The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1)

by Isabella Thorne

  R-O-8-1-T-T-12 8-T-O-N-1

  She chewed on her fingernail as she looked at the first two words. No doubt this indicated a rendezvous, and so this should be the name of a place. But what place?

  She looked at the last letter. Not many letters could follow N. She had already used T. Y, perhaps. Or E. Most likely E.

  R-O-8-E-T-T-12 8-T-O-N-E

  There, she thought. Whoever made this cipher should not have made S and 8. They looked so similar, it was child's play.

  ROSETTA STONE.

  TOMORROW. NOON.

  Almost sadly simple. She sighed. Well, she had finished that.

  "What is that you're busy with, Georgette?" Fanny looked over at her. "Did the curate send you another note?"

  Georgette smiled. "Something to that effect," she said.

  "Heavens, the two of you are dedicated," Fanny said. "You should send him one in return and tell him he may have a competitor for your affections."

  "Whatever are you on about?" Georgette asked.

  "Why, the Duke, my dear," Fanny said. "It was all anyone could speak of. He strode right over to you, no by your leave to anyone else in the room, and then sat and spoke with you. And then he kissed your hand. I declare, the entire ballroom buzzed, positively buzzed, I say. Everyone is so deliciously intrigued. Our dinner invitations tripled overnight, you must know."

  Georgette grinned. "I had no idea," she said. "I fear that everyone would be terribly disappointed to learn the truth of the matter. It was nothing so exciting. He and I were often in each other's company when I was first out. He merely came to speak to me, to commiserate in our mutual tendency to attract gossip."

  Fanny gave her a look. "Don't go telling the others that," she said. "I am quite enjoying our sudden popularity."

  "Very well," Georgette said, agreeably. Fanny could demand it, after standing by Georgette's side over the years. To be sure, Fanny was eight when everything went horribly awry, but she had been a very steadfast eight-year-old.

  Georgette looked down at the cryptogram again. She had read about the Rosetta Stone. If she wasn't mistaken, it was on display. She chewed her lip.

  "Fanny," she said, "what say you to an excursion to the British Museum today?"

  "I say it sounds terribly dull, but for you, dearest cousin, I shall do it," Fanny said. "Only if we might get an ice after."

  "But it is winter!"

  "I do not give a fig. We are heiresses, Georgette. We may eat ices whenever we so choose."

  ~.~

  Chapter Seven

  It was fortunate that Merry Meryton was not an especially early riser. Due to Eversley's dream-plagued sleep, he had been slow to awaken later in the morning.

  He shaved and dressed for the day and made his way to Piccadilly to relieve James from his loitering. He had just sent his footman home when Meryton emerged from the Albany and began to walk west with purpose.

  At a distance, Eversley followed the man as he made his way through the crowded London streets towards...Bloomsbury? What could the man possibly be looking to do over there?

  Ah, he thought, as he watched Merry make his way up the steps into Montagu House. It appeared his erstwhile traitor-to-the-crown had an appointment at the British Museum.

  He strode up the steps after the man.

  "I say, if it isn't Eversley!"

  The voice checked him. He stopped and looked at the man speaking.

  "Lord Fletcher," Eversley said.

  The other man gave a slight bow and the Duke nodded.

  "Haven't seen you in London in years, old boy," Fletcher said.

  "Ah, no. I have tended to stay in the country." He wondered how soon he could break free. Meryton could be handing over the list this very moment, for all he knew. He watched the crowds surging in and out of the museum.

  "You must come and dine with us some evening," Fletcher was saying. Eversley had always found Fletcher to be a bit of a wet blanket. Why would he want to dine at his home? He never had in the past.

  "Yes, certainly," he said.

  "And we'll see you at the ball, no doubt?"

  What ball?

  "Lady Fletcher is in quite a state, I must tell you, worrying about the details of it all. But you mustn't repeat that. She'd have my hide if she knew I was telling a Duke of all people that she was worried about her hostessing skills."

