The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  “Any luck?” asked John. When Alex hesitated, he added, “Miss Harper has as much right to know as Lord Chester does. More, to my thinking. Yesterday Chester tried to sell her to Lord Bitstaff, and not for marriage.”

  Portland cursed. “My contract is with the trustees, but I will tell you what I’ve found so far. The original trustees are no help. Only Goodman was at Westcourt when Montrose disappeared, but he died two years ago. The other two have grown forgetful and know only what Goodman told them in any case. Asking them questions usually elicits only diatribes against the duke and duchess. They think both should have been locked in Bedlam.”

  Faith glared.

  “They searched for nearly a year after his disappearance, without luck, and finally concluded that he’d died shortly after leaving Westcourt. But without proof, the title could not be passed on.”

  “They didn’t know where to look,” said Faith. “They dismissed everything the eighth duke told them before his death, and they refused to credit the duchess with even basic intelligence.”

  “A mistake,” added John.

  “On that point we agree.” Alex shook his head. “I next sought Bernard, the eighth duke’s secretary. He was there, which is more than Chester can claim. Or the surviving trustees, for that matter.”

  “Where is he?” asked Faith.

  Temper flashed across Alex’s face. “Slaving for a pittance in Cornwall. Or was. When he left Westcourt, the only position he could find was as tutor to a merchant family.”

  “A duke’s secretary?”

  Portland nodded. “Even people he’d known all his life turned their backs after rumors swept town charging him with bedding the duchess.”

  Faith sputtered incoherently.

  “Did they hint that he’d fathered Montrose?” asked John.

  “Of course, not that it would matter since the duke acknowledged the boy.”

  “There was no affair,” snapped Faith.

  “I believe you. My father recalls the Westfields quite well. Scandalous the way they publicly doted on each other, even for those days. Bernard denies it, too, of course, and all evidence I’ve found repudiates those rumors.”

  “Chester,” growled Faith.

  “Revenge.” John nodded. “He must have known the duke would tell his secretary everything and that Bernard had helped Montrose escape.”

  “You know something.”

  “Later. What did Bernard say?”

  “Far too much, and little of it to the point – he returned to town with me. We will call on the old trustees today. Perhaps their explanation of why they treated him so shabbily will jar further memories loose – as long as he doesn’t attack them for calling the duchess mad.”

  “She was perfectly sane,” said Faith. “If you doubt her, you will never discover the truth.”

  “She showed no signs of madness in later years, but do you honestly believe she acted logically and sensibly?”

  “What did Bernard say about Montrose?” John asked before Faith could respond. He wanted as many facts as possible before revealing the diary.

  Alex glared. “He’s lied so often I can’t believe anything he says. At first, he repeated what he told Goodman thirty years ago – that Francine had either gone to Scotland or France. After I pressed – something in his eyes bothered me – he decided that serving the duke now means changing his story. His current claim is that Francine remained in England, though he doesn’t know where. Reasonable if she was the daughter of émigrés – there were plenty even before the revolution. But when I told him that Lord Chester thinks she came from Provence, Bernard refused to say another word.”

  “I thought you had no idea where she came from.”

  “I don’t. What I have are two men telling me very different stories, and neither can produce any evidence in support of his claims. How can I believe either of them?” He shook his head. “So I am tracking down Francine’s earliest employers.”

  “How does Chester explain so specific a piece of information when no one else has come up with anything in thirty years?” murmured John. The obvious answer was that Chester wanted Alex in Provence, but that made no sense.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Faith produced the diary. “Francine is not French, nor are her ancestors. She was born in London, though she never revealed where.”

  “What?” Alex pinned her with a look that should have set her quaking – scowls made his scars stand out, turning him into a very dangerous pirate – but she seemed unfazed.

  “The duchess knew that much – had known since age twelve, shortly after her father hired Francine – but no one else guessed. It was Francine’s acting ability that convinced the duchess that she could protect Montrose.”

  “From what?”

  “Chester. He wants the title and will do anything to get it.”

  “Today, yes. But he was barely out of school when Montrose disappeared.”

  John shook his head. “He was working toward that goal by age ten, when he killed his father, then went after Richard.”

  “How—”

  “Read.” Faith handed him the book. “The duchess’s diary. She wrote down everything Richard told her and described the plans he’d made in case of his death – that Scottish estate. And she explains why she abandoned his plan and how she communicated with Francine.”

  “She stayed in touch?”

  “Of course. She would never let Montrose go without keeping track of him. They used notices in the Morning Post. Their code is in the diary.”

  “Where did Francine go?”

  “London. If the duchess knew more, she didn’t trust the information even to her most private diary, though. Nor does she reveal the name Francine took when she left Westcourt.”

  “How far back have you traced her?” asked John.

  “Bernard remembers that Francine worked for Mrs. Dearborn before being hired by the duchess’s father. Dearborn is a cotton merchant. Francine stayed only a few months – her skills were not up to Mrs. Dearborn’s standards, though the woman allowed in her reference that Francine would likely do well with a younger charge. After forty years, Mrs. Dearborn’s memory is faded, but Francine was her first lady’s maid. She recalls that Francine knew London very well.”

