The Artisan and the Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abigail Agar

  The Artisan and the Duke

  A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL

  ABIGAIL AGAR

  Copyright © 2018 by Abigail Agar

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.

  Website: Abigail Agar

  Table of Contents

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  The Artisan and the Duke

  Introduction

  Gregory St. Claire, the Duke of Thornton, never cared much for society and flew in the face of tradition whenever he could, but from the moment he met the strange artisan shouting out a rallying call in the streets of London, Gregory’s curiosity is peaked.

  When he discovers that what the thought was a young man is really a beautiful young woman, Gregory is intrigued. Together they stumble into a mystery surrounding a fire that should never have happened, and get pulled into the darker corners of society.

  Jules Kelley’s opinion of high society is pretty low. So, when a noble playing commoner stumbles upon her and her secret she is all but certain that things could not get worse, until there is a fire and a raid on the Mason Guild. Gregory may have saved her from the guards, but is he just saving her from one evil only to pull her into another?

  Chapter 1

  The year my brother came home was a year of great unrest and turmoil. We had won a great victory at war but were losing ground back home. My brother left a bright, shining example of bravery and returned a shaken shell filled with fear. His confidence had been left on some bloodied battlefield, and all that he brought home were nightmares.

  London, June 1819

  Gregory St Claire, Duke of Thornton, pulled on a plain, if rather worn, white shirt and breeches like the commoners wore. He sidestepped around corners and evaded the servants who might tell his mother of his appearance or anything else. Gregory liked to be alone most of these days. Wandering the streets of London gave him great solace that he was not as ignorant to the plight of the common man as his fellows and peers.

  The streets off the main roads were tight and curling affairs. The roads wound around brick buildings where sheets were hung out windows and overhead. The sun was almost completely blocked at points by laundry hanging between the buildings.

  Gregory stepped around a suspicious puddle. It had not rained that day, and Gregory had no intention of finding out what the origins of the puddle actually were. Ahead, he heard voices, and he quickened his pace.

  A young man, slender of frame, stood up on top of a wooden crate. He looked at the gathering of men and women. “Too long have we suffered injustices at the hands of the mighty. The Lords and Ladies dance while our children starve,” the man shouted, and there were nods of agreement. A quiet mumble of discourse among those gathered around sounded as they found they felt similarly.

  The spokesman said fervently, “I’m not calling for violence. I’m calling for change. We as artisans have to stand up for our livelihoods. If we do not, then no one will. The tons label us as libel, they plaster names of distaste on our children’s heads, and we have let them do it.”

  A man in the crowd shouted, “How can we stop them? If we gather in public, they arrest us. If they choose not to pay us for hard work done, we have no recourse.”

  “Where a footing is not equal, someone is bound to fall,” the spokesman said in agreement with the man who had spoken out. “I am just suggesting that it be they who fall and not us.”

  There were shouts of approval from the crowd, and Gregory felt a vague sense of uneasiness. He could not disagree with any point the crowd or spokesman had made. Perhaps, that made him most uneasy of all.

  As the crowd started to disperse, Gregory sought out the spokesman. He was very interested in meeting this young man who held such lofty ideas of reform. “Excuse me, Sir,” Gregory said with deference to the man as he caught up with him.

  As the man turned, Gregory took stock of the dark, quick eyes that sized him up as swiftly as the hunter spotting game. “I was wondering if I could have a word,” Gregory said with a polite smile.

  “You seem to already be having a word,” the young man said coldly. “I’ve got things to do, Mister.”

  Gregory reached out and grabbed the boy’s arm as he turned to leave. “Please, just a moment of your time.”

  “I haven’t seen you before,” the young man said suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  Gregory said simply, “My name is Gregory, and truthfully I haven’t been around much. I don’t come into London proper that often.”

  “Farmer or herder,” the young man said with a nod. “Funny, you don’t look like you’ve ever done a good day’s work with those hands.”

  Gregory could not protest that, but his hands were not that of a woman’s. “I’ve done my share of things,” Gregory said without elaborating. The young man’s hair was tucked under his derby cap.

  It was then that Gregory noticed the delicacy of the man’s cheekbones, and something about it made him uneasy. Something was not right about this boy, but Gregory could not put his finger on it.

  “Are you a Molly or something?” The young man asked the question as he stepped away from Gregory and the intent gaze the taller man was giving him.

  Gregory laughed, “Hardly. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I was just taken by your delicate features. You could pass for a girl.”

