How to Forget a Duke
Page 1
Dedication
To my great-grandmother, Anna, who told stories to my father, who told stories to me.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part 1 Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part 2 Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part 3 Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Ten Kisses to Scandal
About the Author
By Vivienne Lorret
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part 1
Chapter 1
“Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Jacinda Bourne pressed her back against the study door, clutching a volume of Emma in one hand and a feather duster in the other. A breath of relief left her as the latch clicked softly into place.
No one had seen her.
Still, she knew she didn’t have much time, not with the hazy light of dawn creeping into the Duke of Rydstrom’s paneled study, spreading like accusatory fingers through the sunburst transom window above heavy pleats of midnight blue brocade. Soon, his servants would finish breakfasting below stairs. Then they would begin their daily tasks, which surely included lighting a fire in the cold-veined marble hearth along the far wall. Therefore, she needed to hurry her investigation and . . . and . . . “Ah—choo!”
Drat! Clearly, grabbing the feather duster had been a tactical error.
Her pulse hitched in a sudden nervous jolt. She went still, listening for any sound of movement beyond the door, but the riotous thrumming in her ears made it impossible to hear.
A warning voice in her head told her to slip away before she was caught. But Jacinda ignored it.
She had to. How could she leave before she found the evidence she was looking for?
The only problem was, she didn’t know what the duke was hiding.
But he was hiding something. She’d been certain of that since he’d marched into her office at the Bourne Matrimonial Agency earlier this week.
Every inch of his tall frame had been stiff and guarded, his fists clenched, his expression hard and intractable. In response, a peculiar sense of expectation had filled her, a certain knowing that there was more behind the clipped, evasive answers he provided—secrets that she needed to uncover before she found him a bride.
After all, matchmaking was a serious endeavor. Jacinda and her sisters, along with Uncle Ernest, set out to forge lasting, happy unions for their clients. And finding a person’s ideal counterpart wasn’t easy. It took effort, careful consideration and, in Jacinda’s opinion, tenacity. That was the reason she was currently disguised as a servant, complete with apron and a ruffled cap over her dark auburn hair.
It was all in the line of duty.
Early on, she’d learned that some of their clients neglected to reveal certain undesirable elements on their applications, like property entailments, inheritance disputes, madness, mistresses, gambling debts, and even illegitimate children. Because of that, each client of the Bourne Matrimonial Agency was obligated to undergo a cursory investigation.
Though, perhaps, sneaking into the duke’s residence was a slight exaggeration of their contract.
Her sisters would be furious if they knew. Ainsley, the eldest, had already warned Jacinda that if her methods cost them clients, then her only contribution to the agency would be to serve tea in the parlor. Briar, the youngest, had skillfully plied Jacinda with guilt, reminding her that their business was created to honor their late mother, and to ensure that no one suffered her fate of marrying the wrong sort.
According to her sisters, doggedness only cast a favorable light on soldiers, not debutantes or matchmakers. But Jacinda didn’t agree.
Proving a person was the right sort demanded equal parts determination and readiness, using any means to discover the information. Though, in the future, she would avoid using a feather duster to complete her disguise.
Pressing her ear to the door, all was quiet aside from the distant ticking of a pendulum clock. Relieved, her heartbeat gradually slowed, each thump reminding her that she was here for a purpose.
She was a matchmaker. Decidedly, the most important profession of all.
Her fingertips wrapped around her book, pulsing with this awareness. Shortly before their beloved mother had died, Heloise Bourne-Cartwright had gifted each of her daughters with a separate volume of Emma. To Jacinda, she’d given the first, in which Miss Woodhouse’s character revealed her unabashed determination. To Briar, she’d given the second, in which Miss Woodhouse possessed the most hope. And to Ainsley, the third and final volume, in which Miss Woodhouse showed wisdom beyond her years.
Feeling the stamped leather press into the soft flesh of her palm, Jacinda’s own determination was reborn. She drew in a deeper breath, her lungs expanding against the apron sash beneath her breasts.
For an instant, she’d nearly begun to doubt the plan she’d hatched at three o’clock this morning. But obviously, true genius could strike at any moment.
Besides, the duke had brought this upon himself. Not only had he refused to answer all her questions, he’d lied directly to her about his income.
Her recent visit to his solicitor revealed that Crispin Montague, the fifth Duke of Rydstrom, was nearly bankrupt, his estate in ruins.
His finances weren’t the issue, however. After all, many in society would willingly accept the burden of rescuing his estate, if only to align their family with a duke. But why had he lied about it?
In Jacinda’s opinion, a man who told one lie likely had dozens more stored away. She and her sisters had learned that from their philandering father. His betrayal had broken their poor mother’s frail heart and ultimately led to her death.