  If only Lady Fletcher knew just how much Eversley was concerned with her hostessing skills, which was not at all, then she might have minded less. He eased back from Fletcher.

  "I won't tell a soul," he said. "But I must beg your pardon Fletcher, I was hoping to ah..." He trailed off. Miss Quinby was standing on the steps, looking about.

  He turned to Fletcher and bowed. "I will be sure to attend the ball," he said.

  Fletcher tapped his nose. "I see you've a lady to attend to," he said. "I shan't keep you."

  Eversley bounded up the steps. He took Miss Quinby's hand and raised it to his lips.

  "Miss Quinby," he said. "I shall be forever in your debt if you will indulge me and pretend you came here to meet me and are now willing to walk about the museum with me."

  She blinked at him, as he bowed over her hand; then smiled. "I suppose I might assist with that," she said. "You may help me locate my cousin. I lost her in the crowd."

  He tucked her hand into his elbow and they entered the museum together.

  "You see, I dragged Fanny here," she said. "I read a note at the dance, and I was determined to see the trysting lovers, but I did not have any such luck. And then I became so distracted by the conversation of the men behind me, and Fanny said something about Captain Cook and I waved her off, and now I cannot find her."

  He nodded. "Most of what you just said to me I do not understand at all, but you can explain it later. Do you know Merry Meryton, by any chance?"

  "Everyone knows Merry," she said.

  "Have you seen him here?"

  "Yes, I believe he came here to see Miss Ditherfield, out from under the nose of her terrifying mother. She is being accompanied today by Miss Palmer, who is a much more manageable chaperone, I must say."

  "Are they still here?" Encountering Miss Quinby was getting better and better. She'd provided an excuse to escape Fletcher, was willing to wander around the museum with him, and had seen Meryton.

  "I believe so. I imagine they will be here for some time. Stolen moments are to be treasured, are they not?"

  He twisted his lips. "I suppose they are," he said.

  "Speaking of stolen moments, I overheard a most extraordinary conversation just before you arrived," Miss Quinby said. "I was standing by the Rosetta Stone."

  Miss Ditherfield was known to be an heiress. Eversley did not know her well, but nothing he had heard suggested that she or own of her family would be a French spy. Why was Meryton with her? Was he courting her? Did he hope to get his hands on her inheritance? Was he willing to turn traitor to his country for her?

  Miss Quinby was still talking. Eversley nodded appreciatively, while he wondered if perhaps Ditherfield was really Delacroix or some other French name. He could ask around.

  "And then the one gentleman,” Miss Quinby continued. “He said that if he did not see the funds within a fortnight, he would sell the list to someone else."

  What?

  Eversley stopped walking, his thoughts coming to an abrupt halt.

  "I beg your pardon, Miss Quinby. I was woolgathering. I believe I must have missed a portion of what you were relating. Might you repeat it?"

  She smiled. "I suspected as much. You kept nodding and saying oh, mmm."

  He grinned. "Blanche once threw a boot at me for doing that."

  "Did she hit you?"

  "She did." He leaned down and showed her a small scar above his eyebrow. "Then she was very sorry."

  She touched the scar with her gloved finger, lightly running over the ridge. "It was your own fault," she said. "If you had been paying attention, she would have felt no need to toss a boot."


  "Indeed. But you were saying something about a gentleman and a list."

  "Yes, I was. It was on account of the note that I found last night at the ball, you see," she said.

  "A note."

  "In the potted palm."

  "The palm? Were you expecting a note in the palm?" he asked.

  "I was not," she said. "But I could not help opening it, you see. I know this makes me a dreadful person."

  "Not at all," he said, thinking of the many, many notes and letters not addressed to him, which he had nevertheless opened.

  "It said Rosetta Stone, tomorrow at noon. And my curiosity overwhelmed me. I had hoped it would be two star-crossed lovers, secretly trysting. But alas, I saw no sign of them, unless Meryton and Miss Ditherfield communicate by cryptogram, which, frankly, would surprise me. And they happened to bump into each other over by the Cracherode collection, so I cannot see how the note-exchangers would have been them. I do believe it must have been the gentlemen I overheard. They must have been the ones exchanging the note. Is that not strange?"