  John shrugged. “Hardly a surprise for someone born here.”

  “Beyond that, she didn’t help much. Her husband hired the girl, so she never saw her references. Francine mentioned her previous employer once, but Mrs. Dearborn discouraged personal remarks and paid little attention to that one. She does recall that Francine’s English was tolerable, but her accent sometimes interfered with understanding.”

  Faith nodded. “The duchess reports that Francine grew up near a French family, which is how she learned the accent and gestures. She sometimes fell out of character, though, which is how the duchess recognized the imposture. The duchess thought it great fun to help Francine perfect her act – she was a bit of a hoyden in those days.”

  “Does she mention anything about Francine’s real past?” asked Alex.

  “Not here – she started this volume at age fifteen after Francine had been with her three years. But she did mention that Francine recommended an unusual snuff mix for the duke when he became bored with his own. He was delighted with her suggestion.”

  “Unless an early employer used snuff, she must have learned that at home,” said John.

  “Bernard thinks her earliest employers were elderly, so they will be long dead.” Alex sighed. “They might have taken snuff. Many dowagers did back then. But those mixes wouldn’t suit a duke, so I will check tobacco shops. There can’t be that many. One might recall a daughter or cousin who went into service fifty years ago.”

  “You can also check the Post,” suggested Faith. “The duchess copied all Francine’s messages. They are dated, so perhaps there will be records telling who placed them. A name could help.”

  “And I will insert an ad for Francine, in case she’s alive.”

&nbs
p; “One of the code phrases asks her to produce Montrose, and another vows no one will blame her. The duchess also includes details about the secret account Richard established. She gave Francine the identification necessary to withdraw funds and told her to use the money for Montrose’s expenses and education.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dead! My God, why could it not be me? Richard is too young…

  Duchess of Westfield, upon the duke’s death July 1, 1787

  When they returned home, Faith headed upstairs while John went to his office. She was glad it had its own entrance, for it meant none of his employees saw her. The servants knew she was there, of course, but it was in their best interests to be discreet – if others discovered that he was hosting an unchaperoned lady, the blemish on his reputation would diminish his staff’s standing as well.

  That would not suffice for long, of course. The neighbors might spot her at any time. A man in John’s position could not afford a rakish reputation, so she must find other quarters. And she must do it soon. Chester’s slander should sweep society by tomorrow at the latest. People would then watch John closely, hoping to catch him in some scandal. With Bernard’s example staring him in the face, John could hardly insist it wouldn’t hurt. Bernard had already spent thirty years paying for Chester’s pique.

  John was still being stubborn about it, though. On the walk back from Portland House, she’d pointed out his danger, but he’d dismissed her fears. Again. How could a man who kept myriad details at the forefront of his mind be so ignorant about the world in which he lived?

  “Chester’s influence is not as widespread as he claims,” John had insisted. “Yes, he tarnished Bernard, but few people knew the man.”

  “Few people know you, either. Not well. And Bernard’s father was an earl, so he had plenty of connections. But society is quick to condemn and slow to forgive. They turned their backs on Bernard, despite that he was one of them. Chester will make it seem that you are using me to better your position. That is something society won’t tolerate. I’ve always known that any attempt to use the duke’s family would see me ostracized, for they are well above me.”

  “Who is Bernard’s father?” he’d asked.

  “The Earl of Wallingham.”

  John nodded. “That explains it. The man is an insufferable prig who likely refused to let Bernard say a word in his own defense. And you exaggerate the gap between you and the duke. Do not assume that Lady Catherine represents London society, my dear. Her arrogance has little to do with her rank. Many rational people exist, even in the aristocracy.”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “You might be gentry-born, Faith. But the only aristocrats you know are the duke’s poor relations. Every one of them is an outcast for one reason or another. None of them are typical of the aristocracy.”

  She’d protested, of course. She’d read hundreds of letters to and from lords and ladies. Many referred to scandals and passed judgment on various misdeeds. If she didn’t know what society thought, no one did.

  But no argument would sway him.

  “You will come to a bad end,” she’d finally snapped. “I swear you are more arrogant than the most pompous duke.”

  “I am not arrogant.”

  “Of course you are. You are as stubbornly blind as Reginald, believing everything will turn out as you desire. You wouldn’t admit a mistake if your life depended on it.”

  “A base canard.” He sounded furious. “What I am is confident. An arrogant man believes he knows everything and is above the rules that apply to lesser beings, but a confident man understands his limitations. I can confidently declare that the only way to eliminate Westcourt’s leaks is to replace the roof and repoint the walls. But I would never venture an opinion of its crop plan, for I know nothing about agriculture.”

  “You know nothing of Chester, either.”

  “Not as much as I’d like,” he’d agreed. “And what I do know, I despise. But I know myself, and I understand the world better than you, Faith, despite your extensive reading. I am neither arrogant nor reckless, so cease fretting. Chester has more pressing problems than you and me.”

