The Duchess Hunt

by Jennifer Haymore

  “I’ve been to this shop with Mama,” Esme explained, and Sarah was grateful that Esme was able to mention her mother without a sob welling. “Mr. Lamb is the master here, I believe.”

  And the man, nearly bald except for a tuft of white hair puffing out from the back of his scalp like a bird’s tail, recognized Esme right away and hurried over to them from behind his counter. “Good day, Lady Esme,” he said with a bow. “How may I be of service?”

  “I’m looking for a bracelet,” Esme said. “Something gold, but simple and delicate. Nothing too ostentatious.”

  “Of course. I have several pieces that might suit your needs. Follow me, if you please.” Mr. Lamb turned to a table covered with golden jewelry. Esme perused the bracelets, but the adjacent table that contained necklaces of rubies and emeralds and other rare gems caught Sarah’s eye.

  She gave a wistful sigh. It was all so lovely.

  And then her gaze snagged on one of the necklaces, and she turned her focus to it. The voices of Esme and Mr. Lamb faded as she stared at the lavender-colored gems for long seconds, the thudding of her heart the only discernible sound.

  “My lady?” Sarah’s words came out in a choked murmur.

  Esme hurried over to her. Sarah didn’t see her so much as feel her presence.

  Slowly, she lifted her heavy arm to point at the one-of-a-kind piece of jewelry lying so innocently in its little bed of pink silk. “It’s the duchess’s amethyst necklace,” she whispered.

  Esme’s gasp was audible. Finally, Sarah looked at the younger woman. Esme’s eyes were wide and filled with tears, her hand flat on her chest as if to contain her own pounding heart.

  She turned her wild-eyed gaze to Sarah. “What…? How…?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is it, miss?” Mr. Lamb was all proprietary concern, the wrinkles on his face deepening.

  Sarah swallowed hard and answered for Esme, who was clearly incapable of speech. “That necklace… where did you get it?”

  “I purchased it.”

  “When?”

  “Why, just last night.”

  Sarah felt sick. “Who sold it to you?”

  Mr. Lamb’s lined face darkened. “What’s this about?”

  Sarah glanced desperately at Esme, not sure how much to reveal, but Esme was still staring at the necklace as if she hadn’t heard a word of what they’d said.

  Sarah straightened her spine. “We know that necklace, sir. It belongs to the Duchess of Trent.”

  The old man’s eyes went wide. “What? But that’s impossible.”

  “It would seem so,” Sarah said, a dry edge to her tone, “and yet here it is. So if you’ll tell us who sold it to you…”

  A light sheen of sweat covered the man’s face, and at her words, his face seemed to clam up.

  “Please, sir. Where did this necklace come from?”

  “I cannot say, miss.”

  “All we need to know is —”

  “I’m sorry, but that is proprietary information.”

  “This is extremely important.”

  He just shook his head at her, his lips pressed together, his expression closed.

  Sarah ground her teeth. “If you won’t give us any information, perhaps you’ll give it to the Duke of Trent.” She took Esme’s arm. “Come, my lady, let’s go find your brother.”

  An hour later, Esme and Sarah were back in the jeweler’s shop, but this time Simon stood between them.

  “Where is it?” he asked as he strode in.

  Sarah led him to the display containing his mother’s amethyst necklace. Simon stared at it for all of two seconds before turning hard green eyes upon Mr. Lamb, who was already hovering beside them, twisting his hands.

  “You will inform me as to where you obtained this necklace, sir,” Simon said by way of greeting.

  Lamb dropped his hands. He looked furtively to the necklace, then back to Simon, not quite meeting his eyes.

  “I purchased it from an independent supplier.”

  Simon raised a brow. Sarah could not help but notice how much larger Simon seemed than the other man. He towered over Lamb. And not only in stature. In presence. Lamb simply shrank before the duke.

  “He is here in London,” Lamb blurted.

  “You will tell me his name and address.”

