The Duchess War

by Courtney Milan

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Minnie stared at the door where Robert had exited, her mind a whirl of confusion. Why had he left? Where was he going? What was she to do?

  She went to the window to see if he was leaving the house entirely, took one look outside, and stepped back with a gasp. There was a small crowd encamped on their doorstep, a throng of hats in shades of brown and black forming a half circle almost three deep. One man looked up, saw her, pointed—

  Minnie jumped back, her heart pounding.

  If he’d gone out, she wouldn’t even be able to follow after him.

  She turned back to his room. A newspaper lay on a chest of drawers. She unfolded it curiously and discovered that it had been printed this afternoon. It couldn’t have been more than a half hour old.

  Duke of Clermont Authors Handbills, the headline proclaimed. In smaller type underneath, the subtitle read: Duchess Is Former Chess Champion.

  She read that again, shaking her head at how bland it felt. “Well,” she finally murmured. “I suppose ‘Duchess is former fraud who dressed as boy and deceived hundreds’ wouldn’t fit. Three cheers for restricted paper size.”

  The article itself was surprisingly evenhanded. The worst accusations she’d weathered in the past—monster, cheat, unnatural devil’s spawn—were absent. Her past was summarized in a short, factual paragraph. It was shocking, no doubt, but time had blunted the power and charisma of her father’s words.

  Mr. Lane claimed the entire scheme was his daughter’s idea, but no evidence was ever found to support the assertion that a twelve-year-old child had been involved in the fraudulent endeavor.

  She felt as if she’d opened a door on what she believed was a towering monster, only to find it five inches tall. There were things one might say about the child of a criminal. One didn’t say those things about a duke’s wife.

  The account of today’s trial seemed equally strange.

  Reading about her own collapse was a decidedly odd experience. It felt as if she were observing her emotions from a distance. She could hear the gasps of those around her in the courtroom, but now she understood them as surprise, not condemnation. She could see herself go pale, without her own skin going clammy, her breath cycling dangerously swiftly.

  It allowed her to see what happened afterward, too. She’d fallen into a dead faint. A man near her had spat at her—and when he had, the dowager duchess had smacked him over the head with her umbrella. She’d glared at everyone else who threatened to close in, keeping them at bay.

  Robert had leaped over three benches—surely that had to be an exaggeration—to reach her.

  When the duke brought his wife out of the courtroom, he deigned to answer a few questions. He affirmed that he was aware of his wife’s identity on their marriage—a claim that seems unassailable in light of the marriage registry, which names his wife as Minerva Lane. His Grace explained his choice of bride as follows: “Why would I take a conventional wife, when I could have an extraordinary one?”

  Minnie set the paper down and shut her eyes. Her eyes stung with prickling tears. She could hear him in that quote—could imagine the roll of his eyes, the look of annoyance he’d cast at them. Her body had the memory of being held, even if her mind did not.

  She wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but she was sure of one thing.

  He was coming back.

  She read on in the paper. The article was only a few columns long. A related note mentioned that after the trial, Captain George Stevens had been taken into custody and charged with accepting bribes in exchange for performing his official duty. Minnie smiled wanly. Good.

  The door opened. Robert stood in the hall, a book clutched to his chest. He met her eyes, his expression wary.

  “You’ll have to excuse me if I make a hash of this,” he said quietly. “But I’ve never done it before.”

  “What are you doing?”

  In answer, he walked into the room and laid the leather-bound volume on the chest of drawers near her.

  It was the primer she’d bought him the other day. “I…” He looked down and then looked up at her. “I decided what these letters stood for,” he told her. “I thought I might tell you.”

  It took her a moment to realize that he was nervous. He glanced at her sidelong and opened the book to the first page.

  “A,” he said, “is for all the ways I love you.”

  That fierce prickle of tears stung her eyes with renewed force. She blinked, unwilling to let them cloud her vision. She wanted to see him, to make out the details of his pale, tousled hair, the way he bit his lip.

  He looked away. “This is stupid,” he muttered, reaching for the corner of the cover. He’d almost slammed it shut before Minnie realized what he was doing and insinuated her hand between the open pages.

  “No!” she protested. “It’s not.”

  His hand hovered over hers. He swallowed.

  “There is nothing stupid about your telling me you love me. Ever.”

  “Oh,” he said quietly. He seemed to take a few moments to absorb that before he opened the primer again. “A is for ‘All the ways I love you.’ There are more than twenty-six, but as this is the alphabet we have, I’m going to have to restrict myself. At least for now.”

  He turned the page to a brilliant scarlet B, illuminated the way one might see in a medieval manuscript. Beech trees made up one side of the letter, and a butterfly perched on the top of the curve of the B. “B is for ‘But I am going to make mistakes.’ Something I am sure does not come as a surprise to you.” He looked at her and turned the page. “C is for Confession. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be a husband. I don’t know how to be a father. All I learned from my father is how not to do it—and that is rarely any guide. But…” Another turn of the page. “D is for Determination.” Another page-flip. “E is for Eternity, because that’s how long it will take before I give up again. F—that’s for Forgiveness, because I think I’ll need a great deal of that, before I start to get things right.”

  “You are getting things right at this very moment,” Minnie said with a smile. “Keep on.”

  He nodded and turned the page. “G is for… G is for… G is for ‘Good heavens, I should have written these down.’ I’ve forgotten.”

  Minnie found the corners of her mouth twitching.

  He frowned in perplexity. “Really. I have no idea what comes next. I puzzled them all out in my head, and they were going to be utterly brilliant, and when I was finished, you were going to leap in my arms and everything would be better.”

  Minnie leaned over and flipped a few pages over until she found the letter M. This was the page that had been on display in the bookshop when she purchased it. M was done in blues and blacks with hints of gold, the silhouettes of mulberry bushes making the dark shape of the letter against a moonlit sky. This M, perhaps, evoked midnight.

  “This is the most important one,” she said. “M is for Me. I’m yours, even when you make mistakes.” She tapped it.

