The Duke’s Daughters

by Amanda Scott

  “Betty said you were dressing when I left, sir. I thought you must be going to your club.”

  “No, this devil here”—he patted the black’s muscular, playfully arched neck—“needs to learn some manners. I decided today was as good a day as any to begin. Had I known you wished to ride, I would have asked you to join me, Cilly, but by the look of you when I left this morning, I judged you’d sleep another few hours or so.”

  “Betty brings my chocolate at nine, sir, unless I give orders to the contrary.” Now, why, she thought, had she said that? It was as though she were reproving him, and it would not have suited her purpose at all to have been asked to ride with him this morning.

  Was there a touch of mockery in his smile? “We shall ride together tomorrow, my dear. Orcus here will need a deal of training before I can promenade amidst the fashionables with him.”

  She looked the black over admiringly. He was truly a splendid beast, she thought, realizing how much she had missed working with her horses. “Do you think he might allow me to ride him one day, Ravenwood?”

  He smiled but, to her surprise, did not condemn the notion outright. “He has never had a sidesaddle on his back, and though I know you are an excellent horsewoman, with experience training spirited young animals, there is no proper place for it here, and he is not used to you. I couldn’t chance his bolting with you into traffic. However,” he went on, his tone making her look at him hopefully, “when the Season is ended, perhaps you will like to spend some weeks down at Ravenwood. I’ve some youngsters there you might try your hand with, with my goodwill.”

  Her eyes sparkled with delight. “I should like that above all things, sir.”

  She began to think she would very much like to spend more time with him, but it rapidly became clear that to do so immediately might prove to be a trifle hazardous. That very evening, as they were preparing to leave for dinner at Malmesbury House, Ravenwood laid her cloak gently across her shoulders with his own hands, sending tremors through her as his fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. But she quickly recollected herself when he spoke to her.

  “You look very lovely tonight, my dear, but do you not usually wear your pearls with that gown?”

  It was true that she did. The gown was a soft rose silk with a triple, ornately embroidered flounce, and the pearls looked very well with it. And although the words stuck in her throat, she knew she must say something. She fingered her gold necklace.

  “I thought I would try for a different effect. Do you not like it?”

  “Of course. ’Tis most charming,” he said. “I merely wondered. Shall we go?”

  He did not ask about the pearls again, but from time to time she caught him gazing at her rather speculatively, and once she thought he had been about to speak to her but had, for reasons known best to himself, thought better of it. She knew he must wonder why she had stopped wearing them, for she had been accustomed to wear them often. Soon he would ask her, and what would happen then didn’t bear thinking about.

  She twice saw her cousin during the week that followed, but he told her only that Mr. Vaughan had agreed to undertake her commission. He seemed to have heard nothing further.

  She was beginning to feel a good deal of agitation, for at Malmesbury House both the duchess and Lady Brittany soon noticed that she no longer wore her pearls. “I thought the clasp was loose,” Cicely replied glibly to their questions. “I sent them to Rundell and Bridge to have it looked after.” And what, she wondered, will be left to say if Vaughan did not find them? She was sinking deeper and deeper into the briars, it seemed, with every waking moment.

  To her vast relief, two mornings after the episode at Malmesbury House, she received word from her cousin that he would call upon her that very afternoon. For a while it seemed that Ravenwood would also be at home and thus prevent any chance for private conversation, but when she asked innocently if he was not bored by his inactivity, he agreed amiably that perhaps a stroll to White’s was in order. Even so, he dithered about the house until she was ready to scream, finally departing not ten minutes before Sir Conrad arrived and was shown into the first-floor drawing room.

  “Oh, Conrad, how glad I am to see you!” she exclaimed.

  “Pray do not keep me in suspense! Has Mr. Vaughan recovered my pearls?”

  “He has done better than that,” Sir Conrad replied with a trace of smugness. “He thinks he has laid the thief by the heels as well.”

  “How clever of him,” Cicely said, not particularly caring whether the thief was caught or not, so long as she got her pearls back. “Where are they? The pearls, I mean.”

