When a Duchess Says I Do

by Grace Burrowes

  She looked him up and down. She could apparently be charmed, but she could not be made a fool of. “Mayhap they need a new footman up at Brightwell.”

  “Brightwell?” Carlu asked, all innocence.

  “That’s our ducal estate,” she said. “Not far through the woods, though the lanes take a bit longer. Mr. Duncan Wentworth is putting it to rights for His Grace of Walden. They might need a new footman or groom.”

  Petras passed her his empty tankard. “They’re short of help?”

  “The Jingle boy usually comes for the mail. He’s not here and the morning is long gone. Relying on a boy is never a good idea when the task is important. My sister works at Brightwell as the upstairs maid, and she says…”

  The maid fell silent, glancing around the common. Wakefield had taken a corner table, as always, and the rest of the room was deserted.

  “Sisters have the best gossip,” he said. “My own could fill your ear with more nonsense and tattle than any London newspaper.”

  He had no sister.

  “Molly is like that,” the maid replied, bending closer to scrub at the table. “She doesn’t listen at keyholes, but she hears things. That lady who was biding up at Brightwell must have come with Jinks yesterday to pick up the mail, you see, and then she got into the coach with that regimental pest, and now Jinks is neglecting his job. Something’s afoot, though you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Carlu laid a coin on the table. “We have enjoyed the ale and service here exceedingly. I don’t suppose you know where our friend Colonel Parker got off to? Proud fellow, not overly burdened with patience?”

  The maid pocketed the coin. “If that lout is your friend, you have my sympathies. Never heard such a lot of giving orders and sending back trays. Missus says his brother the marquess isn’t like that, but the Quality can be a trial.”

  “Would you happen to know if this particular trial traveled on to Oxford or back to London?” Carlu asked.

  Always verify intelligence when possible, Wakefield thought. What had his servants verified about him?

  “London. His coachman were determined to return to Town whether his colonelship was willing or not. They took the woman with them, though she had no baggage. Danny what works in the stables said she hugged that obnoxious colonel like he were her long-lost husband.”

  He nearly is.

  Petras laid another coin on the table. “We’re for Oxford, and we appreciate your fine service.”

  Tomas rose and bowed over the maid’s hand. “I will remember you in my dreams, fair lady.”

  She swatted him with her rag, and even Carlu smiled.

  Wakefield was not smiling, though he was determined to reach London before the day ended. Petras, Tomas, and Carlu were minions, pawns in the game of intrigues and counter-maneuvers Wakefield had dabbled in for years. They were doing more to safeguard Matilda’s well-being than her own father had, just as the pawns usually did more to join battle on the chessboard than the noble pieces.

  “Come, gentlemen,” Wakefield said. “I’ve a notion to get back on the road.”

  They walked with him to the door, exactly as if Wakefield were a prisoner under armed escort. Was Matilda feeling imprisoned by Parker’s protection? Why had the staff at Brightwell refused to mention her, and who had been in those two carriages pulled by the big, fine horses?

  Wakefield climbed into the coach, certain of two things: First, he knew he was done with the spying and intrigues, done with the generals and their little housekeeping matters, this time for good. Second, if Matilda survived this quagmire, she ought to disown her only surviving parent. Wakefield had considered himself a competent spy until now, but no sort of father for quite some time.

  * * *

  Inaction was killing Duncan, hour by hour, and yet, the sun had set without a priest having been summoned to Parker’s abode, and no coaches bearing Matilda had departed. A fashionable modiste had arrived, footmen and seamstresses in tow, and though darkness had long since fallen, they had yet to leave the premises.

  “We should storm the gates,” Stephen said, making a slow circuit around Quinn’s billiards table, “not that storming is my forte.”

  “Duncan is right,” Quinn replied, wasting his shot on a maneuver involving three bumpers. “We’ll be turned away at the drawbridge if we attempt to storm the portals of a marquess’s home. Perhaps a little creative housebreaking is in order.”

