by Sawyer North
“I have donned the corset. Now, what shall I do?”
Phillipe slipped through the curtain. “I must lace the corset…”
Lucy shrieked and shoved him back through the curtain with such force that he tumbled to his backside. She threw an arm across her chest and yanked the curtain closed.
“Sacre bleu!” Phillipe cursed. “She is a devil woman!”
“Do not come in here!” Lucy shouted.
The next voice she heard was Henry’s, and he performed an admirable job of suppressing his impatience. “Miss Locket, please. Phillipe means no offense. He wishes only to help you fulfill your plan.”
“But I am naked!”
Henry chuckled. “I hardly think so. Regardless, view him as a physician simply executing his duty.”
She paused to consider the advice. “Very well, then. He may enter, but he alone.”
As she turned her back to the curtain, Phillipe entered warily. She stared at the ceiling while he laced the corset but otherwise laid not a finger on her. When he finished, a yellow dress appeared at her peripheral vision.
“If you would, mademoiselle, don this dress. I will wait in safety beyond the curtain.”
When Phillipe exited, Lucy slipped the dress over her head and smoothed it against her figure. The fit proved superior to any dress she had worn in more than a decade. Inhaling a deep breath, she slipped aside the curtain and stepped from the alcove. Henry’s eyes went wide when he saw her. She frowned.
“What is wrong? Does the dress look so terrible?”
He exhaled a pent breath and slowly shook his head. “No. It looks perfectly well. I believe the dress will serve sufficiently for meeting the duchess.”
“Perfectly well?” Jacques blurted. “No! It is magnifique! I need only take it in a bit here.”
The Frenchman put his hand on Lucy’s waist to show the spot. Her palm laced his cheek before she realized what she was doing. The man fell back in surprised pain, holding his reddening cheek.
“Mademoiselle!”
Henry stepped near to her. “As a physician. Remember.”
She flushed with embarrassment. “My apologies, Mr. Archambeau. I am not accustomed to the hands of men upon my person. Please forgive me. You may resume.”
Jacques dipped his head in wincing acknowledgment. While he and Phillipe carefully took in the dress with rapid stitches, Lucy repeated silently, “Physicians. Physicians. Physicians.”
After a few minutes, Jacques disappeared, returned with a pair of combs, and pulled Lucy’s hair back into a loose chignon. Her legs ached from standing still for so long before the men completed the dual tasks of dress alteration and hairstyling. Phillipe then led her by the hand a few steps and turned her to face a long mirror.
“Mademoiselle, do you approve?”
She inhaled a startled breath, barely recognizing the woman in the glass. She rubbed a hand down her torso and touched her face with the other.
“Lovely, mademoiselle,” Phillipe commented.
Henry, who had seated himself earlier, rose from his chair. She turned for his assessment with an explosion of doubtful expectation. Despite the open enmity between them, she craved his favorable opinion. For the last decade, she had known only men of low birth or compromised morals who saw her as a mark, a conquest, or an inferior—men she could never trust with her heart. Henry was different. He was refined, principled, and remarkably handsome. And though he considered her a criminal, he appeared to see her as having value instead of something to be possessed or discarded. Against her wishes, she desired his regard. She blinked rapidly as Henry appraised her with wide eyes, before he glanced quickly away.
“That will do.”
He sounded unimpressed. Her confidence flagged, but she forced a rally. She offered the brothers a wide smile and curtsied awkwardly, nearly falling.
“Thank you, messieurs,” she said after recovering her balance. “I shall never forget your kindness.”
Both men bowed low and Phillipe responded with genuine warmth and respect. “It was our pleasure, mademoiselle. Please come again.”
She smiled, having forgotten what it felt like to be regarded as a lady.
