A Duchess a Day

by Charis Michaels

  Dedication

  For my father.

  Thank you for sharing your knowledge of apples for this book

  and all the useful things you’ve taught me all my life.

  I love you and I love learning from you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Charis Michaels

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  London, 1816

  Newgate Prison was not for the faint of heart.

  It was also not for the claustrophobic, the hygiene conscious, or anyone with a weak stomach.

  Declan Shaw was none of these; in fact, he was a hardened mercenary (currently unemployed) and occasional spy (when the price was right). He’d seen a lot of hellholes in his life, but Newgate represented a new level of despair. After four months on the inside, he’d never been more motivated to get the bloody hell out.

  Today, with no explanation, he’d been transferred from the subterranean general lockup to his own private cell. He was now in possession of a small barred window that looked out on a muddy mound. He’d been issued a weevil-infested mat and there was gruel twice a day, instead of once.

  “Huntsman?”

  And someone was calling his name.

  “Huntsman?”

  No, not his name. He was known to guards as “Prisoner 48736” or “Shaw” to fellow inmates. “Huntsman” was the alias by which he was known in professional circles, his mercenary brand, the name they called him on the London streets.

  “Huntsman?” the voice called again.

  “Aye,” he called back. If he didn’t claim it, someone else would. Everything was up for grabs in Newgate.

  “Ah, yes, there you are,” said a male voice, still yards away. From around the corner, the sharp tap, tap, tapping of delicate-heeled shoes punctuated an oddly singsongy voice, followed by the heavy plod of guards’ boots.

  “Oh, just look at you,” enthused the disembodied voice, “you are an imposing fellow. Size and bearing have done no favors in your plea for innocence, have they? None at all.”

  Declan leaned against the cell bars, straining to see through the smoky gloom. The silhouette of a stick man emerged, slight but with a bold stride. The man snapped his fingers at a guard, demanding that a torch be brought closer. He studied Declan like a collector in a shop.

  “You may leave us,” he told the guards. “When I require you, I will call.”

  Narrowing his eyes at Declan, he said, “And how have you enjoyed your private cell, Huntsman?”

  Declan had not, in fact, enjoyed the private cell.

  The man continued, “I could not bear to call on you in the dungeon. They were kind enough to move you here so we could discuss business, assuming you are amenable.” He flashed a hopeful smile.

  He smiles too much for prison, Declan thought. “What business?”

  “What indeed? You are known for such a wide variety of services, aren’t you?”

  “At the moment, I’m known for captivity.”

  “Quite so. But before the ghastly cock-up with the abduction, and the alleged murder, and that poor, wretched girl, your profession was . . .” The old man trailed off, studying Declan as if trying to envision him in some other setting. “Well, you were a sort of bodyguard, were you not? A tracker? Mercenary, I believe is the correct term? One of the finest in the country, according to my sources.”

  “My name and my trade,” Declan observed. “You’re full of information, Mr.—?”

  “Oh, do forgive me.” He frowned as if he’d used the wrong fork. “Titus Girdleston, at your service. I am the uncle and family steward of my nephew—His Grace, Bradley Girdleston, the Duke of Lusk.”

  Another pause. Declan waited.

  “Are you familiar with the Girdleston family or His Grace, the duke?” the man prompted.

  “No.”

  Declan saw no reason to hide his disdain for aristocrats in general and dukes in particular. He didn’t do business with the nobility, not anymore, not since a certain royal duke had framed him for abduction and murder and stood idly by while Declan went to jail.

  “No?” Girdleston repeated, his voice high and contemplative, as if Declan had stated a philosophy he’d never considered.

  “Don’t work for dukes,” Declan said.

  “Oh, pity. Well, I suppose I am not a duke, and I would be your employer.”

  Declan sighed wearily and asked, “Employer for . . . ?”

  “Oh, right—the job. Well, you see, I’ve come because my family has a job for you. There is a young woman traveling to London. She comes this very night, in fact. Her name is Lady Helena Lark, and she is the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Pembrook. She is betrothed to my dear nephew, the duke. In the weeks leading up to the wedding, she and her family will reside in our ducal residence, as their own London townhome is under construction. This close proximity will help the girl become more accustomed to her future role as duchess. It will also allow us to keep an eye on her. Which is precisely the job I’m looking to fill, Huntsman. I’ve come to hire you to mind her, for the lack of a better word. Keep a close eye on her from the moment she reaches London until she walks down the aisle to legally wed my nephew.”

  Declan narrowed his eyes. This is a joke.

  Girdleston cleared his throat and continued, “By ‘mind her,’ of course I mean guard her safety, see to her comfort in muddy lanes or crowded shops, make certain she’s happy and looked after and—and this is where it gets a bit tricky, but no effort for you, I’m certain—keep her from bolting.”

  Declan couldn’t help himself from asking. “Keep her from what?”

