A Duchess a Day

by Charis Michaels

  “Can you stay together?” Helena said now. She shot Camille a heartfelt look. “And follow Miss Tuttle’s lead on how to place your order and settle the bill. And keep in sight of the groom.”

  “The groom called Shaw?” This from Joan, a note of challenge in her voice.

  Helena paused.

  “Careful,” Theresa said, giggling.

  “No,” said Helena, leading them down the street, “not Shaw. He is my private groom and he will remain with me. Mr. Nettle will attend you.”

  They reached the café and Helena paused, digging for coins in her reticule. The sisters gathered cautiously, straightening hats and tightening gloves. Miss Tuttle returned with the girls’ forgotten parasols, and she spoke briefly to the governess and bade Nettle to watch over them. The girls muttered vague gratitude and farewells and hurried inside, already bickering about who would sit closest to the window.

  When she was finally, blessedly, alone, Helena turned back to the street.

  Her plan had been to make one quick but thorough circuit, and then retire to the modiste’s for her fitting while Shaw kept watch. After the fitting, she would make some excuse and circuit the street again.

  Lady Genevieve. Blonde. Beautiful. Dresses to be noticed, she repeated in her head, raising a gloved hand to shade her face.

  “It’s ambitious, I think,” said a male voice behind her, “to stand in one spot and hope she happens along.”

  Shaw. Helena’s lungs were a sieve.

  “Ah,” she said, not looking back. “There you are.” Her voice was steady and controlled, but her heartbeat ran away.

  “My sisters are occupied for twenty minutes, thirty if we are lucky. My mother is with the modiste. Shall we walk?”

  She glanced at him, forcing herself to look imperious and demanding. She would not stare at his mouth.

  “You’ll have to keep behind me,” she said. “And carry this.” She shrugged from a plum-colored velvet cloak and draped it across his arms.

  “Yes, my lady,” he said. Three simple words, words she’d heard from servants all her life. Did she imagine the note of . . . suggestion when he said them?

  A charged sort of energy buzzed from along the back of her neck.

  “I assume you have made considerations if this girl isn’t alone,” Shaw said lowly.

  “You assume correctly.”

  “I reckon she’ll be in the company of a relative,” he guessed, “or companion.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve thought of this.”

  They came to the intersection of Conduit Street, and Shaw stepped into the road to block the intersection so she could pass. Helena checked every female face. Nothing. Wrong age, wrong class, wrong coloring. There were blonde women, but they pushed prams or walked arm in arm with friends—almost correct but not exactly.

  Helena went on. “Let me tell you what I intend to say to her, if we see her. I stayed up half the night, making a sort of conversational map of each irresistible detail of the exclusive invitation I’m offering. I’ll lure them in, bit by bit.”

  “I trust you.”

  “They’ve been singled out partly because of their very great desire for a title. And the title of duchess is the very best of all, save princess. Every girl wants a duke.”

  “Every girl except you,” he sighed.

  “For example,” Helena pressed on, “I will introduce myself, along with the added detail that I am engaged to the Duke of Lusk. After this revelation, I will watch very closely for a reaction. It forces either a congratulations or question about the wedding. If I detect even the slightest bit of hesitation or judgment or envy, that will be my cue to say something like, ‘Oh, thank you. What a pity I cannot sleep nights for being worried about how I will manage as duchess . . .’

  “And if this sparks a look of shrewd interest, along with the not-so-innocent question of, ‘Why ever not?’ I will follow with, ‘Oh, the very great responsibility of it all. There are so many properties and a great number of social commitments. The shopping alone . . .’ My expression will show something like ‘winsome dread.’ ” She affected an expression of winsome dread.

  “Thank God I’ve no part of this bit,” Declan mumbled.

  She continued, stepping around an old woman with a bird in a cage. “And if she shows concern—not authentic concern but kind of mercenary concern—I will say, ‘Honestly, I’m worried that I might not be up to the task . . .’