  He stepped forward and slowly, slowly pulled her into his arms. “Minnie,” he said, “my Minerva. What would I ever do without you?”

  “There’s only one other letter that we need to talk about.” She turned back one page. “L is for love. Because I love you, Robert. I love you for the kindness of your heart. I love you for your honesty. I love you because you want to abolish the peerage. I love you, Robert.” She pulled him close. “I’m not going to toss you out for one mistake.”

  “But I—”

  She shook her head. “We’ll get into that later. For now, Robert… There are other things that demand our attention.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly.

  “There is a crowd of reporters downstairs,” she said, “and we’ve just told everyone who I really am.”

  “I’ll get rid of them.” He stood.

  She held up one hand. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Do you expect
to introduce the duchess in society?”

  “What does the Dowager Duchess of Clermont think of all this?”

  “Why did you write those handbills? Is it part of a parliamentary ploy?”

  As Robert stepped into his front parlor a few hours later, the shouted questions overwhelmed him, rising atop one another, adding up to indistinguishable cacophony. The sun had set by now; the oil lamps burned brightly, and the bodies packed in the room had brought the temperature up above the level of comfort.

  The newspapermen had been invited in fifteen minutes earlier, and apparently they’d made themselves comfortable enough to scream inside his private residence.

  He waited until Oliver had entered the room behind him before he raised his hand. The shouted questions continued, but as Robert gave no answer—and instead stared the men down—eventually the hubbub subsided.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, when everyone had quieted down. “Let me explain what is going to happen. I have invited you into my home. I have offered you tea and sweet biscuits.”

  More than one hand surreptitiously brushed crumbs off of coats at that comment.

  “If you abide by the rules I set, all your questions will be answered and then some. But the man who raises his voice above a pleasant, conversational tone—that man will get tossed out on his ear. The man who speaks out of turn, he will be shown the door. If you behave like a mob, you will be treated as one. If, however, you act as civilized people, we will entertain all questions.”

  “Your Grace,” a man shouted from the back, “why the rules? Is there something in particular you fear?”

  Robert shook his head gravely. “Oliver.” He gestured behind him. “Please show the shouting gentleman to the door.”

  “Wait! I didn’t—”

  Robert ignored the man’s protests, letting the others watch him be escorted out of the room. When the door closed on his babbled explanation, he turned to the remaining crowd. There were maybe twenty of them, perched on chairs raided from the other rooms. They all had their notebooks out. Forty eyes watched him warily.

  “There are no second chances, you see,” Robert said. He heard the door open once again behind him. “Oliver, if you would please demonstrate the proper way to ask a question?”

  His brother went to stand next to the nearest newspaperman and then raised his hand quietly.

  Robert gestured at him. “I acknowledge the gentleman on the side.”

  “Your Grace,” Oliver asked in a normal speaking voice, “why have you set these rules? Are you afraid of something?”

  “An excellent question,” Robert said. “I have established these rules because, in a few moments, my duchess will be joining me, and I have no intention of exposing her to a howling mob.”

  The men sat up straighter at that, leaning forward.

  “You see,” Robert said, “it is the manner of asking that I care about. All questions will be entertained—although those that are too personal, we may decline to answer. Would anyone like to start?”

  Glances were exchanged among the men, as if they were all afraid to get it wrong. After a few moments, a man in the back diffidently raised his hand. Robert nodded to him.

  “Your Grace,” the man asked, “why did you marry Minerva Lane?”

  “I wanted a duchess who was beautiful, clever, and brave more than I wanted one who was well-born. I didn’t need money. The fact that I was also in love with her was a welcome bonus.” Robert indicated another man. “You’re next.”

  “Does she wear the trousers in your marriage?”

  It was a question Robert suspected he’d hear again and again, over and over, until he answered it to everyone’s satisfaction.

  “Do you want to know the first thing she did with my money?” Robert asked. “She visited a modiste in Paris.”

  That brought a chuckle.

  “Trust me,” Robert said, “anyone who looks as lovely as my wife does in skirts and a corset has no intention of wearing trousers.”

  Heads bent, scribbling down those words.

  Minnie had been right. They have a pattern in their mind for what a woman should be, she’d said. On the one hand, it’s a pack of lies. But you can use those lies against them. Show them that I match the pattern in one respect, and they’ll not question whether I am different in another. She had smiled. In my case, it’s quite simple. I like pretty clothing. If we can make them see that, they’ll not ask about anything else.

  “This is all well and good,” another man said when Robert called on him, “but do you believe that the young Minerva Lane induced her father to defraud others, that she was the cause of his conviction and untimely death? And if so, has she repented of it?”

  Robert gritted his teeth, felt his temper rise, but he forced himself to calmness. “No,” he said. “Her father opened the false accounts. Her father told lies to his compatriots when she was not present. Common sense suggests that when he was caught and faced the gallows, he was willing to tell another lie to save himself, no matter who it harmed.

  “The Duchess of Clermont has suffered enough for her father’s falsehoods,” he said. “In this, I must claim the right of husband.” He smiled tightly. “And so I’ll beat the stuffing out of anyone who suggests otherwise.”

  His pronouncement was met by the sound of a dozen pens scratching against paper.

  If you say that, Minnie had said, you know you’ll have to do it. At least once.

  He was looking forward to it.

  “Speaking of whom,” Robert said, “I do believe it’s time for me to fetch her.”

  He turned around, aware of the soft susurrus that arose behind him. He opened the side door and stepped through.

  Minnie was waiting in the adjacent room, hands clasped, pacing from side to side.

  He stopped at the sight of her. She was wearing a gown he’d never seen before—one that had, no doubt, been commissioned in Paris between bouts of lovemaking. It was a brilliant crimson in color, the kind of gown that would draw every eye. She was laced tightly, emphasizing her curves. And she was wearing the rubies he’d given her.

