by Lynn Landes
A Mouse
for
the Duke
By: Lynn Landes
Written By:
Lynn Landes
Published by:
Landes Publishing
Cover art by:
Cora Graphics
www.coragraphics.it
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Lynn Landes
http://[email protected]/
All rights reserved.
Other titles by Lynn Landes:
Mercy's Promise
Savannah's Promise
A Question of Faith
Delta's Dawn
Dust & Dreams
Stolen Dream's
Treasured Dreams
Perilous Dreams
A Promise for Christmas
Chapter 1
“Tighter!”
“Yes, my Lady,” the maid replies and pulls the stays on the corset tighter. The small smile of satisfaction at Reagan Hubbard’s grunt is quickly covered by a blank expression. She knows better than to be caught.
“Oh,” Reagan gasps and takes short, quick breaths. She stands up slowly with a frown of anger and turns on the maid. “My dress, quickly!” she hisses sharply.
“Yes, my Lady,” London, the maid hurries away to pull the violet tea gown from the bed.
“Yes, my Lady,” Reagan’s Stepmother mocks as she steps into the. “What a little mouse you are,” Lady Tessa laughs a shrill laugh. She requires that all the staff address her as Lady and her husband as Lord, even though they have no rights to the titles.
Reagan giggles at the insult only to turn on her when she pulls the corset stays tighter yet again. Narrowed eyes glare at the maid, trailing over her simple form. The scrutiny causes the maids hands to start trembling. Her light brown hair is pulled tightly back into a bun, and large metal rimmed spectacles rest on a small nose as she looks towards the floor.
“Dress her!” Lady Tessa Hubbard demands. She hurries to the door to let in a second maid to assist. “Excellent. Some skilled help has arrived,” Lady Hubbard sneers. Reagan steps into the violet tea gown, with the help of both maids to pull the rich material onto her small frame.
London Mitchell has worked for the Hubbard family as a lady’s maid to Reagan longer than any other. It is her job to personally attend to all of Reagan’s needs.
“Tell me, Mouse, do I need to choose another maid to attend my step-daughter?” Lady Hubbard grumbles.
“No, Ma'am. I'm sorry if I've displeased you,” London murmurs and stares at her worn shoes. It is the same every time Tessa is in a mood. The threats and abuse have become expected behavior.
“You will address me as Lady Hubbard. Tell me what your duties are, Mouse!” Tessa snaps, stomping over to stand in front of her while Reagan watches.
“My duties are to see to Lady Reagan’s every need.” London is trembling with repressed anger, which Tessa takes as fear. She needs this job. Her father drank and gambled away his life savings after her mother died. This job was the only thing that kept her from the workhouses or worse.
Seeing the fear appeases, Tessa. “Exactly.” Whirling around on the second maid who is straightening the bustle on Reagan’s dress. “Perhaps you’ve gained weight, daughter,” Tessa snorts and screeches at the second maid. “Leave us!”
London sighs internally and waits for the door to close behind the older woman. She meant the words she spoke. It is her job to attend to every need Lady Reagan has, from her mistress's hair, to makeup, dressing, clothing, jewelry, and shoes. London is also responsible for upkeep of all of her clothing, including sewing, mending, and altering garments as required.
Lady Hubbard also demands she keep up the general household duties, which include keeping Reagan’s room clean, freshening of bed linens, dusting, and cleaning her personal water closet. Seventeen-year-old Reagan was renowned for being difficult and had a reputation of going through maids. When the opportunity arose, London jumped at the chance to work for her, despite the rumors. The truth was worse than anyone had told her. It was the Stepmother, Tessa Hubbard, who was the real tyrant.
London stayed because the pay was exceptional. Her best friend Dillon warned her and insisted that the comelier her appearance, the better her chance at getting the job. London took the advice to heart and bought huge spectacles. She also padded her dress to make herself appear larger and hid her beauty by pulling her wavy blonde hair straight back into a tight bun while wearing a light brown wig. Fear of being discovered kept her true demeanor from showing. She also slumped her back and shoulders, which made her and Reagan the same height.
Lady Hubbard took one look at her and hired her on the spot to attend Reagan. For four years, she has worked hard.
“How do I look, Mouse?” Reagan interrupts London's musing.
“Enchanting,” London replies. “Your hair is the color of midnight, my Lady, and the dress is exquisite.” Reagan appears taller than her with a lean figure and graceful, long neck and hooked nose. Her eyes are dark brown, and her skin is perfectly unmarred.
In a moment unlike her, Lady Reagan reaches out and touches her shoulder gently. “Thank you. It’s a pity I have to go through all of this for him,” she sniffs back a tear and paces to the window.
“Grow up, Reagan. Do you think I wanted to marry a man almost twice my age?” Lady Hubbard grumbles. “It is your duty to make a good match, and your father has gone out of his way to make sure you are well cared for.”