  “Of course, sir. The name’s John Woodrow.” He rattled off an address in London.

  Sarah marveled at how easy it had been. Lamb hadn’t been about to tell her and Esme anything about the necklace’s origins earlier, yet Simon had hardly had to ask.

  He is a duke, after all, she reminded herself. Sometimes she did forget. Most of England’s population would bow and kiss his toes because he was the Duke of Trent. Sarah would do so as well, she acknowledged, though not because of the title, but because he was Simon. There was a marked difference between the two.

  “You will remove that necklace from your display,” Simon said. “After I speak with Woodrow, I will inform you as to how we shall proceed.”

  Lamb bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall remove it immediately. It will go into my safe until this matter is resolved.”

  “Very good,” Simon said.

  As they turned to go, Lamb had already removed the necklace from the table and, clutching it in both his hands, scurried into the back room.

  Outside, Esme turned to Simon. “Could Mama be in London?”

  Simon shook his head. “I don’t know. The address he gave is in the East End. I can’t quite picture our mother in that part of town.”

  None of them voiced the greatest worry – that the necklace had been stolen. That whoever had taken the duchess from Ironwood Park was a violent criminal. But if that were the case, why hadn’t she or the servants left signs of a struggle? Could it have been someone she knew and trusted but who had turned on her?

  “There are so many things I don’t understand,” Sarah said softly, “but chief among them is that if the duchess is being ransomed, why have we received no word?”

  Simon glanced at her, then opened the door to the carriage, handing Esme in first. “Exactly. It doesn’t add up. It’s why I find it difficult to believe she was taken against her will.”

  “Unless they took her, somehow preventing a struggle…” Sarah glanced into the carriage, where Esme was settling herself, turned away from them. “But she ultimately fought, and something horrible happened…”

  A muscle twitched in Simon’s cheek. “My mother isn’t one to meekly submit when she feels as though she’s been wronged, so it is a possibility.”

  They stared at each other for a second, then he held out his hand to help her into the carriage. She took it. Through their gloves, she could feel the strength of his grasp, in each finger, and a small shudder of awareness trembled through her. She could feel the heat of his eyes on her, too, but she kept her own averted. Her lips responded, though, an instinctual tingling in anticipation of another kiss.

  She mused over this as the carriage jolted into motion.

  Men were the aggressors. Miss Farnshaw had drilled that lesson into her and Esme. Miss Farnshaw had also given them a plethora of suggestions on how to divert masculine aggression in order to maintain one’s reputation and purity.

  Sarah watched Simon out of the corner of her eye. He would not be the aggressor, though she knew that it was in his nature. No, his notions of honor and protectiveness of her virtue were strangling his aggressive tendencies.

  She wished Miss Farnshaw had taught her how to be an aggressor. She chewed on her lip, wondering if she could do it. Find a way to try…

  Esme, who’d been gazing out the window, suddenly turned to Simon. “We’re heading home?”

  “Yes,” Simon said. He didn’t offer any further explanation.

  Sarah shared a quick look with Esme before saying, “I thought we were going to the East End to inquire about the duchess’s necklace.”

  “No,” Simon corrected. “We’re going home to Trent House, whe
re you will be safe, and I’ll be inquiring about the necklace on my own.”

  “Your Grace, I can hardly see how going to someone’s lodgings in the middle of the city should be dangerous —”

  “Have you ever visited a residence in the East End?”

  “No,” Sarah admitted.

  “Well, then.” Simon focused on a point on the carriage wall between Sarah and Esme. “I’ll not put either of you in danger. Do not waste your breath arguing, Sarah. You will not be accompanying me to the East End this afternoon.”

  Sarah and Esme waited all afternoon in suspense for Simon to come home. A foggy dusk had wisped hazy fingers over London when he finally returned.

  With no news.

  The three of them sat in the drawing room drinking tea as Simon told them about his venture into the East End.

  Esme let out a frustrated breath. “So you discovered absolutely nothing?”