  “Well …” He spread his hands apologetically. “There is still the matter of the reward, sweet coz.”

  “Of course. I have it upstairs.” She regarded him curiously. “Since he has caught the thief, he will not have had to pay for their recovery, so I daresay he will not want quite so much from me.”

  Sir Conrad lifted an eyebrow. “The reward must be paid, coz. Anything he might have had to pay for the recovery of the pearls would have been an expense added to his fee.”

  She stared at him in dismay. “Then it is indeed fortunate that he has caught the thief, is it not?” She was quite certain he had not explained the matter in such terms earlier, but perhaps he had mistaken the way Vaughan did business. Suspecting what she did about the Bow Street man, she could well believe him capable of having changed the terms of his contract capriciously.

  “You will want to bring the money now, Cicely.”

  “Bring it! Whatever do you mean? You said you would—”

  “I know what I said, but Vaughan is not altogether certain this man is the thief. He did have your pearls, and he has a reputation for being a nasty piece of work, but the most Vaughan could arrest him for now is possession of stolen goods. That’s scarcely worth his effort. But if you can identify him as the thief—”

  “Your Mr. Vaughan will have another forty pounds to his credit,” Cicely finished for him. “Well, I’m quite sure I cannot help him. It was dark and raining, and I scarcely caught more than a glimpse of the fellow.”

  “You must at least see him, Cicely,” Sir Conrad urged. “Even if you cannot identify him positively, you might still be able to state definitely that he is not the man who robbed you.”

  “I tell you, Conrad, I scarcely saw him.”

  “Nevertheless, sweet coz,” he said more firmly, “there are those who would bear witness against their own mothers for a share of that forty pounds. Vaughan would have little difficulty preparing a case, I’m thinking, and how would you feel if an innocent man were to hang merely because you were too ticklish to have a look at him?”

  “I don’t think Ravenwood would like it if I went to Bow Street with you,” she said, unable to repress a shudder at the thought of going to the very police court the viscount had once so graphically described to her.

  “Well, he’s not there, so the point doesn’t arise. I told you, ’tis scarcely worth Vaughan’s effort to arrest him on the lesser charge. He is detaining him where they met, and I am to take you there. You can retrieve your pearls, pay Vaughan what’s due him, and have a look at this thief of his as well. I’ll be right there with you, so there’s naught to fear.”

  The last three words echoed in her brain. Little did he know. Briefly she debated whether to reveal her suspicions or not. She rather thought she should. But Sir Conrad would be sure to kick up a dust, and that would never do. She must get her pearls back before she confided her suspicions to anyone.

  “Very well, sir,” she said at last. “Wait here whilst I fetch the money and my cloak.”

  Upstairs, as she hastily stuffed the bills into her reticule, she thought wistfully of her pistol back home. It was entirely too large for her to hide on her person, of course, but its presence, under the circumstances, would have augmented her courage a great deal. Suddenly she remembered the little silver-mounted pistol Ravenwood had used to shoot the highwayman. It w
ould be just the thing, and she doubted he carried it with him in Town. If only Pavenham was not in his dressing room or bedchamber!

  He was not, and a hasty examination of the tall French armoire in the dressing room soon revealed the little weapon, gleaming brightly in a leather box on the second shelf. She lifted it out carefully and examined it to see if it was loaded. It was one of the new double-barreled percussion pistols, and her father had a similar, though larger model at Malmesbury, so she knew enough about it to ascertain that it was ready for firing and to be fairly certain she would not harm herself with it.

  Hastily, for fear Sir Conrad would begin to wonder what was keeping her, she rushed back to her own room, removed the wad of money from her reticule, and stuffed it instead into the inside pocket of a large fur muff. It was a matter of but a few moments more to change her thin satin slippers for walking boots, fling her cloak over her shoulders, and pick up the muff, holding the little pistol carefully inside.