  Amid the worry tearing at Duncan’s insides, an odd comfort glowed. “That the situation has inspired Stephen to pacing and the family duke to criminal schemes warms my heart, but we won’t know Parker’s motives unless and until a priest arrives. I’m also curious regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Wakefield.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Stephen muttered, bracing a hand on the back of the sofa. “I don’t see how you can sit here, calm as a dowager with her cats, when Matilda is in Parker’s hands.”

  “I am far from calm.” Duncan considered the possibilities on the billiards table, much as he’d analyze a game of chess. “We are operating at a critical disadvantage in terms of information upon which to base our attack. What if we storm the castle, have Parker arrested for kidnapping, and Matilda is then arrested for treason? What if we find a way to steal into her bedroom in the middle of the night, and she refuses the opportunity to flee again?”

  She would be that brave, that stubborn. She’d only told Jinks that Parker intended a distasteful marriage. She hadn’t shared her own strategy.

  Duncan took his shot, a conservative choice that nonetheless advanced his lead.

  “So I break in,” Quinn said, “and I’m discovered where I haven’t been invited. I’ll be tried in the Lords, and they don’t convict their own.” His tone was dubious, because Quinn was not one of their own. He was an upstart guttersnipe who’d come into a title through merest chance.

  Also a man who could be felled by a bullet, the same as any other.

  “I never thought of having Parker arrested,” Stephen said, sinking into a chair. “That could work.”

  Duncan marshaled his patience, a task of Herculean proportions. “Or it could get Matilda sent to Newgate.”

  “She wants rescuing or she never would have told Jinks that marriage is in the offing,” Quinn said. “You were right about that. She knew that information would inspire you to heroics, though I’m damned if I can approve of any scheme that brands you a traitor.”

  Some heroics, playing billiards while losing my mind. “Heroics,” Duncan said, returning his cue stick to the wall rack, “come at a cost. Heroics force a confrontation and can result in heavy casualties and lost ground, none of which can be undone once the hero has charged forth. Heroics can result in innocent deaths, and I’ll have no more of those on my conscience.”

  Quinn and Stephen exchanged a look, though neither spoke.

  “You have nothing to say to that logic,” Duncan muttered, heading for the door. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “At midnight you’re captivated by the notion of wandering the streets?” Stephen asked.

  “In the middle of London?” Quinn added. “Not without me.”

  “And not without me,” Stephen added. “I’ll slow the pace lamentably, but I will be damned if I’ll let you stumble about in the dark without at least my sword cane for protection.”

  They were serious, and Duncan was demented. Also touched.

  “I have a theory,” he said. “A theory based more on fancy than fact, and if my theory is correct, Matilda is in more danger married to Parker than she will be wandering the English countryside at the mercy of brigands and poachers.”

  “So why are we hesitating?” Stephen asked, gently. “Why aren’t we taking Parker into custody, and shaking him until his teeth rattle?” He hefted his leg onto a hassock with a sigh that spoke of fatigue and pain.

  “Because Parker will be the outraged swain, the loyal soldier who knows nothing of any purloined correspondence. He will be the tireless gentleman and officer, mad with
worry for his missing lady. If Matilda contradicts that story with some tale of encoded missives and spies in Mayfair, she will be writing her father’s death warrant, if not her own.”

  “Jane wants to call on Parker,” Quinn said, “though I don’t trust even her to handle him.”

  “This is complicated.” Stephen stared into the flames of the hearth. “I normally enjoy complications and do all in my power to create them. I hate this.”

  I love Matilda.

  Duncan had lifted the latch, intent on leaving this cage of speculation and worry, when the door opened from the other side. Ivor stood in the corridor in plain clothes, a young woman at his side.

  “Mr. Ventvorth, the lady is asking to speak with you.”

  The young woman wore a cloak with a collar of meticulously tatted lace. Her gloves were plain kid and clean, though far from new. She likely didn’t wear them much, suggesting she worked with those hands. She was on the thin side, a possible indication of low wages, and pale, which could result from long hours indoors. Her eyes were reddish about the rims—too much close work by candlelight?—and shadowed with fatigue.