How could Jacinda make a match for a man who spoke falsehoods and kept secrets? At the very least, marriage should provide each party with a sense of certainty that stemmed from honesty.
This was her moment of truth. It was time to discover what the duke might be hiding.
Wisping the feathered tips of the duster over his desk, she found it frustratingly tidy. There wasn’t a single item of personal clutter to reveal more about him, not even an engraved carving knife or a pocket watch. No portraits or miniatures on the walls either, only a nondescript hunting scene above the mantel. Aside from a lamp, the inkstand and blotter, there was only a slender bronze calling card case and a short stack of brown leather ledgers.
It was very little to investigate . . . at least, without being overly intrusive.
After all, she drew the line at rummaging through his drawers. And besides that, upon initial examination, she found them all locked. Silently, she tsked him for having such an untru
sting nature.
Reaching down to her hem, a frustrated growl escaped her. She’d forgotten to hide hatpins in the dress she’d borrowed from her maid. Sturdy pins were quite useful in circumstances such as this.
Drat. Without being able to find anything in the drawers, she settled for borrowing one of his calling cards—because one never knew when a duke’s card might be of use—and tucked it inside her book before placing it next to the discarded duster.
Then she picked up the first ledger. Skimming the fastidious lettering, she noticed a peculiarity that repeated all the way through, from the front to the back. Each page was split into four quadrants, one solid, straight line down the center from top to bottom and another from the left margin to the right. A category heading ran across the top of each portion in bold, dark script. What an odd way to itemize expenditures.
She shrugged. And since the contents revealed more of what she knew about his meager accounts, she set it aside.
The second was an appointment calendar, also in quadrants, but with a surprising lack of scheduled dinners, balls, or parties of any sort. It was almost as if he was solely relying on the Bourne Matrimonial Agency to find him a bride, without the barest curiosity of the candidates who might be paired with him.
Strange, indeed. Most of their clients had already made unsuccessful attempts at finding a suitable spouse, and they sought a matchmaker because they longed for a close attachment that came from the commonalities in character and occupation. However, a gentleman who didn’t attend any social events likely did not care about those things. By all appearances, his desire for a bride was nothing more than a business arrangement, or a trivial task he’d set before him.
The thought incensed her. It was the nineteenth century, not the dark ages when nobles married solely for money, property, and lineage. Many people were enlightened and had abandoned the old traditions, realizing that contentment in marriage, trust, and even love were inalienable rights.
Doubtless in the duke’s case, once he received his list of potential candidates, he’d simply point his feudalistic finger at the name of the first heiress and say, “I’ll have this one,” and then expect the woman to be delivered to his doorstep.
Humph. Jacinda closed the ledger with a slap. When she did, however, a square of paper flew out from between the pages, flipped once in the air, and then drifted quietly to the floor.
Her secret-finding senses were instantly alert, sending a rush of prickles over her scalp and down her nape.
Taking a step away from the desk, she looked down and saw that it was a letter addressed to the duke. How could she have missed it?
Bending to retrieve the potential clue, she debated whether to open it or not. As it happened, however, her fingers accidentally slipped beneath the already broken seal and the page unfolded—with only the barest amount of encouragement—before she’d even lifted it off the carpet.
Still . . . reading another’s letter was unpardonably rude. It seemed her only option was to skim the contents instead.
Disappointingly, the missive appeared to have come from a member of his staff. Signed Mrs. Hemple, Jacinda believed it was from his housekeeper, who wrote of the state of the linens and listed items in need of immediate repair, citing a recent storm and the subsequent leaks in the garret. There was, however, one odd paragraph that did not fit with the rest.
Sybil fares well but keeps a careful vigil at the windows that overlook the road. Even though I have explained to her that Your Grace will not return for weeks to come, she is determined to wait for you. I managed to lure her out of doors for a minute, but even in the north garden the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs kept her from any enjoyment.
Jacinda read it over again, committing it to memory. By all accounts, Sybil was not a servant. Perhaps Sybil was the duke’s dog, who was waiting steadfastly for her master’s return? And yet . . . the housekeeper would hardly write of explaining the duke’s absence to a pet.
So then, who was Sybil? Other than the duke’s aunt, Lady Hortense, he’d claimed to have no other family. Then again, perhaps he was hiding a mad relation or a mistress or—
“Miss Bourne, just what are you doing in my study?”
Jacinda jolted. The instant she heard that low, unforgiving voice—his tone as deep as a village well and frightfully calm—her head snapped up and the missive slipped from her fingers. Or rather, she dropped it like a burning coal.