  She had a black lace shawl looped over her arms, which were otherwise bare, and flowers in her hair. But to all this, she’d added something he’d only seen in paintings from the last century. She’d added a simple black beauty patch at the corner of her mouth. It drew the eye to her scar, made that web of white across her cheek seem like a purposeful decoration instead of a reminder of a senseless act of violence. The very modernity of her gown, coupled with that antique fashion, made her seem like a creature from no century at all.

  He realized that he’d stopped dead, staring.

  “You know, Minnie,” he said, slightly hoarse, “you’re ravishing.”

  “Am I? Your mother hates the patch,” she said. “Are there many of them?”

  He went to her. “Almost twenty. But I’ve done my best to frighten them into civility. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  She drew in breath; that diamond shuddered on her bosom. “Positive.”

  He took her hand. “Because I’m willing to send them to the devil…”

  Her palm was cold, clammy, her breath a little rapid.

  “…and I’ll be here by your side the entire time,” he said. “Nobody will come close. I promise.”

  “I know.” She squeezed his hand and then, together, they walked back to the front parlor. She paused in the entrance. He wasn’t even sure if it was nerves that stopped her or if she simply wanted to make an impression.

  In any event, it was clear that she had. The men let out little gasps of disbelief—as if they expected, somehow, that she would have shown up at the door in coat and trousers. And then they scrambled to their feet.

  Minnie smiled. Robert, holding her hand, could feel her pulse racing in her wrist, could feel her fingers digging into his palm as all those eyes fell on her. He knew how much that smile cost her. He also knew that if they’d shouted at that moment, if they’d made any noise at a
ll like a mob, she might have passed out right then. Instead, the men were silent as death, not wanting to be tossed out.

  He conveyed her to the divan at the head of the room, seated her, and then sat himself.

  The divan was on a little bit of a raised platform.

  Minnie looked around, taking them all in. “Well,” she said. “I suppose this is as close as I’ll come to a throne.”

  That drew a surprised laugh from the crowd.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen.” Her voice was quiet, so quiet that everyone strained forward to hear her. “I’ve asked for silence. My voice is not loud, and I am nervous.”

  A hand went up at that. “Are you afraid of what truths we might uncover?”

  A bold question to pose to her face. Minnie didn’t flinch.

  “No,” she responded simply. “My fear is more primal in origin. When I was twelve…” She paused, took a measured breath, and continued. “Well, I believe you all know what happened when I was twelve, from my father’s statement in the courtroom to the mob that surrounded me afterward. They left me with this scar.” She touched her cheek. “Ever since then, large groups have made me faint of breath. I cannot bear to have so many eyes looking at me without remembering that time. In fact, I’m grateful for you all taking shorthand. It’s far better than having you stare at me en masse.” She said it with a deprecating smile, but her fingers were still tightly clenched around Robert’s.

  Pens scribbled away at that. They wouldn’t detect what Robert could see so clearly—the pallor of her cheeks, the light pink of lips that were usually rose.

  “Even now,” Minnie said, “all these years after, thinking about it makes my hands tremble.” She disentangled her hand from Robert’s and held it up in proof. “If there were ten more of you, I am not sure I could do this. And if you were shouting, I might actually pass out.” She gave them another smile. “That is what happened in the courtroom today.”

  “How will you attend balls, parties—the sort of gatherings where duchesses are obligated to make appearances?”

  “I am sure,” Minnie said, “that I will receive many kind invitations from my peers for precisely those events.”

  They’d discussed that exact question, going over it again and again, until each word was perfect.

  “I am also sure,” she said, “that everyone will understand that when I refuse those invitations, no malice is intended. Over the course of the next few years, however, my husband and I will be hosting a series of smaller events. I will be overseeing a number of my husband’s charitable concerns, and I feel confident that I will come to know many of my peers that way.”

  “And you’re not afraid that you’ll be shunned for your prior history?”

  “I’m sure there are some who will not wish to know me. But my situation no doubt means that my circle of acquaintances will be, by necessity, exclusive. If any woman wishes to withdraw herself from contention for a place there, she is more than welcome to do so.” She smiled at the gathered men.

  As she spoke, they transcribed her words in shorthand. They would appear verbatim in half the papers around the nation. But while they all wrote, a few men lifted their heads to look at her.

  She looked undoubtedly feminine; she’d shown them a weakness and put them at ease. But the gray-haired reporter on the side—Parret, Robert thought he was—was giving Minnie an interested look. He’d been covering London gossip and politics for longer than either of them had been alive, and he was perhaps recognizing what Robert already knew. The Duchess of Clermont had just issued a challenge to the ladies of London. She wasn’t going to beg for their company or grovel for their good opinion. Her friendship was a singular, original honor, and she would bestow it with care.

  Parret raised his hand. “Your Grace,” he said, “was your talent for chess a…childhood fluke? A fraud?”

  A little smile played across her face, this time genuine. “No,” she said simply. “It wasn’t.”

  He raised an eyebrow and contemplated her. “You said you were nervous. You don’t look nervous.”

  “When I used to feel anxious, I would once tell myself that I felt nothing. It helped, a little, until I could get away by myself.” Her hand folded around Robert’s. “Now I know I’m not alone. And that helps even more.”

  Not alone.

  It wasn’t just her hand in his, their bodies side by side on the divan. It was a sense that they were facing not just this trial together, but a life. It wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t even always be fun. But even at the worst times, it would be better for her by his side.

  Not alone. It filled him, that certainty. To their side, Oliver was smiling faintly. Minnie set her other hand atop Robert’s, and for a second, he looked into her eyes. When this was finished—when they’d sent these men running to tell the world that the Duke and Duchess of Clermont were a force to be reckoned with—he’d show her how not-alone she was.

  He’d leave the necklace on, he decided. Everything else…

  “Your Grace,” someone asked, interrupting his reverie, “if we could talk about those handbills? What was your intention with them?”

  “Ah, yes,” Robert said. “It’s quite simple. I’m a duke. As such, I consider myself responsible for not just my own welfare, but that of the entire country.” He smiled, met his brother’s eyes, and leaned forward. “If we silence those who wish to speak, how can I do my job? Captain Stevens’s arrest was just the beginning.”