  Duncan ran through that sequence of observations and conjectures in the time it took Ivor to bow the lady through the doorway.

  “You are a seamstress,” Duncan said. “Duncan Wentworth at your service. What have you to tell me?”

  “Perhaps she’d like to have a seat,” Stephen suggested, struggling to his feet. “Ivor, get the woman some sustenance, and have a guest room made up.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the lady said. “You’re right, sir. I am a seamstress. Madam Foucault’s head girl, and I won’t be staying. If somebody could walk me home once I’ve said my piece, I’d appreciate it. I’m to return to the marquess’s house at first light, so the bride’s dress will be perfect for the ceremony.”

  “Bloody hell,” Quinn growled, and the seamstress took a step back.

  Ivor scowled thunderously. Stephen smiled.

  “Please do have a seat.” Duncan gestured to the sofa. “The hour is late and His Grace’s manners have gone begging. I take it the bride sent you to us. Might you tell us your name?”

  The woman passed Ivor her cloak and sank into a chair. Her dress could not have been plainer and hung loosely on a gaunt frame, and yet, there was embroidery on her cuffs as well.

  Red and white roses, delicately wreathed in greenery.

  “I’m Mary Bisset, and yes, I am here because the bride—the duchess—sent me. Even that popinjay of a groom could not intrude for the fittings. Madam doesn’t allow that nonsense when we’ve work to do, and we always have work to do.” She chafed her hands and held them out to the fire.

  Duncan’s heart beat faster, with both hope and dread. “You have a message for us?”

  Mary nodded, scooting on the chair to get closer to the fire. “She said to find the Duke of Walden’s house on Birdsong Lane and ask for Mr. Duncan Wentworth. I’m to tell you that the ceremony is scheduled for eight in the morning. She doesn’t want to marry him, sir. The dress fit well enough, and she pitched a tantrum worthy of Mrs. Arbuckle’s twins, ripping the lace from the décolletage and cuffs. Said she had to have embroidery, and no duchess was ever married in a shoddy dress. Even the groom didn’t attempt to argue with her.”

  Lace could be stitched onto a dress from whatever stock was in store. Embroidery was a more tedious undertaking. Matilda was thinking clearly, which helped Duncan think clearly.

  “I know the Arbuckle twins,” Stephen said. “Sweetest pair of cooing doves you ever did meet.”

  Mary gave him an incredulous look. “Not when their dresses are too snug or their underskirts are the same shade as some other lady’s. Wellington himself wouldn’t take on that pair.”

  “Did the bride say anything else?” Duncan asked. The bride, not Parker’s bride.

  Mary’s brow knit. “She didn’t say much at all, sir. She let us do our fittings, let us do all that work the livelong afternoon and into the evening, and then cut up something awful right before supper. His groomship told Madam we have the night to finish the dress, and poor Maisy and Helen are still there stitching themselves blind. I got stuck working overnight before Lady Lucy DeWinter’s come-out, so Madam said I could grab a few hours’ sleep and do the final adjustments in the morning.”

  Ivor returned with a tray of buttered bread, pared apples, sliced cheese, and cold ham. He set it before Mary and poured her a cup of tea. The look she gave him was beyond grateful, and he withdrew only as far as the door.

  Duncan took a seat on the sofa, guarded relief gradually penetrating his fatigue and worry.

  “So the bride had a spectacular tantrum just as the dress was completed,” he said, “and the groom has given you orders to finish your work in time for a ceremony at eight in the morning. How did Her Grace convey to you that you were to contact us?”

  “She ordered everybody out of the room but me—she’s some sort of pumpernickel duchess, you know—but even a duchess can’t undo her own laces. We were behind the privacy screen, nobody else in the room, and she told me that she did not want to marry the strutting buffoon—and I ask you, who would?—but she might not have a choice. I was to find you lot, and make sure you knew when the ceremony was scheduled.”

  “We have less than eight hours to intervene in this farce,” Stephen said. “I, for one, will spend some of those hours sleeping. I am confident that well before dawn, a clearer head than mine will have concocted a solution to this puzzle, for none occurs to me.”