…
In the heart of Mayfair at the house of the Duchess of Ramsbury on Grosvenor Street, Henry practically dragged Lucy from the hired hackney. He scrutinized her once again. Because Lucy’s dress was originally made for another, the fit was imperfect. However, he remained astonished by her transformation. Fine clothes, pinned hair, and a bit of rouge had swept aside the wild exterior to reveal a form undeniably feminine. Despite her coarse background, she possessed a dignity that lifted her, a strength that drove her, and a razor-sharp wit that rendered her perhaps the most intriguing woman he had ever met. The collective debutantes of the haute ton seemed abruptly bland by comparison. In his bewilderment, his eyes lingered too long on the swell of her hips and breasts before her protest refocused his attention.
“I believe I have changed my mind, Redbreast.” She looked up at the elegant and imposing three-story structure and frowned deeply.
Henry maintained an iron grip on her elbow and nudged her toward the entrance steps. “Too late now to flee. The die is cast.”
He deposited her at the bottom step and climbed to the door. An austere butler answered the knock, scanned Henry’s soiled uniform, and sniffed.
“May I help you?” The tone of the question begged a response of “no”, but Henry was not intimidated. He was more than equal to any guardian of the gate.
“Yes. Please inform the mistress that Mr. Henry Beaumont, son of the late Earl of Ravensheugh, wishes a brief conversation with Her Grace.”
“The mistress of the house is quite busy…”
Henry held a palm to the man and shot him a glare of icy nobility that stopped the butler’s words unfinished in his mouth. He would not allow anyone to dismiss him as his brother had. He blinked deliberately in a well-practiced show of genteel annoyance.
“Please inform the mistress that the conversation involves her missing granddaughter.”
The butler’s stone expression wavered and his eyes widened slightly. A whisper crossed his lips. “Lud.” Then he added, “Wait here, please.”
The door shut in Henry’s face. He glanced back to find Lucy pacing the walk below the steps, mumbling words he could not discern. He shook his head. If the duchess did not send her away within five minutes, he would be surprised. The door opened and the butler reappeared.
“Her Grace will see you.” His tone proved remarkably warmer than before. Henry descended the steps, pinched Lucy’s hand in the crook of his elbow, and dragged her toward the door.
“Let me do the talking,” he whispered. “Just try to be agreeable, and by all means do not look the duchess in the eyes. Understand?”
“Why? Is she Medusa? Will I turn to stone?”
“Yes. Now, be quiet.”
The butler guided them through an entrance hall toward a set of double doors. Lucy leaned toward Henry with a whisper. “He is taking us to the west parlor with the white marble fireplace and longcase pendulum clock.”
Henry glanced sidelong at her, intrigued. He looked up as the butler swept the doors open.
“Your Grace. Mr. Beaumont and Miss…”
“Locket,” Lucy said with a harsh whisper. Henry’s face flushed with embarrassment. He pinched her hand harder to communicate a desire for her silence. She seemed oblivious to his strategy.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she said sharply, “you are hurting my fingers.”
She glanced at the mortified stare of the butler and apparently realized her string of gaffes. She fell silent. Henry exhaled heavily and led her into the parlor. His eyes darted from the white marble fireplace, to the longcase pendulum clock, to the duchess. He could not help but notice the disrepair of the room, the lack of servant
s in the house, and the faded green of the noblewoman’s dress. She sat regally on a sofa, her face a mask of stone. Henry released Lucy’s arm and bowed.
“Mr. Henry Beaumont, Your Grace. At your service.”
After a lengthy pause, he nudged Lucy. She curtsied, nearly falling. His eyes flicked back to the duchess to find her mask stonier still. The estimate of five minutes before rejection now seemed far too long. He stood mutely, waiting for the duchess to speak. While he and Lucy kept their eyes downcast, the regal woman regarded them in silence as the pendulum clock ticked seventeen times.
“You spoke of my granddaughter,” she said finally, “who was lost long ago. What possible news could you have that might interest me?”
Henry stepped forward. “Your Grace. During the course of certain, shall I say, Bow Street business, I encountered information suggesting that the report of your granddaughter’s demise might have been mistaken.”
The mask wavered as she raised an eyebrow. “Continue.”