  “Nothing at all,” Simon confirmed. “John Woodrow was nowhere to be found. The landlord said he was at home yesterday, but only briefly, before departing again. Evidently the man is seldom in residence and unpredictable in his habits.”

  “Where is he, then?” Esme asked.

  “That is the question. No one seems to know where he goes.”

  “How will you ever find him if he’s rarely at home?” Sarah asked.

  “I’ve hired a youth to watch the neighborhood, specifically Woodrow’s rooms. We’ll know the moment Woodrow returns home.”

  That evening, Simon sat at the long dinner table in Lord Stanley’s house. The table had been cleared for the dessert course. A servant had removed the many-footed, monstrous bronze epergne, and for the first time all night, Simon could see his old acquaintance, the Duke of Dunsberg, seated across from him. However, good manners kept his attention on the lady next to him, Georgina Stanley, precluding him from opening any topic of conversation with Dunsberg.

  A servant refilled his champagne, and he took a sip. Champagne wasn’t his beverage of choice, generally speaking, but it was close in the dining room, what with the body heat of the twenty-eight people seated around the table, the hearth behind his back, and the assorted servants milling about, and he was thirsty.

  “Isn’t this champagne wonderful?” Miss Stanley asked, watching him drink. “It is my papa’s favorite.”

  He smiled at her. “Is that so?” He took another sip, and only now realized it had an exceptional flavor, as champagne went. “You’re right; it is excellent.”

  “I don’t know how he obtains it.” She leaned toward him and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s all very secretive, but somehow he has it shipped from France.”

  Simon carefully set down his glass. Everyone involved in politics knew of his long-standing outspokenness against the practice of smuggling. It disgusted him that even the lawmakers of the land turned a blind eye when it meant they could acquire the French spirits they couldn’t seem to live without. Interesting that Stanley should choose to serve illegally obtained spirits tonight.

  Miss Stanley took a small bite of her ice and gave a decadent sigh. “It is like I have died and gone to heaven. First the champagne, and pineapple is my favorite kind of ice in the whole world.”

  The way she looked through her eyelashes up at him and the way her pink tongue swiped over her lips to capture every drop of the ice… she was flirting with him, for certain. Georgina Stanley always flirted with him, and he’d always been unflinchingly polite in return.

  Simon glanced at the head of the table, where his host presided over the festivities, watching everyone with a keen eye. Stanley reminded Simon of a hawk, intelligent and calculating, always aware of everything that occurred in his vicinity, and usually outside it.

  He returned his attention to Georgina, who’d taken another bite of the ice and had closed her eyes in ecstasy. There was no doubt she was lovely.

  Well-bred and innocent, too.

  She isn’t Sarah.

  His gaze traveled past Miss Stanley, past Esme and her partner and down the long table until he saw Sarah, who’d been partnered with a curate. The lowest on the social strata of those present, they’d been the last to enter and had been seated far down at the other end of the table.

  She wasn’t paying any attention to the curate, who seemed to be enjoying his ice as much as Miss Stanley was.

  No, she was watching Simon.

  He tore his gaze away, choosing not to try to interpret the expression on her face.

  “Do you like it?” Miss Stanley asked.

  He looked down at his untouched ice. “Perhaps I should try it first.”

  She laughed prettily. “Perhaps so.”

  He took up a spoonful, and cold spiked with sugar and the unmistakable flavor of pineapple washed over his tongue. Damn good. An excellent choice to combat the stifling air he inhaled with every breath.

  Not as good as tasting Sarah, though. He flicked another glance down the table. Sarah had turned away and was talking to the curate, gracing him with her wide, pretty smile.

  His breath caught as jealousy swirled through him. He wanted to stalk over to the curate and forcibly remove him from Sarah’s vicinity. Trying to calm the sudden possessive – and ridiculous – notion, Simon blinked hard, focusing on the dark strand of hair that curled around her ear. He wanted to rub that strand between his fingers, feel its sleek, silky texture.