  Mary was making good progress with the tray Ivor had brought, putting Duncan in mind of a hungry Matilda.

  Stephen limped from the room, leaving Duncan with Quinn, Mary, and Ivor.

  “We should all get some rest,” Duncan said, though what he sought was solitude to think. “Ivor, you will please see the lady made comfortable for the night, and ensure she’s back at her post at dawn. Miss Bisset, if you can relay to the duchess one message, privately of course, it would be this: Her knights will charge before the ceremony begins, and she is to do nothing to put herself at risk of further harm.”

  “That’s all?” Mary asked, a buttered slice of bread in her hand. “Her knights will charge before the ceremony begins, and she’s not to put herself at risk of further harm?”

  Thank heavens for a sensible young woman with good recall. “That’s not quite all. You have done me and the duchess a significant service at great inconvenience to yourself. You are tired and hungry, and need not have bothered with this drama. What can I do to show my appreciation?”

  She gestured with the bread. “This is appreciation. Haven’t had a decent cup of tea since my grandmother’s funeral.”

  “A tea tray is a mere courtesy,” Duncan said. “You deserve more than that for aiding a stranger.”

  Quinn came up on Duncan’s side. “I am a duke, Miss Bisset, though I’ve never regarded that as a particular benefit to anybody. If you want a cottage in Chelsea, I’ll see it done. If you want your own millinery shop, that’s the work of a moment. I am in Mr. Wentworth’s debt to a greater extent than any duke has ever owed anybody, and my wealth is at his disposal to see you compensated for your trouble.”

  Mary set down the half-eaten bread and sent Ivor a questioning glance. “I wouldn’t know what to do with my own shop.”

  “You’d make money with it,” Quinn said. “Keep a decent roof over your head. In addition to Mr. Wentworth’s gratitude you have my own. My duchess is in a position to see that you will have substantial custom and nobody wants to go blind sewing for a pittance if they don’t have to.”

  Mary studied the tea tray, which was French porcelain because Quinn liked for his duchess to have pretty things. “May I think about it?”

  “Of course,” Duncan said.

  Steam wafted up from the cup she cradled in her hands. “Will he walk with me in the morning?” Mary asked, nodding at Ivor.

  “It vill be my pleasure,” Ivor said, bowing.


  “That’s all right, then,” Mary said, taking another bite of bread.

  Duncan had no sooner bowed his good night to the lady when Quinn took him by the arm and steered him into the corridor.

  “I meant what I said.” Quinn’s grip was as fierce as his tone.

  “I do not typically ascribe a penchant for dissembling to you.”

  “Nor would Jane tolerate a lying duke.” Quinn turned loose of Duncan’s arm. “I honestly meant that my debt to you cannot be repaid in this lifetime.”

  What in the name of the seven wonders of the ancient world was this about? “It’s late.” Duncan moved toward the steps, desperate for solitude in which to consider the information Mary had provided. “We’re tired, and we can continue this discussion at first light.” Or never. Quinn Wentworth in a forthright mood was a disquieting prospect.

  “We will have this discussion now and not visit the topic again, because your sensibilities are delicate. Jane says you think we regard you as a poor relation.”

  Her again. “I am a poor relation, by ducal standards.”

  Quinn stopped at the foot of the staircase. “You saved Stephen’s life. He was an impossible boy, plotting his own demise, planning for it, and I had no idea what to do. You came down from York by post, no questions, and you saved his life one foreign language, one theorem, one learned tome at a time.

  “When I didn’t know what a bunch of letters on a page meant,” Quinn went on, “you spent every Sunday teaching me to read, though you had to travel for hours each way to make that happen. Every accomplishment I’ve achieved has rested on that foundation. You were good in a world where I had no examples of goodness, and I will be damned if I’ll let Atticus Parker hand you misery or put you in Newgate in return for that goodness.”

  Quinn Wentworth did not make speeches, but that was…a speech.

  Duncan cast about for anything to say in reply and could offer only the truth: “Stephen saved my life too. You all did. I was in the grip of unrelenting despair and failing rapidly.”