  Now Minnie’s hands tightened around his.

  “I don’t know how much I’ll achieve in my lifetime,” he said, “but this is just the beginning.”

  Epilogue

  Four years later.

  It might have looked like any other day to anyone else, but Robert knew better. The tension in the air was thick; a gentleman beside him clenched his fist and leaned forward. Beside him, Oliver and his father sat, looking on. Lydia and her husband were perched on chairs across the room. Lydia knew little of chess, but still she watched with her hand on her mouth. Three others made those present eight, not counting the two people in the middle of the room.

  But eight was no longer enough to make Minnie nervous. Indeed, she looked to have forgotten everything. She sat at the small table that had been set up in the middle of the room, and she appeared to be the only one in the room who felt no nerves at all.

  She had taken London by storm—which was to say, as with any good storm, some people stayed indoors when they saw her coming. But by and large, the people who mattered hadn’t shunned her. There had been more curiosity regarding the Duchess of Clermont than there had been ill feelings. She’d given salons—exclusive salons, limited in number—and people had come. Important people.

  Gradually, she’d relaxed into the role. She still wouldn’t go to large parties; she still tried to avoid people watching her on the streets. But in settings like this… In settings like this, everyone could see her for who she really was. She was dressed in a gorgeous blue silk gown, and she didn’t seem to be put out at all, even though the man across from her had begun to sweat.

  Finally, he picked up his piece. He held it in his hand and then set it down. Gustav Hernst, who had ended up as the winner of the first International Chess Tournament in London some fifteen years earlier, played his piece.

  Minnie studied the board casually. She picked up a piece after a moment’s contemplation and then, with everyone watching, gave it a kiss.

  Hernst shook his head and toppled his king on the board. He slumped in his chair. “You are still very good,” he said. “Too good. You should have won the last time we played.” His German accent was barely noticeable. “But I could not resist.”

  Minnie stood and held out her hand. “A good game,” she said.

  “An excellent game. I am glad your husband invited me. What happened all those years ago…it should never have taken place. The game should not have been stopped, most particularly not when you were about to win. It always rankled. It is my pl
easure to make things right.”

  At that, Minnie looked over at Robert. After all these years, the warmth he felt when looking into her eyes hadn’t faded. It had grown deeper still, familiarity lending him a knowledge of her moods. She smiled at him and held out her hand.

  “Come,” she said. “There’s a little refreshment laid out in the main hall.”

  But when everyone left the room, they let Oliver serve as guide. Minnie and Robert lingered behind, and once everyone had disappeared down the corridor, they opened the door across the way.

  The Dowager Duchess of Clermont had refused to watch what she termed the spectacle, claiming that it was improper and foolish. But Robert had suspected an ulterior motive on her part.

  And indeed, young Evan, scarcely three years old, sat on her knee, staring at the primer. “Goose!” he proclaimed happily.

  “What else is G for?”

  “Grandmama,” Evan said.

  The woman snorted. “Flatterer. Choose another word, if you please.”

  Evan frowned. “Gray,” he finally said. “You have gray hair. Did you know that?”

  “Now that is calumny of the worst sort,” his mother said calmly. But her arms curled around her grandson, and she leaned in, breathing in his scent.

  “Mama,” Robert said, “refreshments are being served in the main salon.”

  She looked up. “Oh,” she said with a small frown. “I’m…busy.” Her head bent again, and a small smile touched her lips. “I’m very busy.”

  Thank you!

  Thanks for reading The Duchess War. I hope you enjoyed it!

  Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at www.courtneymilan.com, follow me on twitter at @courtneymilan, or like my Facebook page at https://facebook.com/courtneymilanauthor.

  Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative.

  You’ve just read the first full-length book in the Brothers Sinister series. The books in the series are The Governess Affair, a prequel novella about Oliver’s parents, The Duchess War, A Kiss for Midwinter, The Heiress Effect, The Countess Conspiracy (out late 2013), and The Mistress Rebellion (out sometime in 2014). I hope you enjoy them all!

  If you’d like to read an excerpt from The Heiress Effect, Oliver Marshall’s story, and A Kiss for Midwinter, Lydia Charingford’s story, please turn the page.

  The Brothers Sinister: Excerpts

  Excerpt from The Heiress Effect:

  Miss Jane Fairfield can’t do anything right. When she’s in company, she always says the wrong thing--and rather too much of it. No matter how costly they are, her gowns fall on the unfortunate side of fashion. Even her immense dowry can’t save her from being an object of derision.

  And that’s precisely what she wants. She’ll do anything, even risk humiliation, if it means she can stay unmarried and keep her sister safe.

  Mr. Oliver Marshall has to do everything right. He’s the bastard son of a duke, raised in humble circumstances—and he intends to give voice and power to the common people. If he makes one false step, he’ll never get the chance to accomplish anything. He doesn’t need to come to the rescue of the wrong woman. He certainly doesn’t need to fall in love with her. But there’s something about the lovely, courageous Jane that he can’t resist…even though it could mean the ruin of them both.

  Cambridgeshire, England, January 1867

  Most of the numbers that Miss Jane Victoria Fairfield had encountered in her life had proven harmless. For instance, the seamstress fitting her gown had poked her seven times while placing forty-three straight pins—but the pain had vanished quickly enough. The twelve holes in Jane’s corset were an evil, true, but a necessary one; without them, she would never have reduced her waist from its unfashionable thirty-seven inch span down to the still unfashionable girth of thirty-one inches.

  Two was not a terrible numeral, even when it described the number of Johnson sisters that stood behind her, watching the seamstress pin the gown against her less-than-fashionable form.

  Not even when said sisters had tittered no fewer than six times in the past half hour. These numbers were annoyances—mere flies that could be waved away with one gilt-covered fan.

  No, all Jane’s problems could be blamed on two numbers. One hundred thousand was the first one, and it was absolute poison.