  "Ah." He tried to sound casual. "The ones speaking of lists?"

  She nodded. "Yes. They were behind me and began speaking, and did not realize I was standing so close. It is astonishing how often gentlemen discussing important things pay no mind to ladies."

  She had heard their entire exchange?

  "There you are, Georgette! I feared I lost you in the horde." A young lady, all bouncy blond curls and lace and ribbons, was at Miss Quinby's side. "I must say that was all exceedingly dull. I was hoping for better from Captain James Cook."

  She gave a small tug on Miss Quinby's arm. "Can we please be off? Gunter's is calling to--"

  Eversley made a noise. She looked over and the words died on her lips. A small squeak emerged.

  He smiled. "I do not believe we have met," he said.

  "Oh, do forgive me," Miss Quinby said. "Your Grace, may I please introduce my cousin, Miss Fanny Markham."

  All he wanted to do was to pull Miss Quinby away from her cousin and insist she tell him what the gentlemen had been saying. Instead, he bowed.

  "A pleasure, Miss Markham," he said.

  Miss Markham's eyes widened. She swept a hasty curtsy. "An honor, Your Grace."

  He turned to Miss Quinby. "It was a pleasure seeing you, Miss Quinby."

  She smiled. "Thank you for helping me locate my cousin."

  "Not at all. Might I inquire as to whether or not you are receiving visitors later today?"

  He could see Miss Markham squeeze Miss Quinby's arm.

  "Oh, I don't know," Miss Quinby said.

  "She will be," Miss Markham said. "She's just received some new music and has been dying to get some time at the piano. I'd wager she will be there all afternoon. You're welcome to interrupt."

  He grinned. "Thank you, Miss Markham. I will."

  ~.~

  Chapter Eight

  Georgette closed the door to the music room. She leaned against it and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Escaping Fanny had been no easy task. Her cousin had attached herself to Georgette quite aggressively, once they left the British Museum.

  "Why, you little liar!" she had said to Georgette. "There you were, telling me that you and the Duke had been speaking of nothing exciting, and then you drag me off for a tête à tête in front of a slab of dead languages. I insist, you must tell me all."

  Despite Georgette's many protestations, she refused to believe mere coincidence had led the Duke to the museum at that hour.

  "Even if I allowed for that possibility," she said, "you cannot deny that he asked to call upon you later today. The man is positively smitten."

  Fanny would not be swayed: the Duke of Eversley was in Town after a decade of mourning, and she was determined that Georgette would be conveniently alone when he came to call.

  And so now Georgette was blessedly alone, just her and Beethoven's Sonata quasi una fantasia.

  She was so engrossed in the music that she did not realize that the Duke had arrived. Finally, she ended the piece, still lost in the melody. The clapping jolted her, and she was back in the room.

  "Oh!" She jumped slightly on her stool. "I did not realize you had arrived." She quickly stood and curtsied.

  He stood by the door, which remained open to avoid any implications of impropriety.

  "That was..." He coughed. "Quite lovely. Please, do not trouble yourself on my account. Be seated. Your cousin informed me that this was where I would find you and that, no matter how runaway with passion I might be, I must leave the door open."

  She smiled. "Thank you, Your Grace." She gestured to one of the spindly, delicate chairs which were placed closer to the fire, and seated herself.

  "My cousin is beside herself, believing you to be courting me. However, as she isn't here, I feel I may be direct. We need not pretend you are here to be runaway with passion." She looked at him as if for permission.

  He gestured for her to continue.

  "I have given it some thought," she said. "What I overheard between the two gentlemen."

  "Oh?" He feigned ignorance. "I had quite forgotten you overheard a conversation."

  She snorted. He grinned.

  "You have caught me out," he said. "Believe me, Miss Quinby, when I say that if I should be on the lookout for a woman to court, I would place you at the top of the list. Nevertheless, I will admit that my purpose in coming to see you today is not romantic."