He filled the doorway. Beneath a slight widow’s peak of thick, backswept barley and wheat tendrils, his angular features were set in hard, irreproachable lines. He possessed high cheekbones and a wide jaw as if his ancestry had been forged during one of the battles between Viking marauders and the Roman knights who’d fought over this land ages ago. His skin was unblemished but slightly weathered in a way that indicated he enjoyed outdoor pursuits. And the shoulders inside his green coat were so broad that she wondered how often he injured himself passing through narrow doorways.
“Your Grace,” she croaked. A combination of regret for having been caught, and a smidge of guilt for being here dried up all the moisture in her throat. What business did he have being awake at this hour? Swallowing, she attempted an innocent smile, but her lips felt somewhat like squirming caterpillars that were difficult to direct into the correct placement. “What a pleasant surprise. I was afraid I’d have to wait here for hours before you awakened.”
With the toe of her shoe, she searched for the missive on the floor. Finding it, she stepped on it for good measure and hoped he hadn’t seen her reading it.
His gaze flicked over her, from the top of her ruffled cap, down to the fingertips she pressed to the surface of his desk, and then rested on the discarded feather duster. He said nothing for a moment, but pulled the door closed behind him.
Chapter 2
“It was foolish, it was wrong, to take so active a part in bringing any two people together. It was adventuring too far, assuming too much . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
Click.
Had a latch falling into place ever sounded more ominous? The study seemed to shrink. Jacinda felt as if the entire room was the size of the paper beneath her foot, and her back was against a creased corner.
Dear heavens! What was he going to do? Call the guard? Or worse, cancel his subscription to the agency?
His hazel eyes were the color of a leaf beginning to turn, a fading green tinged with russet brown along the outer edge. And as he stared at her, silent and imposing, his mink brown lashes crowded together as his thick brows lowered. “It is pointless to pretend you are here for a social call.”
“Of course not, sir. We are business acquaintances,” she said lightly, attempting to add a measure of normality to her . . . visit. “As such, I would only call upon you in regard to your recent application with the Bourne Matrimonial Agency.”
“After the report from my solicitor, I learned a great deal about your supposed business practices.” He glowered, folding one arm across the other.
While the act of folding typically made things smaller, the opposite seemed true for him. With a glance at the swollen sleeves of his coat, she wasn’t certain the seams would hold. He had the arms of a woodsman, the bulge of muscle clearly defined beneath the superfine wool, as if he spent his days chopping lumber with a very heavy axe instead of doing whatever it was that an antiquated-thinking duke was supposed to do.
Unable to help herself, she wondered what he might look like without his coat, and simultaneously a curious flutter burrowed into the pit of her stomach. “Your solicitor was quite helpful in providing the correct information, which you had neglected to supply on your application.”
Honestly, Mr. Burke had been so easy to manipulate, she’d almost felt sorry for the older gentleman. A few flashes of the agency’s contract—though without letting him read it verbatim—and a finger pointed to the duke’s signature was all it had taken for him to speak to her. From that point, she’d carried on with her usual
questions.
“I was under the impression that your uncle, Lord Eggleston, managed each account,” the duke said, the cut of his jaw coming into sharp focus as he gritted his teeth.
She nearly laughed. Her mild-tempered and far too gullible uncle was no match for a deceptive duke.
“And he does,” she said, resisting the urge to cross her fingers behind her back. Everyone knew that genteel women weren’t supposed to have professions. They were only supposed to find husbands, or become poor spinsters who relied on the charity of family. Finding a position as a governess was also acceptable, but looked upon with great pity.
For the sake of their reputations, both personal and business, it was vital that the ton believed Uncle Ernest ran the agency. No one could discover that the romantic and gregarious viscount, whom haute society humored by welcoming his matrimonial agency, was actually just a figurehead.
While Uncle Ernest spent his days composing sonnets and wooing whatever lady had captured his fancy, his nieces ran the agency. Ainsley managed the office, kept the books, and compiled the lists of potential matches for each of their clients. Briar sorted the basic facts: age, class, physical description, income, property, beliefs, and interests. And Jacinda conducted interviews and performed the most essential task: the investigation. Though, preferably, without being caught.
Jacinda drew in a steady breath through her ever-tightening throat. “It was pure happenstance that I found myself in the vicinity of your solicitor’s office. Since I was already there, it would have been silly to send my overworked uncle on an errand that I could manage myself.”
“Oh, you managed it, for certain. You badgered your way into Mr. Burke’s office,” the duke accused, unfolding his arms and pointing a long finger in her direction. “He told me how you twisted each of his answers in order to gain what you wanted. No doubt, you used the same methods to get past my housekeeper this morning as well.”