He bowed again. “Although I am not privy to the morbid details of the accident, I have been informed by a, shall I say, mildly credible source that your granddaughter’s body was never recovered. I further believe…”
At that instant, before he could stop her, Lucy stepped forward, clutched the locket in one outstretched hand, and gazed directly into the surprised eyes of the duchess. “I came to return this locket to you as its rightful owner. I apologize for my abruptness, but this man rambles far beyond the point.”
The duchess leaned forward in her chair, her iron eyes locked on the necklace. Her face grew markedly suspicious. “Step nearer, girl.”
As Lucy complied, Henry saw the duchess’s stony shell begin to crack. Her hand rose halfway to her heart and stopped. She accepted the locket from Lucy and held it to her chest. After a few seconds, her hands returned to her lap, clutching the necklace.
“Did you steal this?” A chaotic blend of hopeful accusation shaped the question.
Lucy stood tall and replied with far too much offense. “Of course not.”
Henry nearly leaped forward to stop the unfolding social travesty, but the duchess had already proceeded to the next question, her eyes flashing.
“Did you find it?”
“No. Why would you accuse me of such morally derelict behavior without knowing me?”
The duchess appeared ready to call down the judgment of heaven on Lucy, taken aback by the young woman’s unconscionable forwardness with a person of her rank. However, her scrutiny shifted several times between Lucy and the necklace. Her eyes widened with seeming epiphany, and she appeared to tamp down a flare of emotion.
“Then tell me, girl, where did you come by this locket?”
Gone was her former combative tone, replaced by soft inquiry. Henry stepped alongside Lucy to offer a silent prompt. She hesitated only briefly.
“From my father. He told me the locket signified House Huntington and the Duke of Ramsbury, and that I should protect it at all costs.”
The duchess began to respond, but her voice caught. She cleared her throat carefully and tried again. “When? When did you receive this?”
“As highwaymen pursued our carriage, minutes before the vehicle tumbled into the Thames. Minutes before I escaped it and swam to shore.”
The duchess’s steely reserve shattered. Her eyes misted immediately and she reached one tentative hand toward Lucy.
“Margaret?” She uttered the name barely above a whisper. “Is that you?”
Henry watched in fascination as Lucy reached to touch the woman’s fingers. She smiled wanly. “Father called me Lucy, not Margaret.”
The duchess gasped. “Why?”
“Because Lucy was the name of a woman he greatly admired. That is all I know.”
Tears began falling from the older woman’s eyes as she reached with the other hand to pull Lucy nearer still. “Why, Lucy is my name, child.”
Lucy’s eyes went wide with astonishment, and Henry was certain his expression mirrored hers. The duchess patted the sofa. “Come sit with me. Please.”
As she obeyed, Henry sat where he could observe the mismatched pair—one a regal duchess and the other practically raised by wolves. He shook his head in wonder at Lucy. If she was a wolf in lady’s clothing, she wore it astonishingly well. He tugged at his cravat and shifted his attention to the duchess, who was exploring Lucy’s face as if memorizing it.
“As you know, child, we have never met.”
“Yes, my lady. Father regretted that I never set foot in England until the age of nine. The one occasion when we visited this house, you and the duke were not in residence.”
The duchess nodded. “Though we have never met, my granddaughter did write me one time on the occasion of her eighth birthday. Do you recall?”
“Yes.”
“She asked me a very unusual question. Do you remember what that question was?”
Lucy glanced away with uncertainty. “I do not know.”
Hope began draining from the older woman’s eyes as the clock ticked, ticked, ticked. Then Lucy faced her again.
“I do not know if I should repeat the question in the presence of a man.” She tossed a glance at Henry. The duchess nodded with the slightest of smiles.
“He will remain discreet. Will you not, Mr. Beaumont?”
Henry leaned forward with immense curiosity. “Of course.”
Lucy lowered her eyes. “I asked you if it was true that you swam naked in the sea when you were young.”
