The Making of a Duchess

by Shana Galen

  "Nothing at all." She glanced at his empty hands. "Did you have a glass of champagne?"

  She was changing the subject, and he supposed he would have to allow it. After all, what she did on terraces with strange men did not concern him.

  He clenched his hands into fists.

  Julien spotted Stover heading toward them and nodded to him. Stover was just the man to keep him from saying something he would later regret. He already had too much to regret with this woman.

  "Mademoiselle Serafina Artois," Julien said as Stover paused and bowed before them. "I present Marcus Stover."

  She held out one gloved hand, regal and selfassured once again. The color had come back to her cheeks as well. "Good evening Mr. Stover. How are you enjoying the ball?" She had to raise her voice to be heard over the din of voices and the swell of the orchestra.

  "Very much, and you, my lady?"

  She smiled. "It's been a whirlwind." She gestured to the couples now dancing. The women were spinning, their gowns belling out.

  "Have you had time to see much of London?"

  She shook her head. "No, not yet."

  "Perhaps Valère will give you a tour. You're in Berkeley Square, and that's not far from Hyde Park."

  Julien frowned. Why had he not thought of offering to take her on a tour?

  "I've heard Hyde Park is lovely," she said, "but what I'd really enjoy is one of Gunther's ices. I haven't had one of those in—" She paused, glanced at the dancers again. "I mean, I've heard those are delicious."

  "I see our reputation precedes us," Julien said. "What else would you like to see? I'll take you when I have a moment away from business."

  "That will be never," Rigby interjected, coming up behind Stover. "You should allow me to escort you, Mademoiselle Serafina. We might practice our Italian." He winked, and Julien had to resist the urge to punch the man.

  "Perhaps you should take Miss Wimple out and about, Rigby," Stover said. "I'm sure she's on pins and needles, waiting for you to call."

  Julien coughed to cover his grin, but Rigby shot them both looks rife with sabers. Then he smiled. "Unfortunately, Miss Wimple is not in attendance this evening." He turned to Mademoiselle Serafina, his eyes sad. "Which means I have no one to dance with. Mademoiselle Serafina, would you end my loneliness and grant me the pleasure of this dance?"

  She blinked, looked to Julien for help, but before Julien could stop Rigby, the man had her on his arm and was leading her away. She glanced back once, her look pleading.

  "You should probably cut in," Stover said, watching them go. "Too much time with Rigby and she'll book passage back to Italy tomorrow."

  Julien crossed his arms to stop himself from following Stover's advice. He was not going to go after her. "That wouldn't be the worst thing."

  Stover raised his brows. "Trouble already?"

  Julien stared across the room for a full minute. He did not really want to discuss this, but when no engagement announcement was forthcoming, everyone would be talking about it anyway. "She rejected me."

  Stover frowned. "What? I didn't hear you."

  "You heard me." Julien kept his eyes on a sconce across the room.

  "You proposed already?"

  "I don't like to waste time." The music began, and he moved to the right a few steps, so that he had a better view of the ballroom and the dancers. He caught a flash of Rigby's red hair and shook his head. Mademoiselle Serafina was stumbling through this dance as well.

  "You might have waited until you'd had a conversation or two."

  Julien glared at him.

  "Just a suggestion."

  "Thanks."

  Julien watched the dance proceed, watched Rigby laugh at something Mademoiselle Serafina said. Was she witty? She had not said anything amusing to him.

  "What are you going to do now?"

  Julien shrugged. "Any suggestions? I don't care about the marriage, but my mother has the whole ton thinking we're buying the bridal trousseau."

  "It's not that bad."

  Julien gave Stover a sidelong look.

  Stover pointed to Rigby and Mademoiselle Serafina. "Perhaps that's not such a bad idea. You might encourage more of that. Though"—he frowned as Serafina turned the wrong way—"she isn't likely to attract many dancing partners."

  Julien sighed. And just why exactly did that statement please him?

  Two hours later, Julien walked into his club. It was crowded as usual. At this time of night, the patrons were raucous and jovial. He wound through the haze of smoke, stopping periodically to converse with an acquaintance. But he refused offers to join any of the parties, foregoing the port and leather chairs for the gaming room

  At the entrance, he paused and scanned the green baize tables then arrowed for Rigby, who was standing next to the faro table. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and steered him away. "Hey, wait a moment! I have money on this."

  "I thought you were a dancer, not a gambler."

  "I can be both," Rigby said, shrugging Julien's hand off. "For what it's worth, old chap, I'm not trying to steal the lovely Serafina."

  "Oh, good. I was worried."

  "As well you should be." Rigby signaled a waiter and asked for two brandies. "But I wouldn't do that to Miss Wimple, even if I haven't fully committed to the idea of marrying the little mare."

  "You're quite the gentleman, Rigby."