  “And you could almost pass for a man,” the young man fired back at Gregory. The young man turned on his heel and swiftly walked away but threw the words over his shoulder, “You might want to watch yourself. People around here are not too keen on strangers.”

  Thinking it wise to let the young man cool off, Gregory did not try to pursue him. He knew a thing or two about young male pride, and the remark of Gregory’s had evidently smarted. With a sigh, Gregory turned back towards the main street. He would be missed soon with the dance of Lady Mallory set for this evening.

  ***

  Jules had paused at the corner and watched the strange man walk off toward the busier, wider roads of the heart of London. What sort of herder would be coming from the centre of London? Jules mused on it as she turned towards her own home. The building where her mother and younger siblings lived was just around the corner and a quick jaunt up some steps.

  The building had been one that her father had helped build back when this block of the city was merely just a thought and a dream. She stepped inside their apartment where her mother sat sewing up some garment or other. “Hello, Mother,” Jules said as she swept the cap off her head. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders in waves.

  “Was that you I heard rousing the army out there?” her mother called as Jules walked into the kitchen to splash some water from the basin on her face.

  Jules laughed, “Might’ve been.”

  “You really should be careful, Julia,” her mother warned. “It’s bad enough that you insist on keeping this ridiculous pretense up, but with the guards arresti
ng people without regard, I worry so about you. I thought when your father died that you would put this all aside and look for a husband perhaps.”

  Jules walked back out of the kitchen and shook her head at her mother. “Father needed an apprentice, Mother. And after he died, we needed the money. I’m doing what Father trained me to do. What is the point of having a skill if it doesn’t benefit my family?”

  “You should have a family of your own by now,” her mother said.

  Jules dropped down into a rickety wooden chair near her mother. “And where is Georgette? And Tally? They are off working, aren’t they?” When her mother did not respond, Julia continued, “They are just little girls. Tally is barely six.”

  “You started working when you were younger than that,” her mother said, but Julia could see the worry in her eyes.

  Julia nodded and agreed, “Yes, I did. I held reins for riders out on the street while they did their errands. I even carried bundles across town for people.” She sighed. “I saw them an hour ago. They are still helping till the garden for that wealthy widower on Blackston Street.”

  There was a sigh of relief from the mother as she smiled. “I’m glad they’ve you to watch out for them, Jules.”

  Jules eyed her mother and the bags under the woman’s eyes. The skin on her fingers was bleeding again from her work, but her mother never complained. At fifteen, her mother had married Jules’ father. Her father, Ralph Kelley had a bright future, and they set out on their adventure into the rising middle class.

  Mrs Kelley eyed her daughter. “What are you thinking about?”

  “How you and Papa should have had a good life,” Jules said. “When he died, there were no male relatives to keep control of our property; I felt outraged. Because of a matter of birth, we lost all we had. That’s why when we moved here I kept the persona of father’s son alive, Mum. If I hadn’t, there’s no telling what would have happened.”

  Mrs Kelley nodded. “You are a brave and noble soul, Julia. I’m sorry. I meant Jules,” her mother said as she smiled over at her daughter.” Mrs Kelley looked back down at her work and then said, “It is a rather charming name, even for a girl.”

  “It has rather grown on me,” Jules admitted. “Besides, it is all Papa ever called me, and it reminds me of him. I miss him.”

  Mrs Kelley nodded sadly. “I do too. He was a good man.”

  “A man that none of us seem likely to forget soon. You could have remarried after all. It’s acceptable to avoid poverty,” Jules said thoughtfully.

  Mrs Kelley scoffed, “Isn’t a man alive could match your father.”

  “Maybe not,” Jules said softly. Her mind went back to the strange herder she had met today. “I met a stranger today.”

  Her mother looked over at her curiously. “What’s so odd about that?”

  “He claimed to be a herder, but his hands weren’t calloused. Then when he left, I saw him head toward the city’s centre.” Jules propped her elbows up on her knees. “Do you think he’s a guardsman?”

  Mrs Kelley shook her head. “I wouldn’t think they’d have the head for disguise and such.” Mrs Kelley frowned and added, “Might want to be careful, though. There have been rumours of raids and arrests. Could be someone looking for evidence of libel to stick all you masons in chains.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum. I’m always careful,” Jules promised. “Better get back to work. I’ll check on the girls when I get a chance.” Jules tucked her hair under her cap and gave her mother a wave goodbye.

  ***

  The music swirled through Mallory Hall like the smoke that drifted on the air from the cigars the men were gathered smoking. Lady Mallory preferred the smoke to be kept in the garden, but there always seemed to be a knot of men who had not yet suffered the wrath that the Lady of Mallory bestowed upon those who broke her rules.