  Jane took as deep a breath as she could manage in her corset and inclined her head to Miss Geraldine and Miss Genevieve Johnson. The two young ladies could do no wrong in the eyes of society. They wore almost identical day gowns—one of pale blue muslin, the other of pale green. They wielded identical fans, both covered with painted scenes of bucolic idleness. They were both beautiful in the most clichéd, china-doll fashion: Wedgwood-blue eyes and pale blond hair that curled in fat, shining ringlets. Their waists came in well under twenty inches. The only way to distinguish between the sisters was that Geraldine Johnson had a perfectly placed, perfectly natural beauty mark on her right cheek, while Genevieve had an equally perfect mark on her left.

  They had been kind to Jane the first few weeks they’d known her.

  She suspected they were actually pleasant when they were not pushed to their extreme limits. Jane, as it turned out, had a talent for pushing even very nice girls into unkindness.

  The seamstress placed one last pin. “There,” the woman said. “Now take a look in the mirror and tell me if you want me to change anything out—move some of the lace, mayhap, or use less of it.”

  Poor Mrs. Sandeston. She said those words the way a man scheduled to be hanged this afternoon might talk about the weather on the morrow—wistfully, as if the thought of less lace were a luxury, something that would be experienced only by an extraordinary and unlikely act of executive clemency.

  Jane sashayed forward and took in the effect of her new gown. She didn’t even have to pretend to smile—the expression spread across her face like melted butter on warm bread. God, the gown was hideous. So utterly hideous. Never before had so much money been put in the service of so little taste. She batted her eyes at the mirror in glee; her reflection flirted back with her: dark-haired, dark-eyed, coquettish and mysterious.

  “What do you ladies think?” she asked, turning about. “Ought I have more lace?”

  At her feet, the beleaguered Mrs. Sandeston let out a whimper.

  As well she should. The gown already overflowed with three different kinds of lace. Thick waves of blue point de gaze had been wrapped, yard after obnoxiously expensive yard, around the skirt. A filmy piece of duchesse lace from Belgium marked her décolletage, and a black Chantilly in a clashing flowered pattern made dark slashes down the sleeves of her gown. The fabric was a lovely patterned silk. Not that anyone would be able to see it under its burden of lace frosting.

  This gown was an abomination of lace, and Jane loved it.

  A real friend, Jane supposed, would have told her to get rid of the lace, all of it.

  Genevieve nodded. “More lace. I definitely think it needs more lace. A fourth kind, perhaps?”

  Good God. Where she was to put more lace, she didn’t know.

  “A cunning belt, worked of lace?” Geraldine offered.

  It was a curious sort of friendship, the one she shared with the Johnson twins. They were known for their unerring taste; consequently, they never failed to steer Jane wrong. But they did it so nicely, it was almost a pleasure to be laughed at by them.

  As Jane wanted to be steered astray, she welcomed their efforts.

  They lied to her; she lied to them. Since Jane wanted to be an object of ridicule, it worked out delightfully for all concerned.

  Sometimes, Jane wondered what it would be like if they were ever honest with each other. If maybe the Johnsons might have become real friends instead of lovely, polite enemies.

  Geraldine eyed Jane’s gown and gave a decisive nod. “I absolutely support the notion of a lace belt. It would give this gown that certain air of
indefinable dignity that it currently lacks.”

  Mrs. Sandeston made a strangled sound.

  It was only sometimes that Jane wondered if they could have been friends. Usually, she remembered the reasons she couldn’t have real friends. All one hundred thousand of them.

  So she simply nodded at the Johnsons’ horrific suggestions. “What think you two of that clever strip of Maltese that we saw earlier—the gold one, the one with the rosettes?”

  “Absolutely,” Geraldine said, nodding her head. “The Maltese.”

  The sisters cast each other looks above their fans—an exchange of sly smiles saying, clear as day: Let’s see what we can get the Feather Heiress to do today.

  “Miss Fairfield.” Mrs. Sandeston put her hands together in an unthinking imitation of prayer. “I beg you. Keep in mind that one can achieve a far superior effect by employing fewer furbelows. A lovely piece of lace, now, that’s the centerpiece of a beautiful gown, dazzling in its simplicity. Too much, and…” She trailed off with a suggestive twirl of her finger.

  “Too little,” Genevieve said calmly, “and nobody will know what you have to offer. Geraldine and I—well, we have only a mere ten thousand apiece, so our gowns must reflect that.”

  Geraldine gripped her fan. “Alas,” she intoned.

  “But you—Miss Fairfield, you have a dowry of one hundred thousand pounds. You have to make sure that people know it. Nothing says wealth like lace.”

  “And nothing says lace like…more lace,” Geraldine added.

  They exchanged another set of looks.

  Jane smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what I would do without the two of you. You’ve been so good to me, tutoring me in all things. I have no notion of what’s fashionable, nor of what message my clothing sends. Without you to guide me, who knows how I might blunder?”

  Mrs. Sandeston made a choking noise in her throat, but said nothing more.

  One hundred thousand pounds. One of the reasons Jane was here, watching these lovely, perfect women exchange wicked smiles that they didn’t think Jane could understand. They leaned toward one another and whispered—mouths hidden demurely behind fans—and then, glancing her way, let out a collective giggle. They thought her a complete buffoon, devoid of taste and sense and reason.

  It didn’t hurt, not one bit.

  It didn’t hurt to know that they called her friend to her face and sought to expose her foolishness to everyone they saw. It didn’t hurt that they egged her on to more—more lace, more jewels, more beads—simply so they might fuel their amusement. It didn’t hurt that the entire population of Cambridge laughed at her.

  It couldn’t hurt. After all, Jane had chosen this for herself.

  She smiled at them as if their giggles were the sincerest token of friendship. “The Maltese it is.”

  One hundred thousand pounds. There were more crushing burdens than the weight of one hundred thousand pounds.

  “You’ll want to be wearing that gown Wednesday next,” Geraldine suggested. “You’ve been invited to the Marquess of Bradenton’s dinner party, have you not? We insisted.” Those fans worked their way up and down, up and down.