  “Bolting,” the old man confirmed solemnly. He let out a sigh. “There has been some confusion and hesitation on the part of the girl, I’m afraid. The union has been several years in the making, due mostly to her . . . lack of cooperation. But now we are all in agreement on the wedding and happy future of this couple. Her parents assure me we’ll enjoy her full cooperation. That said, when she reaches the city, I should like to have a trusted man in place to safeguard against future incidents of . . .”

  “Escape?” provided Declan. He actually felt sorry for whatever poor sod was hired. And the girl. If there was anything Declan understood, it was captivity.

  “Oh, it’s nothing so drastic as ‘escape,’ ” Girdleston assured. “How shall I term it? The families on both sides of the marriage hope to remove incidents of distraction. Lady Helena’s time in London will be devoted to activities that should delight any bride-to-be: shopping, tours of her new residences, and parties in her honor. I wish for her to remain focused throughout the proceedings, with her eyes set firmly on the prize of matrimony.”

  “Why isn’t
she minded by her own people? Parents or staff?” Declan asked on a sigh. The sooner he validated this man’s problem, the sooner he would go away.

  The old man nodded sagely. “Yes, wouldn’t that be convenient? Unfortunately, I’ve found her family to be wholly ineffective when it comes to minding her. And her particular brand of . . . oh, let us call it ‘spirited willfulness’ has proven too much for chaperones or maids.”

  “So your natural next choice is an accused felon?”

  “Oh, your alleged crimes do not startle me, Huntsman,” said Girdleston. “But I suppose you haven’t heard. There’s been the most astounding development in your case. Just this morning, in fact. The families who accused you of abducting that poor girl have actually changed their claim. Dropped the charges, all of them. It’s only just hap—”

  “What?!” rasped Declan. Shock and disbelief shattered like glass inside his head. He lunged, straining against the iron bars.

  Girdleston nodded, his white teeth shown through his smile. “The family of Miss Knightly Snow have heard rumors of a sighting. The girl has been spotted several times in the South of France. A cousin, I believe, has been sent to recover her. The family is trying to be discreet, I’m sure you understand—”

  “Knightly Snow has been found?” Declan demanded. He was in prison because he’d been hired to escort her to France and she’d mysteriously disappeared instead. He’d known all along that she was alive, traipsing around the Continent of her own volition, not abducted, and certainly not dead. Most of all, he knew that whatever she was doing was not his bloody fault.

  He’d simply not been able to prove it.

  He’d proclaimed his innocence before his arrest, and since they’d locked him up, he’d spent nearly every penny he had on lawyers to exonerate him. And yet the accusation and charges persisted.

  Until now.

  “I want my lawyer,” Declan said. No victim meant no crime, and no crime meant he was free. His skin tingled. Fuzzy stars crackled at the corners of his vision.

  “In due time,” assured Girdleston, making a clucking sound. “All in due time. First, I should hope my role as bearer of good news will inure you toward the offer I’ve made.” A pause and knowing look. “About the potential of our working together.”

  “What?” snapped Declan. “We’ve bollocks potential, mate. I want my lawyer. I want out of this cage. I want to see my father. The list is rather long, at the moment, of the things I want, Mr.—”

  “I would not be too hasty about my offer, Huntsman,” cut in Girdleston, “because I’ve come with more than news of the dropped charges. I’ve come with the potential of money.” He paused and raised his eyebrows.

  Declan knew enough to say nothing.

  “You’ll forgive my presumption about your current financial situation,” drawled Girdleston, “but I happen to know that you’ve spent months contesting your innocence. I also know you’ve paid lawyers and court fees, and God only knows the price of survival inside Newgate. Perhaps you will be set free, but will you be able to restore your life? Your livelihood?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t care, to be honest,” said the old man, “except that your desperation fits perfectly with my need for a soldier-for-hire. And when I say ‘hire,’ Huntsman, please be aware that I can make your financial losses of the last year simply go away. Poof. Like it never happened. And then some.”

  Declan stared, forcing himself to listen. The shock and hope had dulled just enough. His survival instincts began to bristle, and he started to play the game.

  He asked, “This girl? Your nephew’s betrothed? You believe she’ll consent to a ‘hired minder’ tailing her around London? To contain her . . . her—what was it? ‘Spirited willfulness’?”

  “Now we’ve begun to see eye to eye,” said Girdleston, chuckling. “Actually, I believe Lady Helena may accept your presence more openly if you take on some service role in the household. An alternative identity, if you will. I was thinking you might fit well in the role of personal groom to the future duchess.”

  “Oh God,” Declan breathed, turning away.

  “I understand that you occasionally assume false identities or undertake some subterfuge in order to do your job more effectively,” Girdleston said. “And your time in the army would have made you a proficient horseman. Given the correct livery and proper bearing, I believe you would make a convincing stable groom. And certainly this position will give you reason to follow the girl about and redirect her should she . . . lose sight of her purpose. And you will be handsomely, handsomely compensated. Enough money, Huntsman, to never have to work again, if you so choose.”

