Temptations of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 2)

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Temptations of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 2) Page 3

by Samantha Holt


  “You did a fine job of raising him.”

  “We could do nothing else. Your sister, God rest her soul, was one of the sweetest ladies I ever met. I owed it to her.” Mrs. Harper pressed her fingers to her lips. “And now Julian is gone, and I have failed her.”

  “There was nothing you could do,” Mr. Harper assured his wife.

  “Indeed,” Valentine agreed. “Whatever happened that night, it was not your fault. One could even blame me for having him accompany me. I thought we would be there only a few moments. But it was a risk I should not have taken.”

  Mrs. Harper frowned. “You do not think someone recognized him as your nephew, do you?”

  “I doubt it.”

  Valentine had gone through any number of reasons why Julian might have been killed. A footman was hardly known for his wealth and besides, someone looking to steal would surely approach those dripping in jewels, like the bold-tongued Mrs. Whitaker.

  A lover did not seem correct either though none of the servants would tell him much, and his butler and valet could not get a word from them either as they had closed ranks.

  “I still have my regrets, though,” he added.

  “Like whether you should have claimed him?” Mr. Harper asked.

  Valentine swung his gaze to the man. “You know why I did not.”

  “I know.” Mr. Harper nodded. “You could not let your sister be ruined—even in death. And we are grateful for the opportunity to raise a son like Julian. But it would not be unusual for you to wonder whether there had been a different way.”

  Straightening his shoulders, Valentine gulped down his tea in one go and set the delicate cup back on the tray. “If there had been, I would have found it. But please be assured, I shall get to the bottom of this matter. Julian’s memory will not be tainted any more than my sister’s was.” He leaned forward and met Mrs. Harper’s watery gaze. “That much, I vow.”

  Chapter Four

  Few things fazed Chastity. She put it down to living with her late husband and his unpredictable ways until his death. Sitting in front of the housekeeper of the Earl of Kendall’s house, however, left her with at least a thousand butterflies in her stomach.

  Perhaps it was the way the woman sat, as though she had a board propping up her back, or maybe it was the slight hook of her nose that reminded her of all the witch stories she had tried to frighten her younger sisters with when they were little.

  Or most likely, it was the fact that Eleanor relied on her to find out who really killed Mr. Harper that left her stomach churning as though she had not eaten a generous breakfast this morning.

  Chastity studied the room while the woman scanned the letter in her hand. Tucked not far from the kitchen, the housekeeper’s office housed a cozy chair with a carefully polished table covered in a circle of lace, a locked door which she assumed led to some of the valuables within the house, and a simple oak table and chairs. Chastity resisted the desire to tug at the itchy collar of her simple gown and fichu. She missed silk and soft, expensive lace already.

  The housekeeper tugged her wireframed glasses from her nose and let them hang on a plain black cord tied around her neck, then gestured to the letter. “It seems you come highly recommended from the housekeeper at Guildbury.”

  Chastity swallowed and nodded.

  “You are quiet,” Mrs. Cooke murmured. “That would not go amiss. The earl prefers his solitude and silence.”

  She nodded again. She’d opted for feigning a quiet disposition. Though she had practiced disguising her elegant accent, her sisters responded with fits of giggles. She would have to speak but she reckoned if she kept her words to a minimum her education would not be so obvious.

  “It has been some time since you have worked in a large house, however.” The woman set down the note they’d persuaded her father’s housekeeper to write.

  The disapproving look on Mrs. Lamb’s matronly face still lingered in her mind. Despite a soft appearance and a history of nursing bruised knees on little girls, Mrs. Lamb prided herself on her efficiency and honesty, especially given she ran one of the grandest houses in London. It had taken lots of promises and begging to get said letter of recommendation.

  “My husband passed away recently and I have need of work once more.”

  An easy lie and a good excuse as to why the housekeeper might not have heard of any maids leaving Guildbury Hall recently. Even though it had been many years since John died, she recalled the shock with which she received the news and the strange sense of loss and sudden freedom. She had been like a ship without an anchor. It did not take much to conjure those sensations again.

  Thank goodness for the investigative society to give her life meaning. She doubted her mother ever intended it to become quite such an adventurous group—it had been started to offer aid to society ladies who could not go elsewhere—but over the years, they had embarked on quite a few intriguing investigations.

  “I am sorry to hear that.” The tone suggested Mrs. Cooke did indeed feel sympathy.

  Meeting her gaze, she wondered if she too had suffered a loss. Though Chastity did not believe she had suffered as such. Her married life had been far grimmer than her widowed one and she relished being free from John’s controlling hand.

  She pressed her lips together to prevent a smile. Relish might be too mild a word. She had adored her widowhood in the end. Once she had come to terms with how suddenly her young husband had passed and no longer being answerable to him, she’d known one thing—she would never remarry again—most especially not for love.

  “I only agreed to meet you because Mrs. Lamb asked,” the housekeeper continued. “The earl is a simple man and I do not anticipate him being in residence for much longer. He prefers to spend his time in the country.”