  Jane smiled. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it, not for the world.”

  “There will be a new fellow there. A duke’s son. Born on the other side of the blanket, unfortunately—but acknowledged nonetheless. Almost as good as the real thing.”

  Damn. Jane hated meeting new men, and a duke’s bastard sounded like the most dangerous kind of all. He would have a high opinion of himself and a low opinion of his pocketbook. It was precisely that sort of man who would see Jane’s one hundred thousand pounds and decide that he might be able to overlook the lace dripping off her. That kind of man would overlook a great many defects if it would put her dowry in his bank account.

  “Oh?” she said noncommittally.

  “Mr. Oliver Marshall,” Genevieve said. “I saw him on the street. He doesn’t—”

  Her sister gave her a gentle nudge, and Genevieve cleared her throat.

  “I mean, he looks quite elegant. His spectacles are very distinguished. And his hair is quite…bright and…coppery.”

  Jane could just imagine this specimen of thwarted dukehood in her mind’s eye. He would be paunchy. He would wear ridiculous waistcoats, and he’d have a fob watch that he checked incessantly. He’d be proud of his prerogatives and bitter of a world that had led him to be born outside of wedlock.

  “He would be utterly perfect for you, Jane,” Geraldine said. “Of course, with our lesser dowries, he would find us quite…uninteresting.”

  Jane made herself smile. “I don’t know what I would do without you two,” she said, quite sincerely. “If I didn’t have you to look out for me, why, I might…”

  If she didn’t have them trying to set her up as a laughingstock, she might one day—despite her best efforts—manage to impress a man. And that would be a disaster.

  “I feel that you two are like my sisters, given the care you take for me,” she said. Maybe like stepsisters in a blood-curdling fairy tale.

  “We feel the same,” Geraldine smiled at her. “As if you were our sister.”

  There were almost as many smiles in that room as there was lace on her gown. Jane offered up a silent apology for her lie.

  These women were nothing like her sister. To say as much was to insult the name of sisterhood, and if anything was sacred to Jane, it was that. She had a sister—a sister she would do anything for. For Emily, she would lie, cheat, buy a dress with four different kinds of lace…

  One hundred thousand pounds was not much of a burden to carry. But if a young lady wanted to remain unmarried—if she needed to stay with her sister until said sister was of age and could leave their guardian’s home—that same number became an impossibility.

  Almost as impossible as four hundred and eighty—the number of days that Jane had to stay unmarried.

  Four hundred and eighty days until her sister attained her majority. In four hundred and eighty days, her sister could leave their guardian, and Jane—Jane who was allowed to stay in the household on the condition that she marry the first eligible man who offered—would be able to dispense with all this pretending. She and Emily would finally be free.

  Jane would smile, wear ells of lace, and call Napoleon Bonaparte himself her sister if it would keep Emily safe.

  Instead, all she had to do for the next four hundred and eighty days was to look for a husband—to look assiduously, and not marry.

  Four hundred and eighty days in which she dared not marry, and one hundred thousand pounds to the man who would marry her.

  Those two numbers described the dimensions of her prison.

  And so Jane smiled at Geraldine once again, grateful for her advice, grateful to be steered wrong once again. She smiled, and she even meant it.

  Want to read the rest? The Heiress Effect is out now.

  Excerpt from A Kiss for Midwinter:

  Doctor Jonas Grantham doesn’t believe in optimism, good cheer, or holiday spirits. But he does believe in love—and it’s just his luck that the woman he adores, the vibrantly beautiful Miss Lydia Charingford, wants nothing to do with him. This winter, though, he’s vowed to let her know how he feels. Even though he suspects it means that she’ll never speak to him again…

  As she spoke, Lydia gathered up her things and placed them carefully in her satchel, securing the container of ink in a side-pocket so that it wouldn’t be jostled about. She was aware that she was humming as she did so—a rendition of Good King Wenceslas.

  Christmas was almost on them, and she couldn’t have been happier. The air smelled of cinnamon and ginger. Pine boughs decorated lintels, even here at the Nag’s Head. It was a time for wassail and cheer and—

  “Happen we all miss your Miss Pursling—that is, the Duchess of Clermont,” Crawford said softly. “Yes, my Willa would love your company.”

  The smile froze on Lydia’s face.

  Wassail, chee
r, and the slight, selfish emptiness she experienced when she remembered that her best friend was no longer a mere hour’s journey away, but a hundred miles distant.

  But she forced her lips into a wider grin. “La, silly,” she said. “I’ll see her again next autumn, just as soon as Parliament lets out. How could I miss her?” If she smiled wide enough, it might fill that space in her heart. She pulled on her gloves. “Happy Christmas, Marybeth.”

  Lydia had her own idea for a Christmas for Marybeth Peters—something far better than a basket. She only needed her father to agree.

  The group scattered in a shower of holiday greetings. Lydia waited until they were all gone, waving cheerfully, wishing everyone the best for the holidays.

  Almost everyone. Her cheeks ached from smiling, but she would not look to her left. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “Well,” a dark voice said to her side as the door closed on Marybeth, “you are chock-full of holiday spirit, Miss Charingford.”

  Lydia looked pointedly in front of her at the ivy-and-pine centerpiece on the table. “Why, yes,” she said. “I suppose I am. Happy Christmas, Doctor Grantham.”

  He didn’t thank her for the sentiment. He surely didn’t return a polite greeting of his own. Instead, Doctor Grantham laughed softly and her spine prickled.

  Lydia turned to him. He was tall—so very much taller than her that she had to tilt her neck at an unnatural angle to stare him down. His eyes sparkled with a dark intensity, and his mouth curled up at one corner, as if he nursed his own private amusement. He was handsome in a brooding sort of way, with those eyes, that strong, jagged nose. All the other girls giggled when he looked their way. But Grantham made Lydia remember things she didn’t like to think about.

  He particularly made her remember them now. He looked at her down his nose and gave her a faint, mocking smile, as if she’d made a terrible error by offering him holiday greetings.