  "Thank you for not playing me the fool," she said.

  "Might I inquire as to what you overheard?" he asked.

  "First, I must ask a question of you," she said. "Based on your behavior today, and your interest in the conversation, I do believe your interest is more than passing. I simply wish to ascertain to which side your interest belongs."

  He bristled visibly. "Are you suggesting I would betray my country?" he demanded. "That I would work for the country that murdered my wife? Were you a man, I would call you out."

  Unless he was a truly impressive actor, that response answered her question.

  "No," she said. "But you must admit that it was only right that I ask. You would no doubt do the same."

  He stared at her for a long time.

  "Miss Quinby," he finally said. "I do believe I regret not knowing you better before now."

  She dimpled --nay, she beamed-- at him. "Thank you, Your Grace," she said.

  "Please, call me Eversley."

  "Thank you, Eversley," she said. "And now, before you lose your patience, I shall tell you what I saw and overheard. First, however, I should explain the note."

  "Ah, yes, the note," he said.

  "I copied it down in programme." She stood and went over to the piano, where she riffled amongst the sheet music until she located it. She handed it to him.

  He stared down at the string of numbers. "And you deciphered this?"

  "There is no need to sound so astonished. It was relatively easy work, given the last word."

  "Nevertheless..." He looked up. "I must admit that my astonishment is that you believed this to be the work of romance. You must know some especially bored...trysting lovers? Was that how you put it?"

  She gave him a sardonic look. "Lovers are much more common in my daily life than traitors to the crown. Your life, I am beginning to understand, is different."

  He shrugged and then looked back down at the numbers. "And you determined that it said...?"

  "Rosetta Stone. Tomorrow. Noon," she said.

  "Ah," he said, looking at the numbers. "The word noon must have helped hasten the solving process."

  "It did." She grinned. "I thought to myself, oh, how delightful, a secret rendezvous. Little did I realize how accurate I would be. I had thought the most shocking result would be a notorious affair. Instead, as I stood, trying to locate my tragic couple, the gentlemen at my back began speaking."

  She could still remember the conversation that had played out behind her. “One of the gentlemen was French. He spoke first.
‘Ah, monsieur, I see you receive my little note,’ he said.

  The other, most certainly English, was gruffer, more belligerent in tone.

  ‘Dash it, I haven't time for notes in ballrooms, Leclere. I told you, I expect the funds.’

  ‘Oui, oui, to be assured, I am aware. We are gathering the money. But we must be discrete, non? You would not wish for any of it to be traced back to you, I believe. Up until now no one has traced you to be this Monsieur Lightfoot,’ the Frenchman said.

  ‘I stuck my neck out for this damned affair. Nipping that list was no easy business, I will have you know,’ the Englishman said.

  ‘Oui, je sais. You are ever the hero, taking a little papier from a desk.’

  ‘That little papier is worth a king's ransom. I want the funds. If you do not deliver, I will find someone else. Many other parties would be interested in this information. Parties who are not desperately looking to sell off all their land in the Americas. And do not think you will be able to sneak in and steal it from me. You will never find it.’

  There was silence for a few moments, and then a dramatic sigh.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ the Frenchman had asked. I of course, was not able to see him, but assumed he was motioning to the slab in front of him. ‘This Rosetta Stone? It is French. It should be ours. Not sitting in some disgusting museum in London. And yet, here it is.’

  There was more silence and then the Frenchman spoke again. ‘You will have your monies. And if you even consider selling that list to another party, you will be dead.’

  She had related the entire conversation to Eversley, attempting to capture the accents and tone of the gentlemen.

  "That was all of it," she said to Eversley when she finished. "That was all I heard." She folded her hands in her lap.

  Eversley rubbed his chin. "I can understand why you were looking so blinkered when I first saw you on the steps," he said. "Not often you overhear a conversation like that, and to remember it in such detail. You did quite well with the accents, by the way, although Merry doesn't sound so gruff, I would say."

  "Merry? What do you mean?" she asked.