  Well, that explained why none of them could recall who he was. If he did not spend much time in Society, they would not have paid him much attention, especially if he was old and ugly.

  What other reason would he have to be a bachelor who never came to London? She could not think of many unless, of course, he just had a horrible personality which was certainly possible though, in her experience, men with grating personalities rarely realized it and usually quite delighted in inflicting their presence on Society, as though everyone should be grateful to spend time with them.

  “I will be a hard worker,” Chastity said, keeping her tones low and bowing her head.

  She had tried her best to appear less like a duchesses’ daughter and more like a widowed maid, even spending a full day in the sun yesterday and smearing a little charcoal under her eyes, and thus far, the housekeeper had not questioned her appearance. However, the butterflies still swarmed. It was, after all, about the maddest scheme she could summon but finding out anything about Mr. Harper seemed impossible without going to his place of work. No one knew anything, even her lady’s maid, who was friends with one of the laundry maids here.

  “I believe you would be an asset here, Mrs. Wilding.” Mrs. Cooke pressed her lips together. “But I cannot simply hand out work that is not there.”

  Chastity opened her mouth and then closed it, almost correcting Mrs. Cooke on her false name. Chosen mostly because a previous member of her father’s staff had been a Mrs. Wilding, she and her sisters had also concluded it might help to have a surname similar to her own so she would still respond to it.

  Though all that had occurred to them so why had it not crossed their minds that she might not get the job? Here she was worrying about how she would continue to pass as a maid and query the other servants about Mr. Harper’s life, but she had not even secured the position.

  Now it did not look like she would.

  “Please—”

  Mrs. Cooke offered a sympathetic smile and folded the letter carefully, running a finger along each of the seams until it formed a perfect little parcel. “There are plenty of households in need of maids, Mrs. Wilding. I have no doubt you will find work considering you have a recommendation from Guild
bury.”

  “I want to work here.” She struggled to keep the desperation from her voice. She needed to find out what had happened to Julian Harper and this was the quickest way. Much more of this, and she feared Eleanor would quit London altogether and the rumors would be sealed by her running away.

  “I just do not have the work for you.” Mrs. Cooke rose and gestured to the door. “I am sorry. I would certainly appreciate a woman of your experience under me, but we run a quiet household. Should a position arise, I will certainly let you know.” She glanced at the letter before she handed it back. “Where are you currently lodging?”

  “Um...” Chastity would scold her sisters for being so unprepared, but she had not stopped to think much further than pretending to be a widow. “I—”

  “Go to Chester House,” the woman suggested softly. “They will have work for you, I am certain, and you will find their servant’s quarters quite comfortable.”

  Chastity swallowed and nodded. The woman thought her to live on the streets or worse—to be lodging in a bawdy house somewhere. At least she did not realize she lived in the grandest house in London, she supposed.

  However, it did not matter. She was no closer to helping her sister and she had little idea what to do next.

  ∞∞∞

  Apparently Valentine had either died and become a ghost or was simply invisible to women. Head bowed, the woman barreled sightlessly into him as he rounded the corner of the house. He grabbed the woman’s arms instinctually, forcing her to take a step back and peer up at him.

  “It’s you!” She gasped and ducked her head.

  But not swiftly enough.

  It would take more than a plain straw bonnet and a dull blue gown finished with a red neckerchief to distract from the bold sea-green eyes and full lips.

  Sea-green, he had concluded. Most certainly. The color reminded him of days by the coast in Devon, peering out over the rocky cliffs and savoring the crashing waves and brisk sea air.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She kept her gaze to the ground while he gripped her arms. He did not dare give her quarter to escape. Which he had no doubt she would do the moment he released her. She could have no honest reason for being on the grounds of his house wearing clothes better suited to the working class.

  “I was interviewing for a job, my lord,” she mumbled, the faintest hint of her cultured accent slipping through a vaguely Somerset tone.

  “I very much doubt you have need of a job, Mrs. Whitaker.”

  Her shoulders dropped and she lifted her gaze. “Very well. I came to...apologize for the other night.”

  He smirked and released her slowly, much like one would tentatively liberate a recently tamed stallion. Though this woman had more wildness in her than any stallion, he reckoned.

  Now he had made it clear her disguise could not fool him, she eyed him brazenly, as though he was the one in the wrong. Heaven forbid he be walking around the gardens of his own house while he mulled what he was to do about Julian’s death.

  “Would you care to explain why you came to apologize in such a dress? And if you were indeed intending to speak with me, why you did not give your card to my butler?” He gestured to his right. “At the front of the house. Where guests usually tend to declare their arrival.”

  “I—” Her gaze darted about the gardens drawing his attention to the vivid quality of the green shade of her eyes. Even the verdant green of the box trees behind her paled in comparison. “I changed my mind.” Her gaze clashed with his, daring him to challenge her.

  Well, no doubt no one ever challenged her. He imagined even her late husband cowed to her will. Unfortunately for her, he didn’t cow to anyone, not even rich daughters of dukes with wild green eyes and enough curves to make a sculptor’s heart race.