  Lydia straightened. “Happy Christmas,” she repeated, her voice tight. “You’re allowed to say it back even if you don’t really wish the other person happy. It’s a polite nothing. I won’t imagine you mean anything by it—just as you know that I don’t truly care whether you’re happy.”

  “I didn’t think you were wishing me happy,” Grantham responded. “I thought you were simply describing events as you saw them. Tell me, Miss Charingford, is it really a happy Christmas for you?”

  Lydia flushed. Christmas memories were not always fond. In fact, Christmas brought to mind the worst moments in her life. Leaving home with her mother and her best friend six years earlier. A dingy house let in Cornwall, and that awful, awful night when the cramps had come…

  “Yes,” she said forcefully. “Yes, it is. Christmas is a time for happiness.”

  He laughed again softly—mockingly, she thought, as if he knew not only the secret that she kept from all of Leicester, but the one she held hidden in her heart. He laughed as if he’d been there on that dreadful night that had seemed the absolute opposite of Christmas—an evening when a girl who was very much not a virgin had miscarried. There’d been blood and tears rather than heavenly choirs.

  “You,” he said to her, “you of all people…you should relent from this incessant well-wishing.” He shrugged. “You do know that it doesn’t make any difference, whether you wish me well or I wish you happy.”

  Lydia’s eyebrows rose. “Me, of all people?” He’d so closely echoed her thoughts. Sometimes, it seemed as if he knew precisely what she was thinking—and when he spoke, it was designed to make her feel badly. Lydia bared her teeth at him in a smile. “What do you mean by that? Have I less of a right to good cheer than the average person?”

  “Less of a right? No. Less of a reason, however…”

  “I couldn’t know what you intend by such veiled assertions.”

  His eyes met hers, and he raised one sardonic eyebrow. “Then let me unveil them. I am, of course, referring to the man who got you with child while you were one yourself.”

  She gasped.

  “I am always astonished, Miss Charingford, when you manage to have a happy word for any member of my sex. That you do—and do it often—never ceases to amaze me.”

  The room was empty but for them, and he stood two feet from her. He’d spoken so quietly there wasn’t the least danger of their being overheard. It didn’t matter. Lydia balled her hands into fists. The smile she’d scarcely been able to form moments before was forgotten entirely.

  “How dare you!” she hissed. “A gentleman would do his best to forget that he knew such a thing.”

  He didn’t seem concerned at all with her assertion. “But you see, Miss Charingford, I must be a doctor before I allow myself to be a gentleman. I do not recall such a thing in order to hold you up for moral condemnation. I state it as a simple medical fact, one that would be relevant to further treatment. Certain female complaints, for instance—”

  Lydia bristled. “Put it out of your mind. You will never treat me as a patient. Ever.”

  Doctor Grantham did not look put out by this. Instead, he shook his head at her slowly, and gave her a smile that felt…wicked. “So be it. When you’re trampled by a runaway stallion, I shall be sure to express my wholehearted regrets to your parents. ‘No, no,’ I will say. ‘I couldn’t possibly stop your daughter from bleeding to death on the pavement—my professional ethics forbid me to treat anyone who has unequivocally refused me consent.’”

  He was laughing at her again. Well, technically, he wasn’t actually laughing. But he was looking at her as if he wanted to, as if he couldn’t wait for her to scramble and reverse her prior edict. Lydia gave him a firm nod instead. “Good. I would rather bleed to death than have your hands on me.” She tucked her gloves under her arm, and reached for her shawl.

  He was still smiling at her. “I’ll pay my respects at your funeral.”

  “I don’t want you there. If you dare come, I’ll haunt you in your sleep.”

  But that only sparked a wicked gleam in his eye. He took a step closer, forcing her to tilt her head up all at an unnatural angle. He leaned over her, bending his neck. And then he whispered.

  “Why, Miss Charingford.” That smile of his tilted, stretching. “There’s no need to wait until you’re dead to visit my bed. In fact, I’m available right now, so long as we finish before—”

  She didn’t think. She pulled back her arm and slapped him as hard as she could—slapped him so hard that she could feel the blow reverberating all the way back to her shoulder.

  He rubbed his cheek and straightened. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said, somewhat ruefully. “Your pardon, Miss Charingford. I was in the wrong. I should never have spoken of that way.” He looked down. “In my defense—and I know this is a weak defense—we were talking about death, and that always brings out the worst of my humor. Which, as you have no doubt discovered, is abominable to begin with. I pray that I do not one day watch you bleed to death on the streets.” His voice was solemn, and for once, that twinkle vanished from his eyes. “I hope it is not you. But it will be someone, and the only thing I can do about it is laugh.”

  For a moment, she almost felt a tug of sympathy. To deal with death every day, to have only humor to keep the specter of darkness at arm’s length… But then she remembered everything he had said to her—those pointed reminders that she was a fallen woman. She remembered his all-too-knowing eyes, following her across the room whenever she encountered him. She might have been able to forget her mistake for months on end were it not for him.

  She wound her scarf around her neck. “Now you’ve made me regret striking you.”

  “Truly?” That eyebrow raised again.

  He stood close, so close that when she picked up her coat, he was able to intervene and hold it out for her. Nice of him to act the gentleman now, now when it meant that she sensed the warmth of his hands against hers, his bare fingers brushing her wrist. His touch should have been cold, like his depraved, shriveled heart. Instead, a j
olt of heat traveled through her.

  “Truly.” She set her hat on her head and adjusted the cuffs of her coat to cover her gloves. “You see, I interrupted you before you told me how long you were giving yourself to finish the deed. I’d not have given you above thirty seconds, myself.”

  His crack of laughter followed her out the door. She could hear it echoing in her mind—laughter that sounded jolly and fun, without a hint of meanness to it, the kind of laughter she would expect to hear next to the sprightly ring of Christmas bells. It wasn’t fair that Doctor Jonas Grantham of all people could laugh like that. Still, she heard it playing in her mind—saw him, his head thrown back, delighted—until the wind-swept streets swallowed up the sound of his merriment.