  Declan considered this.

  He considered a young woman who required an armed guard simply to get married.

  He considered posing as a groom, wearing livery and adopting the bearing of a servant, whatever that meant.

  He considered what kind of duke sent his uncle to hire an ex-convict to guard his future wife.

  But most of all, he considered the payout. Girdleston had been dead accurate about Declan’s need to make considerable money, and fast. If it was only himself, Declan could live lean while he rebuilt his life. But he was not one man, alone—he had a duty to his father and sisters.

  “How much?” Declan rasped. In the end, this was all that mattered.

  Girdleston smiled. “Five hundred pounds, Huntsman. All payable upon delivery of this young woman into holy matrimony with my nephew, the duke.”

  Declan made a choking sound and stifled it with a cough. He’d been thinking of a number in his head that would make the job worthwhile. The sum Girdleston named exceeded it by several hundred pounds. He studied the older man with new eyes. What was so important about this wedding that justified the outlay of £500?

  “And if I fail?” Declan asked, perhaps the most important question of the day. “What if this woman evades me or makes trouble? What if something goes wrong? In my experience, disaster proliferates when females are involved. You wouldn’t be making the offer if she was easy.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” chuckled Girdleston. “Females, troublesome creatures, there is no doubt.”

  “I vowed after Knightly Snow never to take on another female client.”

  “Well then, I suggest that you not think of the client,” urged Girdleston, “think of the lovely payment. If you succeed, you will be a rich man.”

  “I asked about failing, not succeeding.”

  “Oh, right,” sniffed Girdleston, tightening his gloves. “How very thorough. If, for some reason, you fail to retain her, if you fail to see her down the aisle, you will receive nothing. Oh, and there is a chance . . .” he looked knowingly at Declan, “. . . that the informers who originally brought these charges of abduction and murder of Miss Snow might . . . revive their story?”

  And there it was.

  Declan gritted his teeth. He’d expected this. Of course the freedom and the money and the job were all linked.

  “How can I be accused again,” he said tightly, “if Knightly Snow has been found in France?”

  “Well, there’s been a sighting, I believe,” said Girdleston. “I cannot say if they’ve actually found the chit. Or how long that might take. You’ve not been exonerated. The charges have been dropped. They can just as easily be brought up again.”

  Declan swore under his breath and turned away. If he’d had more time, he would’ve been able to find her. But he’d been arrested, and expedited back to England, and languishing in the court and penal system since the girl went missing.

  “Not to worry, Huntsman,” the older man said. “I have every confidence in you. You can manage Lady Helena. I would not have come if you couldn’t.”

  Declan pivoted to lean against the wall. He refused to look at the man’s calm face as he drew him over a barrel.

  Declan hated being drawn over a barrel.

  But he was a survivor. He would not jeopardize this open cell door, nor the promise of £500.
A large part of surviving was knowing when to say no, thank you, and when to make a deal with the devil. Declan had run out of options.

  “I’ll do it,” he said, turning back. “Now get me the bloody hell out of this hellhole.”

  Chapter Two

  Lady Helena Lark had run out of options.

  She had feigned sickness, perpetrated madness, and applied to be a nun. She’d declared herself too young, too old, too thin, too pale, and too disagreeable in every possible way.

  For the last six months, she had simply dug in her heels and said no.

  Before that, she had run away. Five times.

  But her parents’ great wealth and influence had restored her every time. Today they had restored her to what appeared to be the point of no return. To London. To the townhome mansion of her betrothed.

  Betrothed, Helena thought, rolling the word around in her head with a doomed inner voice. She took up the apple in her lap and frowned at it.

  Consigned would be more accurate, she thought, taking a bite.

  Bought and paid for.

  Sold.

  “Do strive for a pleasant expression, Helena,” sighed her mother. “You’ve no choice but to marry the duke, you’ve known this all along.” The countess said this in her most placid voice, the voice of someone who’d been patiently stating inevitability for five years.

  “Perhaps I have no choice who I marry, but surely my expressions are my own,” said Helena.

  “Your life is very fortunate, darling,” the countess continued, “ample reason to smile. But the fortune comes at a cost. In order to enjoy the homes and gowns and holidays and esteem, you must accept the responsibility. We all have a responsibility.”

  “You and Papa enjoy the wealth and position,” Helena said idly. “I simply want to be left alone in Castle Wood. With my apple trees and the crofters. And I don’t want to be married to a prize idiot, even if he is a duke.”

  “For God’s sake, Helena, must you be so very dramatic?” droned her father. He squinted out the window at the bright stone facade of the duke’s townhome. Yellow-liveried servants scurried to greet the approaching carriages. “Marriage to anyone, even the very devil, need not be the end of the world. You will have the ceremony and accommodate the duke in a few small ways, and then your life will go on. Except that you will be a duchess. Every girl aspires to this, but it has been given to you by birth. You are making a fuss over a minor detail, in the grand scheme.”