  “And on and on it will go,” she finished. “I will be nimble and opportunistic. Just as you have said. Sage words, from a groom.”

  “God help us.”

  “In the end, if my cues and leading questions take us down the path to a place of their bald-faced interest, I will simply tell them: I’m trying to pawn him off. And then I will invite them to Girdleston’s birthday party. Next week. There they may get a look at the duke and . . . and give it a go. They will dazzle him.”

  “Again,” said Declan, “God help us.”

  “Do not worry. You underestimate the irresistible prospect of a duke simply . . . theirs for the taking. I chose these girls because they are primed to pounce. And if ever they appear less than transfixed with the idea of having someone like Lusk for themselves . . . then I will abandon the conversation.”

  A line of schoolboys snaked their way down the walk, and Helena stepped to the side. “It’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ I know. But this is why I meant to approach so many young women.”

  They reached the end of New Bond with no sign of anyone remotely fitting the description of Lady Genevieve. Helena cursed their limited timing and crossed to the other side of the street.

  “I’ve seen four blonde women,” Shaw reported. “But the age is wrong. Or the dress.”

  Helena stared at the row of shingles hanging beneath the awnings of shop after shop after shop. “She could appear at any time.”

  “Look in windows,” he instructed. “And inside passing carriages. There’s no guarantee she’ll march down the street.”

  Helena nodded, stepping up to a window. The display beyond the glass dripped with ribbons and lace, a blizzard of accoutrements styled in white-and-pink drifts. Her sisters had been mistaken when they said she didn’t enjoy shopping. In fact, fashion was a hobby, and she rather enjoyed dresses and hats and ribbons—not the latest styles, not the ostentation of London, but playing with color and texture and looking distinctive in pretty things. Her grandmother had patronized a dressmaker in Winscombe, and the two of them had worked together on dresses that suited Helena’s skin and figure, that drew inspiration from summer greens and winter whites. Helena’s mother had insisted upon a few London-made pieces, her trousseau among them, but when Helena and her lady’s maid pulled together her wardrobe, they reached for her gowns from the village dressmaker.

  Now she squinted through the glass, trying to make out the customers inside. In a sudden whoosh, the door of another shop flew open, emitting an upright gentleman with stomping boots and swinging cane. Helena gasped and bumped into him.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, jumping back.

  The man whirled around. “Mind yourself!” His snarl bared a wet glob of tobacco and a gold tooth.

  Helena shrank back, and Shaw was there suddenly, inserting his large body between them.

  “Careful, my lady,” he sang in a low, almost playful sort of whistle.

  Helena hopped back just as Shaw affected a half pivot, half stumble. The unsteadiness caused him to appear clumsy, although his control and balance was obvious to her. Moreover, she saw the look in his eyes: cool, shrewd, intentional.

  “I’ve never seen the likes of this,” the man bellowed. “Drunken revelers in New Bond Street.” He raised his cane as if to strike, but Shaw’s hand shot out and clasped the polished wood, stopping it midarc.

  “Careful, governor,” Shaw said, spinning neatly away. He gave the cane a little twist, and the man yelped in pain. In one fluid movement, the cane flicked from the man’s grasp and pitched into the air.


  “Let me get that for you, gov,” Shaw said, snatching it from above his head as if the man himself had tossed it. He caught it with one hand, spun it like a baton, and pressed it to the man’s chest.

  It happened so quickly his deft movements were barely perceptible, even to Helena. It looked almost like a dance, and he’d done it one-handed, with her cloak flapping gently across his left arm.

  Who is he? she marveled.

  Stepping back, she nearly collided again, this time with a small figure in a dark cloak.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said again, craning around. The person’s face was obscured by a flowing velvet hood. Helena saw only the tip of a nose. She stepped closer, trying to make out a face, but the figure hurried away, disappearing into the crowd.

  She looked back to Shaw. He was bowing with exaggerated humility as the gentleman glared and shook his wrist.