  Want to read the rest? A Kiss for Midwinter is out now.

  Other Books by Courtney

 

  The Brothers Sinister Series

  The Governess Affair

  The Duchess War

  A Kiss for Midwinter

  The Heiress Effect

  The Countess Conspiracy — December 2013

  The Mistress Rebellion — 2014

  Not in any series

  What Happened at Midnight

  The Lady Always Wins

  The Turner Series

  Unveiled

  Unlocked

  Unclaimed

  Unraveled

  The Carhart Series

  This Wicked Gift

  Proof by Seduction

  Trial by Desire

  Author’s Note

  I give all my books code names, which I usually reveal on my website. This one was called “Chess Champion,” and as the name was a spoiler, I didn’t want to include it there. But now you know.

  Every piece of historical fiction alters history in at least some tiny regard. For this book, I had to shift history in several instances, and I wanted to acknowledge those areas upfront.

  First, and most obviously, the first international chess tournament—which did take place in London in 1851—was won by Adolf Anderssen rather than Gustav Hernst, and there were no shenanigans involved in the running of the tournament, nor were there twelve-year-old children of any gender involved.

  The description about what happened to Minnie when people discovered she was a girl—and her father betrayed her—was taken from a newspaper clipping that I read years ago. It described a man who was discovered to be a woman. A crowd formed, and the woman was beaten up. Gender roles were very strictly policed back then.

  My largest departure, and one that would change the world that followed, is the scientific discoveries that Sebastian lectures about here. I wanted Sebastian to be an infamous scientist and a follower of Darwin, but I also wanted him to be able to put forth discoveries of his own that were just as revolutionary. Those who follow the history of science know that in our world the science of genetics was first discovered by Gregor Mendel, in a paper that was presented in 1866, which went absolutely nowhere. Nobody made the connection between Mendel’s discovery and the theory of evolution, even though what Mendel set forth was essentially a theory for the transfer of genes from one generation to the next. It wasn’t until early in the twentieth century that Mendel’s work was rediscovered and given its due.

  In my world, I have claimed Mendel’s work for Sebastian. These are discoveries he could have made at the time. But the discovery of genetics by someone who had direct contact with Charles Darwin would radically change the pace of scientific advancement. In that sense, the world I have written would have to necessarily diverge from the world we live in after the time of these books.

  (Actually, Sebastian’s work started with the color of snapdragons, which, unlike Mendel’s peas, are not incompletely dominant to each other.)

  In a fourth departure, the Leicester of 1863 really didn’t need a duke to write handbills and radicalize the populace. It was fairly radical on its own. For instance, by 1863, workers in Leicester had started a food cooperative. Today, the idea of a food co-op seems more commonplace. At the time, it was a huge stride forward. Workers were paid by factory owners, who also owned most of the shops nearby.

  A food cooperative—one where workers pooled their money and used it to bring in fruits and vegetables at reasonable prices—was in fact a huge advance in factory towns. It allowed workers to pay less and get more, and Leicester’s food cooperative was one of the first—and one of the most successful—to be put in place. Stevens refers to it as a “radical” item, and in point of fact, it would have seemed so to some factory owners. Anything that reduced the dependence that workers had on their masters was “radical.”

  Another subject of civil unrest was the question of vaccination. Vaccinations first became mandatory in England in 1853, and many people absolutely hated it. It was the subject of a great deal of civil disobedience. The reasons given at that time were very different from those that are given by those who dislike vaccines today. (For one thing, vaccinating people before the germ theory of disease was understood led to all sorts of complications that we don’t face today. Think of the diseases that are spread today by reusing needles.) and the inclusion of that tiny part of the historical debate is meant only to represent the times, not to say anything about the modern issue.

  Whether a duke in 1863 might, in fact, work for the abolition of the peerage is not something I can know. In any event, I don’t know if Robert would have been happy with the pace of improvement in England. Today, British peers are no longer tried by the House of Lords; they no longer have veto power over bills passed by the House of Commons. And hey, it only took a small handful of centuries to get to that point.

  Oliver asks for “carbon oil” when he is imprisoned. Referring to the substance he wanted as “carbon oil” is a little bit of a stretch on my part. In the United States, we’d call it “kerosene.” In the UK, it’s referred to as “paraffin.” Using the latter term proved confusing for early readers who associated paraffin with the waxy stuff that’s used in manicures these days. In the early 1860s, paraffin/kerosene/carbon oil was new enough that usage hadn’t been nailed down. “Carbon oil” was used to describe the substance. In this instance, I decided to take a little liberty and go with a name that it could have been called by at that time, one that wouldn’t confuse anyone.

  Acknowledgments

  I never know where to start with acknowledgments, because there are so many people who must be acknowledged. At best, I hope to remember people in large groups, crossing my fingers that I don’t forget anyone important. Invariably, I forget almost everyone. First and foremost, my family—my parents and my many sisters and few brothers—I’m always grateful for you, for understanding things that don’t make sense to anyone else. Mr. Milan, for preferring cantankerousness generally. And I’m especially grateful for Pele and Silver, which makes no sense at all because they do nothing but demand attention and toss mice around.

  This book wasn’t easy to write or edit. Tessa, Carey, and Leigh, I don’t know what I would do without you. Peeners—ditto. Sherry and Tessa once again helped me write back cover copy, because seriously, I suck at that. Robin Harders always pushes me to think about things I’d rather not think about; Martha Trachtenberg catches all the many ways I spell people’s names, because seriously, I suck at that, too. Nick Ambrose is fast and reliable, and without Anne Victory, I’d be saying “Oops!” a lot more.

  But mostly, I want to thank my readers. Every difficult book reaches a point where I want to kick it and scream and run around in circles. If I didn’t know that you were waiting for this, I might have huddled in a little shivering ball on my bed instead of taking a deep breath and going back to writing. You make it worth it for me, and I hope I returned the favor.

 
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