  Sir Conrad’s coach was waiting in the street, and to her astonishment, she saw Alfpuddle seated on the box next to the driver. “Why is he here, sir?” she demanded.

  “Alfpuddle? Why, just as a precaution, coz. As you have learned, that section of Town is none too safe.”

  “What section?” she asked suspiciously, remembering belatedly that he had not told her precisely where they were going.

  “Why, Gray’s Inn Lane, of course. ’Tis only logical that the thief would stay in his own neighborhood, and Vaughan agreed to meet him in a shop there, to collect the pearls. Not going to fight shy now, are you, coz?”

  His amusement irritated her, and her chin went up defiantly. “Of course not. There can be nothing to fear with both my cousin and a patrolman present, after all,” she said sharply, stroking the little pistol in her muff.

  She wished she could think that Ravenwood would applaud her courage if he were to learn of it, but she was only too certain he would recognize it for the bravado it was and roundly condemn her actions. As she settled back against the squabs and glanced sideways at her cousin, she wondered if she was not making another foolish mistake. It was all very well to declare that she would be perfectly safe with him and an officer from Bow Street, but the fact of the matter was that she didn’t trust the latter as far as she could kick him. And she didn’t trust the man up beside the coachman, either. Again she wondered if she ought to tell her cousin the truth of the matter. But once again she hesitated. The pearls were so near to being back in her own possession, and if she told him what she knew, Sir Conrad would most likely order his coachman to turn right around and convey her back to Charles Street. Of course, the pearls might still be recovered, but there would be a great furor, and she could think of no way then to keep the news from Ravenwood. He would know she had deceived him, and he would be angry again. She had gone too far to turn back. She must go the distance now. Once again she stroked the smooth metal surface of the weapon in her muff. She could take care of herself.

  When the coach lurched to a stop at last, she allowed Sir Conrad to help her to the pavement. Carefully adjusting the muff, she glanced around to see what the area looked like on a good day. It was certainly not so gloomy. It looked, in fact, like many streets she had passed through when entering or leaving the city. Certainly it was not so frightening as it had been upon the occasion of her first visit. She realized Sir Conrad was waiting, and she turned to join him, then stopped in her tracks when she realized where they were.

  She couldn’t be absolutely sure, of course, but it was a chandlery. Sir Conrad exchanged a brief glance with his man on the box. “What is it, Cicely?”

  Startled, she looked up at him, then collected herself when she realized she could not explain without making things worse than they were. She was beginning to think, however, that she would have to concentrate her efforts upon getting herself and her unsuspecting cousin out of this mess with whole skins. If there was a counter to the right just inside the door of the shop and a curtained exit at the rear … But Sir Conrad was still waiting for an answer.

  “Nerves, I expect,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “It was pretty harrowing when my reticule was taken, you know, and that shop does not look particularly inviting.”

  He chuckled. “We’ll take Alf with us, then. It will make you feel safer.”

  It would do nothing of the sort, of course, and she silently castigated herself for not thinking before she spoke of fear. But she gathered her courage and, followed closely by the two men, entered the little shop.

  It was as she had expected. The plump grey-haired woman stood behind the counter exactly where Cicely had seen her upon that other occasion. She nodded to them in a familiar way that Cicely assumed must be due to Alfpuddle’s presence, until she realized that Sir Conrad might have been there earlier to talk with Vaughan.

  They passed through the curtained doorway to a cluttered inner chamber, and the first person she saw there was George Vaughan. But even as he got to his feet from behind a rickety table cluttered with candlesticks and other paraphernalia, another man stepped forward, and Cicely gasped, then tried immediately to cover her dismay when she realized the other three were looking at her rather narrowly. She glanced hastily at Sir Conrad.

  “My pearls?” she asked, trying to appear calm and hoping he would merely follow her lead until they were safely out of there.

  “On the table there,” he said. “Mr. Vaughan, show her ladyship, that she may see them to be her own, if you please.”

  “Right you are, sir. Here they be, your ladyship, and none the worse for wear, neither.”