  "I know, and it's exhausting." He fell into a wingback chair. "All the gallantry and chivalry. It's enough to wear a man out." The waiter reappeared. "Ah. There's fortification now." He swallowed a good portion of the brandy then rolled his head to look at Julien, who had taken the chair beside him. "For what it's worth, your Mademoiselle Serafina has better teeth than my Miss Wimple, but my Miss Wimple can speak Italian."

  "So can Mademoiselle Serafina." Julien took a swallow of the brandy. It was cheap, not as good as what he had at home. He could be there now, enjoying far better brandy, sitting in his office… thinking about Mademoiselle Serafina just a floor above him.

  That was the precise reason he was not at home.

  "I don't think she can speak Italian."

  Julien refrained from rolling his eyes.

  "She didn't say a word to me in Italian during the entire dance."

  "Perhaps she just didn't want to talk to you."

  "Ridiculous. I think she doesn't know Italian."

  Julien sighed. "Yes, yours is the more logical explanation."

  "Odd. To be from Italy and not speak Italian."

  "Yes." And it would be, if it were true. He spotted Stover across the room and muttered, "Thank God."

  Stover saw them and took an open chair. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a slip of paper and passed it over to Julien.

  "What's this?"

  "Name of a privateer who might be able to assist you with those travel plans we were discussing."

  Julien stuck the paper in his coat. "Really? How'd you come by this?"

  "My sister was giving a dinner party, and she wanted to serve French wine. She had my brother-in-law running about Town for two weeks, looking for some good quality French vintage. He said this is the only man who can acquire it at present. I thought with your shipping connections, you'd be able to find him."

  Julien nodded his thanks.

  "You're not still planning to go to France?" Rigby moaned. "I thought we'd decided only a cods-head would attempt that."

  "Stubble it, Rigby," Julien said and took another swallow of brandy.

  "Not to mention, you have the lovely Mademoiselle Serafina to live for."

  Julien looked at Stover, and together they said, "Stubble it, Rigby."

  Nine

  He was out. Sarah had it on good authority from both the duchesse and the butler that Valère had gone to visit his solicitor and would be out for most of the day.

  And then, on top of that good news, the duchesse had gone out as well. She had asked Serafina to go shopping with her, but Sarah had feigned a headache, waiting in bed for
three-quarters of an hour after she heard the duchesse depart. In that time, the house had quieted, and Sarah had worked out a plan for breaking into Valère's library.

  Her last attempt, two days after the ball, had ended in failure as the library door had been locked. She assumed it would be locked again today, and she could not very well stand in the vestibule and try to force it open. She would not have to use force at all if her plan worked.

  Fully dressed, she threw off the covers and rose, then tiptoed to the door and peered out. No one was in the corridor.

  She crept down the stairs, her breath a little short and her heart pounding. She was not certain if she felt a surge of energy from nerves or excitement. She feared some part of her was actually beginning to enjoy this game of espionage.

  Sarah started down the wide marble stairs and saw the woman she wanted: Mrs. Eggers, the housekeeper. Mrs. Eggers was quite good at her job and bobbed her head at Serafina right away. "Mademoiselle, you shouldn't be up and about. Can I help you with something?"

  Sarah put a hand to her head, trying to look sad and pitiful. "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Eggers." Sarah clenched her hand into a fist and dug her fingernails into her palm. Serafina would not thank the housekeeper. Serafina would order, not ask. She had to remember that. Sarah cleared her throat. "I find that I cannot sleep and want a book to read. Can you—I mean, please direct me to the library."

  "Oh." Mrs. Eggers looked at the library door. It was closed, and from the look on Mrs. Eggers's face, still locked. "It's right there, my lady, but I'm afraid it's locked."

  Sarah, the governess, would have given up at that point and crept back to her room without a book. Serafina was not about to give up that easily. "Could you open it for me, please? I mean, please unlock it."

  The housekeeper frowned, and Sarah knew that now would be the test. If Grimsby was like most butlers, he had probably nipped out for a quick pint as soon as he realized he would be free of both employers for several hours. He would have left the keys behind, not wanting to risk losing them to pickpockets or carelessness. He would also have given orders that the library should remain undisturbed.

  But those rules did not apply to Mademoiselle Serafina, or, if they did, Sarah did not think Mrs. Eggers would risk angering Serafina by refusing what really was a simple, ordinary request. But just in case she was considering it, Sarah raised an eyebrow in what she hoped was an imperial gesture.

  "Just a moment, my lady," the housekeeper said. "I'll go get the key."

  She moved off, toward the servants' stairs. Grimsby probably kept the keys in his room, and Mrs. Eggers would have to fetch them. Sarah waited, pacing back and forth across the marble vestibule with nervousness.

  Hurry. Hurry.

  At any moment, the duc, the duchesse, or the butler could return, ruining her plan.

  Hurry!