“I understand, but Edmund…”
“Edmund Rothschild has nothing to offer you. His family owns a tobacco farm for goodness sake. You will go to tea with Declan Sheridan. He’s a Duke, Reagan! With any luck, you'll be married by Christmas! Be downstairs in ten minutes.” Lady Hubbard leaves with a slam of the bedroom door and Reagan withers.
“Duke! Everyone knows that is a title only in name. His family was gifted the title by the Queen before they immigrated! It doesn't come with land, jewels, and even if it did, it doesn't change the fact that my heart belongs to Edmund!”
London stays quiet, she knows that etiquette demands that she never give freely of her opinion.
“Father won't listen. He insists on this match. Mother Hubbard has made it her mission to see me married to him. He's old!” She paces over to the mirror and looks at herself. “The thought of him touching me makes my skin crawl. Say something, Mouse!” she snaps.
“May I speak freely, Lady Reagan?” she asks softly.
“Yes. The witch is gone.”
“Thirty isn’t so old, Reagan. Any woman would be lucky to make such a match. He’s very handsome.”
“How old are you?” she demands.
“Twenty-two,” she replies.
“I'm seventeen! Of course, you'd say that. What will I do if he proposes, Mouse?” she grabs London's hand and not for the first time, she feels sorry for her. “I can’t be married by Christmas! That’s only five weeks away!”
“Six weeks,” London corrects and glances at Reagan, “Perhaps, you could dissuade him by acting out?” she suggests.
“Acting out?” her eyes grow wide with delight. “How does one act out?” she asks excitedly. London has to force herself to speak out of turn. Reagan has perfected the art of acting out.
“I would suggest that you pay attention to his likes and dislikes. Perhaps you could use that to your advantage.”
“Of course!” She jumps to her feet and paces. “The few times I've been with Declan, he's proven to be a perfect gentleman
. Thank heaven. I can't imagine him as a lover.” She giggles and covers her mouth when London stares at her in shock.
“Reagan!”
“Oh, you really are a mouse, aren’t you? Edmund makes my heart pound. I love him. He makes me long for things I shouldn’t.” She sits heavily and drops her face into her hands. “I feel like I’m betraying him.”
London picks up her wrap and offers it to her. “Perhaps you should talk to your parents once more.”
“I tried, and they threatened to lock me up until the wedding.”
“I’m so sorry, Reagan,” London is shocked. She didn’t realize how desperate they were to see her married. “I will pray for you, Reagan. The Lord always has a plan.”
Unused to be on the receiving end of pity, Reagan stands and straightens her spine.
“Thank you, but I think perhaps the Lord has forgotten about me. Thank you for listening. Take tomorrow off, Mouse, with pay! I insist.” Lady Reagan whirls from the room in the same way she entered.
Of course she won’t take the day off. Lady Hubbard would throw a fit. London sighs and straightens her spine. If she knew how often London has thought about Lord Sheridan, Reagan would be shocked. A giggle escapes, and she stretches a second time, sighing with relief. London only slumps when in the presence of others. Her mother would have a fit if she could see her now. A smile forms as she begins to clean up the room. She starts by stoking the fire and throwing open the window blinds. The rest of her day is spent cleaning, ironing, mending, and starching the dresses for the next few days.
Thankfully, as a lady's maid, she is often left with time on her hands. Her downtime is hers to do what she wishes. London learned quickly to ingratiate herself with the household staff by helping the housemaids by maintaining the offices of Lord Hubbard. She grins as she thinks about it. The disguise she wears does more than ensure that Lady Hubbard isn't threatened by her. It also allows her to move through the house unseen. A good maid makes herself scarce, is rarely seen or heard, unless needed, and then ready in an instant.
Lord Hubbard works from home. He spends much of his day studying the stock market in London. His business associates talk openly about stocks and bonds. They pay no attention to the staff, in fact, they often discuss which companies to invest in and which are not doing well. They also debate when to push struggling companies into trouble just to buy them out or purchase stocks when they are low. It's a disgusting dishonorable business practice.
London listens, studies the ticker tapes, and uses the information to invest her own earnings. The first year she invested small amounts, but the past two years, she has grown bolder with her investments and managed to triple her savings. Her portfolio has grown to twenty-three thousand two hundred and forty-eight dollars! One day soon, she hopes to not be dependent on anyone else for her income. It is a tricky rope to walk. Even though some women are fighting back and daring enough to invest openly on the Stock Exchange. London doesn’t have that option, she must use a male investor that she trusts to make the purchases and sell when she directs them. The money she’s invested is all that she has left to her name. Luckily, she trusts her father’s oldest friend and advisor as her co-conspirator in her business dealings. In fact, she thinks he gets a thrill knowing that a young girl could out earn some of the best investors on the stock market. Her pseudonym is R. L. Pearce.
London knew as much about finances as any man by age ten, thanks to her father. It amused him to have her read the financial pages to him as a child. He invested in stocks and bonds, and she learned all the tricks of the trade, including to buy when things are low and hold until they go up.