  Cicely saw thankfully that the pearls he held out were indeed her own. “Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed. Shifting the muff to her right hand, she reached to take them. “I’m so grateful to you, Mr. Vaughan.”

  “Half a mo’, me lady,” he said, grasping her wrist. “There be still the small matter of the reward promised for work completed. As it was,” he added with a smirk.

  “Oh, of course.” She reached back into the muff and took out the wad of money. “Please count it, but I’m certain you will find everything in order.” Her gaze drifted to the fox-faced man, but she forced herself to look back at the table, wishing she could simply scoop the pearls into her muff and run.

  “Well, Cicely?” She looked curiously at Sir Conrad, not understanding him for a moment. He nodded toward the fox-faced man but did not take his penetrating gaze away from her. “Is that the man who stole them from you?”

  “No, oh no, it is not,” she muttered. “I am quite certain he is not the same man.”

  “Why so sure, ma’am?” Vaughan asked sharply. “He had them in his possession, after all, ’n’ he’s known in Bow Street.”

  “’Ere now,” protested the fox-faced man in shrill tones, “wot ’e pullin’ ’ere? I ain’t niver seed them beads afore, ’n’ well ’e know it. Ye b’ain’t weighin’ Tom Breck fer forty pound, Georgie Vaughan, ’n’ ’at’s a fac. Them bits was ’ere afore—”

  “Silence!” roared Vaughan. “You’ve not answered me, ma’am. How are you certain this is not the man?”

  “Why, because I saw him—” She broke off suddenly, feeling her cheeks redden as she realized she had been about to say the man couldn’t have stolen from her because he had been inside the shop at the time. Drawing herself up, she collected her wits and looked down her nose at Mr. Vaughan. “I saw the thief running away,” she said carefully but with icy hauteur. “He was much bigger than that man. And now, Mr. Vaughan, I have said all I am going to say to you. I must get back to Charles Street. My pearls, if you please.”

  Still regarding her suspiciously, Vaughan nevertheless handed them over, and they quickly disappeared into her muff.

  “Cicely,” said Sir Conrad gently from behind her, “I received the distinct impression when we first entered this place that you recognized that fellow. Are you quite certain he is not your thief?”

  The time had come, she decided, although she would have preferred
to postpone it. Sir Conrad would no doubt know she was lying if she tried to fob him off now and would press her for the truth. Calmly she stepped away from the table and took the little pistol from her muff. “Yes, Conrad, I recognized him, but he is not the man who took my pearls. Stay right where you are and do not move, Mr. Vaughan. Nor you,” she said sharply to the fox-faced man, who stared at her in astonishment. “Conrad, watch Alfpuddle. He is in league with them. And if you have a pistol by you, I’d as lief you’d let them see it, for there are but two bullets in this one, although I am not particular,” she added quickly when Mr. Vaughan took a step toward her, “as to which of them I shoot first.”

  “I didn’t think a pistol would be necessary, Cicely,” Sir Conrad said softly just before his hand clamped her wrist in an iron grip, forcing her to lower the pistol.

  “Conrad! Never say you, too, are with them!” she said, staring up at him with more disgust than fear.

  “My regrets, coz, but I fear ’tis true. When you said at your mother’s ball that you had seen the thief, I feared you might recognize Breck if you saw him again. Then the coincidence of your being in Gray’s Inn Lane the same day Vaughan sent Breck here to lie low—despite your clever little tale—was a bit too much for me to swallow. I decided to test matters for myself, and so I brought you here.”

  “We’ll ha’ t’ do fer ’er,” grated the fox-faced man.

  “Conrad!” Cicely protested, understanding the man’s meaning well enough. “You professed to care for me. Surely you cannot mean to let them harm me!”

  “Care for you, sweetheart? Why should I? When I sought your favors in company with a host of other like fools, I got nothing but icy disdain for my trouble. I’ll confess I never meant matters to come to this, but you’ve only yourself to blame, I’m afraid.”