  Shaw ignored the outrage, tipped his hat, and backed away. The gentleman spun and strode in the opposite direction, grumbling some indecipherable complaint.

  Shaw stepped to her. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m perfectly well,” she said, gaping at him. He’d moved like an acrobat and fought like a fencing master. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen.

  “If you’re certain,” he said, “let’s walk.”

  Helena walked. “Shaw? How did you manage that?”

  Shaw was silent. He adjusted his hat.

  “Declan?” she asked again.

  “What?”

  “Tell me what you’ve just—”

  “My lady,” he warned, “you are meant to be looking—”

  “I’m perfectly capable of walking and talking and looking. If I simply stride down the street, gaping at everyone, I’ll look mad.”

  “This endeavor is mad,” he mumbled.

  She whirled on him. “This was your idea and, foolish me, I believed it to be rather inspired. But now, I cannot say. I’d like some credentials. Immediately. In fact, I can’t believe I’ve allowed the Great Secret of your identity to languish between us for so long. I’ll not take another step until you tell me how a lowly stable groom understands the fine points of sabotage. And stalking young women. And disarming crazed gentlemen in the street.”

  “Now?” he whispered harshly, moving her from the flow of pedestrians.

  “Yes,” she said. “Right now.”

  He looked right and left. He took a deep breath. “Fine. If you must know. My true profession is . . . is as a mercenary.”

  Helena laughed a little. He was making a joke. He was—

  His face remained passive. He cocked an eyebrow.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I work,” he said, “as a mercenary. Do you know what that is?”

  “Ah . . .”

  “It’s a soldier-for-hire,” he said. “A bodyguard. Paid security. I track people and things. I’m called ‘The Huntsman’ in professional circles because I specialize in finding people who do not wish to be found. Not unlike Lady Genevieve Bloody Vance, for all the good it’s doing us.”

  Helena stopped and gaped at him. She could not be more shocked if he’d admitted he was King George.

  “A mercenary?” she repeated.

  “Yes.” He began to walk again.

  “How did you . . . fall into this line of work?”

  “I studied it in university.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “I was a solider. The Royal Army. For many years—twelve. I fought in France, the Peninsula. When I had the opportunity to leave soldiering, I took it. My family needed me in London. I’d only been home a month when a former officer asked me to help him locate a wayward son who’d skipped off to the Continent. I’d been useful in reconnaissance in the war.”

  “And did you find him?”

  “I did.”

  “Of course you did.” So much now made sense. “No wonder I feel safe with you.”

  “Oh no,” he said, waving away this notion. “I am not safe. I am very dangerous. I’m lethal. Everyone says it.” He actually sounded irritated. Helena stifled a smile.

  “Have you ever been hired to ‘mind’ someone before?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever posed as a servant before?”

  “Yes—no. I can’t remember.”

  “Have you ever . . . shot someone?”

  “I’ve been to war, my lady.”

  “Have you ever—”

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” he cut in, “I’ve done it.”

  They’d come to the end of the street. Her sisters could be seen preening through the front window of the adjacent café. Shoppers—none of them Lady Genevieve—came and went. Helena pulled an apple from her pocket and took a bite.

  She tried to comprehend what his profession meant to her personally, as a woman—as a woman he’d touched and kissed. Likely, he kissed breathless women in stables and carriages all the time.

  What could an earl’s virgin daughter mean to him? Was it better that he was a mercenary and not a groom?

  She couldn’t know.

  And also she couldn’t devote any more of this fleeting day to thinking about it.

  She forced herself to ask, “It’s bad that we’ve seen no sign of Lady G, isn’t it? In your professional opinion?” In her head she added, As a mercenary?

  “The probability of encountering her was always very slim,” he said, gazing down the street. “Finding any of these girls, especially the first day out? I put the odds at ten percent. But the outing isn’t over. Your fitting will take time; convening six women to depart New Bond Street will take time. It was always a complicated plan, but we have more time. For now, collect your sisters and go to Madame Layfette’s. I’ll keep watch.”