Henry suppressed a surprised chuckle. The duchess’s voice hitched. “And what did I reply?”
“You said, ‘a lady never tells.’”
The duchess lifted her hands to gather the young woman to her and claim her with certainty. “My Margaret.”
Lucy returned the embrace with apparent unease. “Duchess.”
“Call me Grandmother.”
“Only if you call me Lucy, as Father did in your honor.”
The duchess maintained the embrace. “Of course, Lucy. Of course.”
Chapter Six
Lucy’s eyes wandered, absorbing every detail of the house as the duchess led her up the central staircase to the second floor. The forty-two-candle chandelier suspended above the entrance hall. The lengthy hallway at the top of the stairs running north to south, lined with paintings of the former dukes and duchesses of Ramsbury. The doors to well-appointed bedchambers dotting the walls along the way. Everything appeared as she remembered from her lone visit, years earlier, when her father had led her through the vacant house. However, now it seemed sadder, more worn, more disheveled, and neglected. She recalled, as if yesterday, her father’s misting eyes as he’d pondered the small rose garden on the patio, awash in memories. Regret filled Lucy that he’d never seen the house again.
“Here, my dear,” said the duchess. “These are your chambers.”
Lucy peeked tentatively into the room and stifled a gasp. A French bed encased by voluminous drapery dominated the room, flanked by an ornate bureau and reclining sofa. Pastel pink curtains framed a window, allowing ethereal light to permeate the space. Despite the dust suffusing the room, she stood briefly speechless.
“For me?”
“Yes. For you.”
She stepped inside with wide eyes. For the first time in years, she recalled what it was to live in such a place. Soft beds. Attentive servants. An endless supply of fine food and drink. The flood of memory nearly overwhelmed her.
“Thank you, Duchess.”
“Grandmother,” she reminded.
A young woman appeared at the doorway and curtsied. The duchess waved a hand toward her. “This is Miss Barrett, my lady’s maid. She will help you settle until I find a suitable attendant for you.”
Lucy attempted another curtsy in greeting to the young woman. The duchess’s hand shot out
to grasp her arm. “You must never curtsy to a member of the staff.”
Lucy dipped her head. “My apologies. I am not accustomed to the rules of engagement.”
“Did your father not teach you?”
“No. Italy was different.”
Her eye caught Henry’s scrutiny. He remained in the hallway, watching the scene unfold with barely restrained amusement. She shot him a glare that rendered his handsome face stone. He bowed to the duchess. “If Her Grace agrees, I will wait in the parlor while you two…acquaint.”
The duchess nodded and he left. Despite Henry’s adversarial demeanor toward her, his abrupt absence left Lucy oddly adrift. Nerves captured her as she found herself alone with the austere woman. The duchess searched her face again. “What happened afterward, my dear? To where did you disappear for a decade?”
That was the question Lucy had dreaded most. She sighed. “Perhaps you should sit before I tell you.”
Alarm washed over the duchess’s face, and she perched on the sofa with trembling hands. “I am listening.”
Lucy clenched her fists. “A highwayman found me. He intended to keep me isolated a short while to prevent my disclosing the truth of his misdeed. When Father died, a short while stretched into a decade.”
In a manner very unbecoming of nobility, the duchess let her jaw go slack with surprise. “A highwayman? A common criminal?”
“A criminal, yes, but common, no. He was a castaway from a noble house, driven by vengeance to rob the rich and share his bounty with the poor. A Robin Hood of sorts.”
“And did this man…did this man ever…”
“Never. He raised me as a daughter in the wilds of Dartmoor, protected my honor with the flat of his fist, and educated me as one would educate a noble son. He taught me how to ride, fence, and regale a pack of thieves. He showed me how to scrub a floor, roast a pig, and balance a ledger. He opened my world through knowledge but kept me sequestered in a remote country house. As a result, I know how to cheat a cheater, shout down a brawler, and finesse a sharp. But I know nothing of Society beyond what I recall as a nine-year-old coming of age in a foreign land.”