  “You decided to come all the way across London to apologize for running into me then changed your mind?”

  “Yes! Exactly. It turns out I do not feel sorry at all.”

  “That I do not doubt,” he said dryly. “It still does not explain the manner of dress.”

  “I wanted to go unnoticed.”

  “Because you are doing something you should not?”

  Her chest rose and fell as she puffed out a breath. Valentine regretted noticing the movement. It had been far too long since he had lain with a woman and there was no doubting Chastity was the very definition of womanly. Even if she had hoped to hide her curves, no warm-blooded male could fail to take note of them.

  Not to mention, there was something in the way that she moved. When she brushed a strand of hair back from her face, it was as though the movement was considered and deliberately—designed to draw attention to the heart shape of her face.

  It might very well be. So he would have to treat this woman with caution. Whatever she wanted from him and whatever the reason for this preposterous disguise, he had no desire to get entangled in it.

  “I am simply—”

  He held up a hand. “No more lies.”

  “I am not—”

  “Mrs. Whitaker,” he said firmly.

  “I did not realize you were the earl,” she murmured with a huff.

  “So you most certainly did not come to apologize if you did not know me to be the earl.”

  She pressed her lips together and gave a tiny shrug. “I thought you would be old and ugly.”

  A laugh threatened to burst from him. No one had called him handsome in some time—and he cared little for his appearance, especially now his one duty to Society was done in the form of the wedding ball, but some small part of him rather liked that she did not think him hideous.

  A small part that he needed to bury deep, deep down. Somewhere near China perhaps where it would never be discovered again.

  “I am not young.”

  “You are hardly ancient. What are you? Eight and thirty?”

  “Forty,” he informed her.

  “That explains why I do not know you. I was out in Society a lot later than you.”

  “A lot later. How flattering.”

  “I am ten years younger than you. It is a simple statement of fact.”

  Yes, ten years and far less experienced in life. Which was likely why she thought this disguise would work for whatever it was she had planned.

  “You cannot distract me from—” he gestured up and down her “—whatever this is.”

  Mrs. Whitaker sighed and folded her arms. “You must have heard about my sister Eleanor.”

  “Lady E,” he murmured.

  “Indeed.”

  “If it helps I do not believe for one minute she had any involvement with my...footman.”

  She shook her head. “But the rest of Society does not agree with you.”

  “The rest of Society is a pox.”

  Blinking, she frowned. “I am not certain about that.”

  How naïve she must be. How wrapped up in her opinions that she would be willing to dress like this and…he narrowed his gaze…had she spent time in the sun to darken her skin? He could swear he spotted freckles upon her nose and around her forehead where they had not been before. How he loathed how much the women of the ton cared for gossip and opinion. This woman was no different to those who had slighted his father.

  “They have your sister practically ready for the noose,” he pointed out.

  “It has its moments, I’ll admit, but it is not all bad.” She scowled. “But that is not important.” She unfolded her arms and set her hands to her hips. “My sister would never take a lover for one.”

  “I do not think Mr. Harper would take a lady as a lover either.”

  “And she said she spoke with him and he was quite happy—in love even. Not the sort of man who intended to kill himself only moments later. Not to mention what a strange place it was to do it. Why hang oneself at a ball?”

  “It is strange,” he admitted, “though men with addled minds do not always make sense.”

  “I do not expect you to care.” Her tone bitter,
she waved a hand. “No doubt he is merely a servant to you and simply an annoyance. Now you must find a new footman.”

  “You do proclaim to know me well at times, Mrs. Whitaker.”

  “You know we have not even been introduced. You should not address me so.”

  “No doubt you miss the days when you were my lady.”

  “Now who is proclaiming to know someone,” she shot back.

  He chuckled. “Very well. I shall keep my assumptions to myself. But you have run into me twice and are skulking around my gardens in a disguise. I think you have forgone any demands for propriety.”

  “I believe given your unapologetic behavior at the ball, propriety is not your first concern anyway.”

  “Ah, yes, how is your shoe? Recovering well I hope. How will you manage without that one shoe? Will you seek comfort in the hundreds of other pairs you no doubt own?”

  Her frown deepened. “This might be a laughing matter to you, but this is about the reputation of my sister.”

  Valentine’s smile dropped at the tremor in her voice. She cared deeply for her sister it seemed. A quality he did not mind admiring, even if it was one of the few good ones she possessed.

  “I do not believe Mr. Harper would take his life either,” he stated.

  She stilled, glancing around as though she could not quite believe what she was hearing, then peered up at him. A butterfly drifted past while she stared, nonchalantly unaware of the critical analysis that seemed to be buzzing through her mind. He shouldn’t care but there was something uniquely intriguing about what went on behind those eyes. He supposed he could put it down to her manner of dress and disguise. After all, it was an unusual thing for a lady to do and warranted at least a little curiosity.

  Only a little, though. As soon as he had discovered her plot, he wanted her gone.

 

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