  God, how he wished things were different – that she was the one sitting beside him, not Georgina Stanley.

  He forced his attention back to Miss Stanley and smiled at her as he took up another spoonful. “You’re right. It’s heaven.”

  But he lied. Heaven would be taking Sarah Osborne into his arms and keeping her there. Heaven was impossible. But as he sat here among these people he couldn’t count as true friends, with the one person in the world he truly trusted sitting thirteen seats away from him, he began to question that.

  He pretended to savor the dessert in silence for several moments. Then, Miss Stanley said quietly, “I am so glad you are as fond of pineapple as I am, Your Grace.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.” Her teeth ran over her lower lip. “It is important… I mean, for people to enjoy similar things.” Blue eyes blinked innocently up at him.

  “I suppose it is,” he said.

  They finished dessert, and the ladies then retired to the drawing room for coffee and tea while the gentlemen remained in the dining room and the port circulated clockwise around the table.

  The men relaxed, a few of them drawing out their snuff boxes, a few retiring behind a screen to make use of a chamber pot. They talked about the recent earthquake in Caracas, the loss of life, the implications to the British. They talked about the United States and how war – again – had become inevitable. They talked about Bonaparte and the French. Dunsberg, who had received a letter from Wellington last week, updated all of them on the push through Spain.

  Simon was glad the political topics had outweighed the subject of his mother’s disappearance. He was tired of repeating the story of what had happened and sick of telling everyone his theory – growing less substantial as the days passed – that his mother had simply gone off on a holiday without informing anyone. He’d repeated the story in Parliament, at two other dinner parties, in the card room at a ball a few nights ago, and in his club on more than one occasion. All the men here surely knew it by now. And when they pressed for more information – which also happened often – he could tell them in all honesty that he didn’t have any.

  Eventually, Stanley turned to Simon. “You are more involved in the Season this year, Trent. Not avoiding the social events as you usually do.”

  Simon stiffened. “I’d hardly say I avoid them.”

  Lord Granger, a younger man who’d recently inherited his title, chuckled. “Can’t say I’d blame you if you did, Trent. Damned tedious, the lot of them.”

  “The ladies seem to find them quite enjoyable,” Dunsberg pointed out.

  “A
h, but we are forgetting the point of the Season’s events.” Stanley gestured, rolling a finger to indicate the house around them. “This one included.”

  “Which is?”

  Simon slanted a glance at Granger. The man could be more than passing dense sometimes.

  “Why, to find matches for those of us who are as yet unmarried,” Stanley said.

  Simon felt more than one set of eyes on him, but he took another swallow of port and ignored them.

  “The marriage market,” Dunsberg said in a bemused voice.

  “Exactly,” Stanley said. “But you, Trent, I’d wager you do know the purpose of the Season. Ever since that year – What was it? Six, seven years ago? – you had that horde of matchmaking mamas prepared to battle to the death over which daughter would dance with you next, you’ve avoided it.”

  Simon made a noncommittal response. That year had been hell. He’d been green, hadn’t yet understood the competitive natures of the ladies and their mothers. They’d ever so politely cornered him, called upon him, made subtle attempts to entrap him. They’d plagued him until he couldn’t walk down the street without being accosted. Town gossip centered upon who would be the lucky lady he would select for his bride. He received piles of letters from secret admirers daily. Young ladies had burst into tears upon seeing him from across a street or a shop. One high-strung girl had even swooned when he’d greeted her one day.

  He’d had to completely remove himself from the public eye. He’d temporarily moved into his half-brother Sam’s lodgings, stayed indoors whenever possible, and went about his duties in unmarked carriages until the furor died down. It had taken many months, and in the years after that, he had dipped his toes into social life cautiously and with his eyes open, keeping strict control of who he spoke to and how, careful not to elicit unrealistic expectations.

  If his plan for this Season came to fruition, all that angling would end soon. One thing about marriage he’d welcome with open arms.