  Declan heard Lady Genevieve before he saw her. A trill of laughter, pitched too loud to be borne of amusement. A whoop. The delicate clapping of gloved hands.

  Nothing in New Bond Street was that amusing. He shoved off the wall beside Madame Layfette’s shop.

  A carriage, shiny and well sprung, had come to a stop five yards away. Footmen and grooms hurried to secure steps and mollify horses. Declan took a step closer, his breath held.

  From the open door, a hat emerged, ivory with crimson trim.

  Next, a head, popping out like a mole from a hole. Her laughing smile was so broad it made him blink. She looked as if she’d arrived at a delightful party already in progress. When she turned her head, he saw coil upon coil of white-blonde plaits tucked neatly beneath the hat.

  Her body was compact, a little plump, but with all the correct geography, sheathed in a cherry-red dress. The color alone demanded attention, a bold choice for which she was obviously prepared, and it fit her like the casing of a sausage. She clutched a small dog to her chest, its neck tied with a magenta bow.

  Lady Genevieve Vance. It could be no other. New Bond Street was awash in fashionable ladies, yet this girl shone brighter, and laughed louder. Men stopped walking to stare. Women turned to study the gown and the hat and the dog, their subtlety and reserve given over to open curiosity. Her staff played their part, scurrying about as if the royal family had arrived.

  Declan adopted his best air of biddable servant on orders and melted into the crowds of New Bond Street. He trudged past the window of Madame Layfette’s. There was no sign of Helena in the showroom. Lady Pembrook, the earl’s cousin, and at least one sister were bent over counters or peered at unfurled bolts of fabric. He could think of no subterfuge that would admit him, and certainly no way to get word to Lady Helena.

  He changed course and circled behind the shop to the alley. The rear door was propped open by a brick; beyond the door, an empty corridor stretched the length of the building. Unintelligible voices mumbled through walls and industrious footfalls clattered on distant stairs. Declan considered his limited options, mindful of the minutes ticking away. If Helena was being fitted, she would be in a room along this corridor.

  Within moments, a serving boy appeared,
lugging a bundle of firewood. Declan saw opportunity and gave a low whistle. When the boy looked back, Declan flipped a shiny coin into the air.

  Five minutes and sixpence later, the boy had informed Declan that, yes, the black-haired young lady was being fitted. She’d been installed in the middle dressing rooms, but the boy didn’t know with whom. Madame Layfette had apparently become very upset when the lady hadn’t made the proper show of delight over the color or style of a new garment. The modiste had fled to the basement with three seamstresses, determined to improve the design.

  When the boy turned to go, Declan followed, slipping inside and pressing his ear to the middle door. Before he could detect any sound, Helena’s middle sister, Miss Camille Lark, emerged, straightening her hat. Declan froze half a beat, rolled off the door, and conjured his best servant’s expression.

  “Shaw,” said Camille Lark.

  “Miss,” said Declan, looking at the floor.

  “Can I help you?” Her expression was intrigued amusement.

  “I’ve a message. For Lady Helena.”

  “Ah. One can only hope you can distinguish which one of us she is. I’m guessing that you can.”

  “Miss.”

  “Let me give the message to her,” Camille said.

  More confusion, he tried to affect the expression of being torn. “I dunno, miss. I was told the message is private in nature. The young lady, a friend of her ladyship, bade me give it to her in person.”

  “A friend?” challenged Camille. “Lady Helena hasn’t any friends. She doesn’t like the bother.”

  Declan forced a blank expression. Her family knew her so very little.

  He continued, “If you please, miss, I’ve been told she’s here. If you—”

  He let the question trail off. There was a fine line between being in a strange place at the wrong time and purposefully breaking the rules.

  “She is here,” affirmed Camille carefully. She pointed to a closed door. “Although I cannot say she is accustomed to visits from male staff whilst being fitted by a modiste.” She raised an eyebrow. A challenge.