farthington nodded and made to stand. Everyone else in the room followed suit. “I trust we shall be hearing from Crenshaw Iron soon.”

  “We will certainly consider the opportunity, my lord. I look forward to communicating with you further.” Papa walked around his desk and crossed to open the door.

  Both the earl and Lord Rivendale offered a murmured good day to her before turning away. As the earl approached, Papa held out his hand to offer a handshake. The earl paused and only after a brief hesitation offered his own hand. Lord Rivendale did the same. Father walked them out and returned moments later wearing a wistful smile.

  “Well, that was . . . unexpected.” His eyebrows rose.

  Her stomach roiled in agitation. “It certainly was. Max had petitioned for a contract several years ago. Perhaps now that they have fallen behind schedule, they have deigned to open things to American companies,” she said. It sounded like a lame justification even to her own ears. Lord Farthington had all but said it was because of their ties to Rothschild.