His teachings worked right up until the collapse of 1873. He'd invested in some shadier businesses and lost half his fortune. At fourteen years old, London tried to warn him, but her father didn't listen. When her mother grew sick, things went south quickly. London shakes herself out of her memories and gets to work cleaning the office. She slides over to the ticker tape and drags a piece of paper from her pocket, writing down the information she needs on the days trading.
Being rich does have advantages. The Hubbard's have a personal telegraph in the office, which she routinely uses to her advantage. A quick telegram is sent to her broker, and she removes the evidence and gets back to work, she is just finishing up when she hears them coming. Lord Hubbard enters with four businessmen, and London turns to leave.
“Bring us a light lunch. Tea and coffee,” he demands.
“Yes, Sir.” She rushes to the kitchen to place the order.
Cook is grumbling about being short-staffed, and London offers to serve. “Let me help, Cookie,” she teases.
“Thank you,” she turns and prepares the tray while London snacks on an apple. “I never know how many will be with him. Lady Hubbard fired two maids this morning.”
“Of course she did and right before the holidays,” London rolls her eyes and draws out her small notebook and pencil to write. She spies the newspaper, noting the date, November fifth, and tucks into the corner, quickly finding the financial section and reads, before putting her pencil away.
“Careful girl, or you’ll be next,” Cookie sniffs as she fills the tray.
“I know it. It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long.” London takes the tray and rolls it from the kitchen and down the hall. She stops outside the office. A quick knock and she enters with the tray.
It never fails to amaze her how they dismiss her simply based on her looks. She sets the lunch service out on a table in the corner and listens.
“Sheridan won't let me buy-in. Some nonsense about having enough investors. Who has enough investors?” Lord Hubbard snaps.
“Once your daughter marries him, surely he will offer it to you at a discount,” one man suggests with a grin.
“Not likely, the man is stubborn. Even after I hinted at it, multiple times, he simply ignored me.”
“Gentlemen, we are talking about a great deal of money on the table. We either choose a new target or continue with our plan,” Lord Hubbard suggests.
London listens and slowly pours the hot tea. One man wanders over and picks up a cup, holding it out for London to fill without even glancing at her. She drops a sugar lump in and waits. He turns away and continues talking.
“I say Sheridan Furniture is set to explode. They make exquisite furniture, and according to my daughters, it's all the talk.” The men laugh, and London lifts the silver dome off the hot soup. She fills each bowl with hot soup. The scent of fresh soup draws them to the lunch table, and London steps back between the curtains and waits against the wall, as all the staff do when serving a meal.
“One misstep and the shares will drop,” David suggests.
“One big misstep, and we can buy the majority,” Lord Hubbard laughs and shoves a biscuit in his mouth. London is disgusted. This kind of business dealing is shocking. When she first started trading, she soon learned it was common practice.
It's a shame. Someone should warn the family… or she could take advantage of this information and scoop up some tidy profits for herself? London scolds herself. I'm way too smart to have to resort to such sundry tactics. Perhaps an anonymous note would do the trick? She will think about it.
Chapter 2
Declan glares at his grandfather as he puffs on his pipe with a content smile. “You’ll see the wisdom of my decision later, Declan. You must be married by Christmas, or I will simply fire you.”
“Surely you’re joking, Grandfather. I helped build this company! I’m thirty, not some teenage boy you can scare with your threats!” Declan declares and slams his whiskey glass on the desk.
“Threats?” Matthew Sheridan drew himself to his full height of six feet and stepped closer to his grandson. “Your father made me swear on his death bed to see you wed by your thirtieth birthday. You've had plenty of time on your own to find a suitable match. You work too hard, Declan. There's more to life than your workshop!” His bluster dissipates, leaving behind only compassion and
love. “Your birthday is in four weeks. I’ll see you wed before the sun sets on December third, one way or another.”
“I know of your promise, but…”
“Enough. Lady Reagan Hubbard is due for tea in a half hour. I expect you to be engaged before she leaves.” He slams a small box with a ring inside on the desk.
“Lady? Did the family buy a title?” He demands, but his Grandfather ignores him. Declan watches him limp from the room on his cane and sighs as he runs a hand over his face. His beard is growing back, and he meant to get a shave before she arrived. Reagan Hubbard is lovely to look at, but Declan has no interest in marrying her. Judging from her response to him, she's not thrilled by the prospect either.
The last thing he wants is to be married to a giggling girl. He has prayed for a woman of breeding, elegance, and beauty, but most especially brains. Every season is the same. They parade the newest young women in front of him, hoping to secure a match. Some go to lengths that would make a grown man blush to ensure that happens.
He has on more than one occasion found a young woman in his bed. He makes a point of never entering a room unless it is checked and with someone at his side. “I’m weary of these games.”
Sheridan Furniture Company was started by his Grandfather when Declan was a child. They immigrated to America, and together, his Father and Grandfather grew the business from a logging company to a thriving furniture business. With Declan leading the way they offered cabinets and eventually chairs. After the first ten years, Declan convinced them to offer one of a kind pieces, dining room tables, handcrafted sets. It was a risk that is set to pay off greatly. Declan has sunk every penny of his inheritance from his father into this new line.