  Thankfully, Mrs. Eggers did not know the meaning of laziness, and she was back quickly. Sarah smiled, seeing the housekeeper holding the keys high. She tried not to crowd too close behind Mrs. Eggers as the woman opened the door, but it was difficult not to rush the housekeeper. Finally Sarah heard the lock click, and the housekeeper turned the door handle.

  Sarah forced herself to move slowly inside, as though she had never been there before.

  "I'll just wait while you choose a book," Mrs. Eggers said.

  Sarah had anticipated this as well. She took her time perusing the shelves, studying the varied fiction and nonfiction titles. Sarah would have hurriedly grabbed the first volume she touched and scurried away with it. Serafina was far choosier and in no hurry. It did not matter to her that the housekeeper was too busy to stand about waiting for her.

  Sarah tapped her finger to her chin as she surveyed the titles, not seeing the books at all. Come on, she pled silently. Surely someone on the staff urgently needed the housekeeper. All Sarah needed was five minutes alone.

  The clock ticked by, and Mrs. Eggers waited patiently. Sarah pulled a book off the shelf and flipped through it, not seeing anything between the covers. She paused on a page and pretended to read.

  "Mrs. Eggers?"

  Finally!

  "Yes, Molly? What is it?"

  "I was polishing the tea service like you asked, ma'am, and I dropped the pot. I'm afraid I may have dented the dining room table."

  "What?"

  Sarah covered her mouth to hide her smile. Molly was in a good deal of trouble. Sarah did not wish hardship on the maid, but she knew this was the chance she had been waiting for.

  "Mademoiselle?" Mrs. Eggers called.

  Sarah looked up, pretending not to have heard their exchange. She feigned impatience. "What is it?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip.

  "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle. I need to step away for a moment. You take your time."

  Sarah sighed loudly, then looked back at her book and absently turned a page. She felt like the rudest creature on earth, but it was necessary. From what Sarah had seen, the Valères treated their servants well, but they were still aristocrats. They had been served their entire lives and had no idea what it was to serve. They were not intentionally rude, and indeed Mrs. Eggers probably did not think Serafina rude right now, but Sarah knew she was not Serafina.

  She listened as Mrs. Eggers's steps retreated, then scooted closer to the door. She peered out and saw the housekeeper entering the dining room. Quickly, Sarah pushed the library door closed and ran to Valère's desk. She set the book on the corner, in case she needed to pretend to read it, and began to rifle through the papers on the top.

  Accounts. Correspondence. Ledgers. Nothing that looked promising.

  Where was that letter she had seen on her first night? She needed something that looked like it had to do with France.

  She finished going through the papers on top of the desk and slid open one of the drawers. Outside she heard one of the servants talking, and her heart lurched. Was it Grimsby returning?

  She lifted her book and pretended to read it. Her heart pounded so loudly that she could not hear when or if the servants moved away. Finally she rose and tiptoed to the door again. The vestibule was empty, but she had to hurry. Mrs. Eggers might return without warning.

  Sarah prayed for more domestic complications as she peered into the open drawer. This was the drawer Valère had pulled paper and ink out of on her first night, and that looked like all it held. Paper, quills, ink. Drat! Where was he keeping that letter?

  She slid that drawer closed and opened another. This one was full of correspondence. She glanced at several of the documents, but they were businessrelated. If she had time to read them all, she imagined one might prove useful, but these looked benign. No references to France. Nothing in French.

  With a frustrated sigh, Sarah sat back and stared at the desk. Time was up. Any moment Mrs. Eggers would return. Sarah was to accompany the Valères to the theater tonight, and she suspected Sir Northrop would approach her for an update on her progress. She had not persuaded Valère to propose again, so she had to give Sir Northrop something.

  Confound it! Sarah kicked at the desk, and her slipper thudded hollowly on the wood. Everything in her stilled, and she kicked at the front panel again. Again, the hollow sound.

  Sarah leaned down and knocked on the side panel of the desk.

  Solid.

  She tried another area.

  Solid.

  She tapped on the front panel again.

  Hollow.

  "Found it!" she whispered and fell to her knees behind the desk. Her fingers fumbled over the wood, looking for an opening, some way to slide the panel aside or up. When she tried sliding it up, she had success. The panel slid into the desk, and she saw a hidden drawer.

  She was breathing so quickly, she felt as though she had run a mile. This was it. She knew it.

  She grasped the drawer handle and tugged, but

  nothing happened.

  Frowning, Sarah looked at the drawer more closely. Under the handle, there was a small gold lock. She needed a key
—a small gold key.

  Sarah jumped up, banging her head on the bottom of the desk in the process, and sprinted to the door, where Mrs. Eggers had left the butler's keys. She ran her fingers through them. There were several small gold keys, but none that would fit the desk.

  Drat! Drat! Drat!

  Valère must keep the key on his person.

  "I will have to speak to Her Grace."