  “Did you understand nothing the duchess wrote? Chester never forgets or forgives, no matter how petty the insult.”

  “This is not the place to discuss it,” he’d countered, nodding toward the growing throng of shoppers.

  Yet he’d ducked into his office on their return instead of resuming the discussion.

  Pig-headed man!

  The mantel clock struck twelve, increasing her tension. Chester was back in London – if he hadn’t paid Bitstaff by now, he faced social ruin. So rumors would already be flying.

  Damnation!

  At least her room faced the garden so walkers in the square wouldn’t note that it was occupied. She needed to check her trunks – she’d been too rushed yesterday to pack properly. Once she assessed any damage, she could decide what to sell if she needed funds.

  “When, not if,” she murmured, closing her door. Finding a post would take time. First she had to produce a reference, which meant conjuring a previous employer – she daren’t forge one from her vicar, or anyone at Westcourt, for that matter. Debrett’s Peerage and his Baronetage made it too easy to verify people’s existence, so the supposed employer had to be a real person who had recently died without close family who might be familiar with her household. And it had to be someone who seldom received callers. A tall order.

  In the meantime, she couldn’t remain here. It would be the first place Chester looked.

  Now that Portland had a starting point, he would discover the duke’s fate very soon. She must have her own plans in place before he did. Dreaming of a living duke who would give her a reference was a nice little fantasy, but truth would be harsher. Even if by some miracle the duke lived, he might not help her. If he was hiding, he would be furious at her for betraying him. If he was ignorant of his birth, he would have no gentlemanly training – the trustees had searched schools for twenty years without success. So Westfield might be worse than Chester.

  But there was nothing she could do about that, so she opened the first trunk and set about repacking.

  * * * *

  John spent an hour in his office checking that nothing had gone wrong in his absence. He was rising to leave when his assistant Fogel poked his head through the doorway.

  “A Mr. Simmons to see you, sir. He claims it is urgent.”

  Reginald? John hadn’t believed Chester would really turn everyone off, but— “Show him in.”

  Simmons exploded into the office, slammed the door in Fogel’s face, then slapped both hands onto John’s desk and glared. “Where is she?”

  “Where is who?” asked John calmly.

  Simmons swelled in fury.

  John gestured to a chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Simmons.”

  “Never! You abducted Faith. If you don’t return her, I’ll see you prosecuted.”

  “And make a fool of yourself in the process.” He sighed.

  Simmons’s face purpled. “Hardly. No one will believe you over me. The blood of dukes runs in my veins. You will return Faith, then resign the Westcourt commission and never set foot there again.”

  “You have no say in how Westcourt is run, Simmons.”

  “You dare to banter words with me?” he snarled. “You are beneath contempt, sir. I tolerated your insults at Westcourt, but no more. Return my betrothed immediately.”

  John had had enough of the popinjay. “You make yourself more absurd with every word you speak. No”—he held up his hand when Simmons sputtered—“you’ve had your say. Now it’s my turn. I did not abduct Miss Harper. I merely offered her a ride to town after Lord Chester turned her off. Since her choice lay between riding with me or walking, she accepted.”

  “He would never—”

  “He did. And since his parting words were a vow to rid Westcourt of everyone, you might find it difficult to return.”

  �
�It’s my home.”

  “At Chester’s sufferance.” There was no need to mention doubts over Chester’s authority. “Miss Harper wished to speak with the trustees, so I brought her to town.”

  “You lie!”

  When John rose to lean across the desk, Simmons flinched back a step. “The world does not arrange itself for your benefit, Simmons. If you expect to live in it, you had best learn to adapt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She asked that I keep her direction secret. Chester has never liked her and might attack if he thinks the trustees are helping her.”

  “But she can’t have meant me. We are betrothed.”

  “Odd that she didn’t mention it. Until she rescinds her request, I must adhere to it. I will tell her you are in town. Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know. I just arrived.” He seemed disconcerted, as if he hadn’t thought beyond finding Faith. Surely he hadn’t expected to grab her and immediately return to Westcourt. Boys in leading strings had more sense.

  John pursed his lips. There was no way he would keep Simmons here, but he knew the fellow had little money. “Try Ibbetson’s.” He added the direction. It was clean, but not terribly expensive, serving mostly country clergy and students. “Miss Harper will let you know if she wishes to see you.”

  “If she doesn’t see me today, I will know that you are keeping her locked up.”

  “Is that a threat?” asked John softly.

  Simmons adopted his haughtiest stare.

  “I have work to do,” John repeated, shuffling papers. “I will send a note to Miss Harper. How she responds is her business.” He resumed his seat, then turned his attention to his report on Westcourt.

  Simmons finally took the hint and departed.

  John sighed. Another complication, not that he believed Faith was actually betrothed. Not only had she refused to ask Simmons’s help in deflecting Bitstaff, but she would surely have cited an existing engagement when refusing his own offer.