  Gregory had learned a long time ago to steer clear of such behaviour in Mallory Hall, and he bypassed the men who gave him nods as he passed. As he turned to go towards the garden, a slender hand halted him with gentle pressure on his arm. Gregory turned towards the person already aware of who it would be.

  “Yolanda Greyson, my you have grown,” Gregory said as he turned to face the petite young woman. Her strawberry blonde hair had been curled and pinned so that Gregory thought it a wonder that she could hold her head up straight.

  “Your Grace, I’m honoured that you remember me,” the young woman said with breathy enthusiasm.

  Gregory started to suggest that she loosen her corset so she could speak properly but bit down on the remark. Instead, he smiled and said, “Who could forget such a lovely girl.” He made sure to emphasize the girl part. He had no interest in the child as a woman.

  Yolanda was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, sugar cane if Gregory remembered her father’s occupation correctly, but the man had been bestowed an honorary title which made his attendance to such affairs, unfortunately, a standard event. As if the man had been summoned by Gregory’s thoughts, Yolanda’s father appeared at her elbow.

  Sir Greyson grinned happily at Gregory. The short man’s pudgy fingers were practically dancing as if he was counting money. “Your Grace, I’m so happy that you’ve shown such interest in my daughter. She’s been very well educated, but not too haughtily.”

  Gregory fought the urge to shove the man and his daughter out of his way. The merchant was clearly intent on listing the benefits and charms of his daughter as if to tempt Gregory into purchasing the girl. It might have worked with his sugar cane import, but it did nothing to make the girl appear more interesting to Gregory.

  “Boris,” Gregory said cheerily as his cousin walked over. “You are just the man I wanted to see!”

  Boris raised a bushy eyebrow in suspicion. “I am?”

  “Yes, I need to speak to you on an urgent matter.” Gregory turned an apologetic smile towards the father and daughter duo he had been speaking with. “I know that a man of your stature understands that business can’t wait,” Gregory said to Sir Greyson. To Yolanda, Gregory gave a bow and offered, “I certainly hope you enjoy yourself.”

  Yolanda gave him a smile which she hid behind her gloved hand. Gregory grabbed Boris’ arm and led the man away forthright. Gregory only halted when they were hidden from sight by the columns. “Mercy on you, good Boris,” Gregory said with feeling.

  Boris chuckled. “Running from the matrimonial yoke again, Cousin?”

  “As fast as a mule who has had the whip one too many times,” Gregory agreed heartily. It was then that Gregory took in his cousin’s appearance. “Boris, you shaved.”

  Boris tapped his chin. “By the King’s name, someone has stolen my beard,” Boris said with dramatic flair.

  “You are still an awful actor,” Gregory said as he clapped his hand on Boris’ shoulder. “Tell me that you have not been enchanted by a foul potion.”

  Boris’ curly eyebrows furrowed until they almost touched his curly locks. “Your tongue always holds such clever mockery, but in all seriousness, I am courting a young lady.”

  “What young lady have you caged with your lion’s gaze?” Gregory leaned his elbow against the column as he watched his cousin intently.

  Drawing himself up, Boris said proudly, “I’m courting the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Dorchire.”

  “Is that the one with the freckles? Or the one with the prominent front teeth?” Gregory asked the question earnestly. He never could keep track of the Marquis’ daughters. The man had seven of them after all, and they looked exceptionally alike.

  Boris groaned, “She has freckles, Gregory. Honestly, you should think of your position more than you do. You carry on as if you are still a boy running through the gardens and stealing fruit.”

  “If only I were,” Gregory lamented.

  Boris was a good two inches taller than even Gregory who stood six feet tall, and he looked every bit of it and then some when the man drew himself up to his full height. Gregory patted his cousin on the shoulder again a
micably. Boris relented a bit in his stance. “You should think of heirs,” Boris said gently. “Or will you leave that to Fred?”

  Fredrick was Gregory’s younger brother. Gregory had been set to join the war, but when their father died, Gregory took over the title, and Fredrick took Gregory’s place on the battlefield. Gregory sighed, “Fred is still recovering. I think the fairer set is not on his mind at the moment.”

  “I had heard that he was injured,” Boris said sadly. “I do hope he is well enough to join us on an outing or at least for a visit soon. I would very much like to catch up with him. You will tell him that, will you not?”

  Gregory nodded. “Of course I will.”

  ***