The Hazardous Gamble of the Alluring Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “Of course, My Lady.” Suzanne brightened at this evidence that Dahlia planned to remain quietly in her rooms.

  With Suzanne out of the room, Dahlia quickly surveyed the breakfast tray. The cutlery would be missed, she was sure of that, and not much of the repast was portable. Kippers, toasted bread with jam. I’m not quite sure what I shall do, but I want to be ready. ‘Go to the ant,’ how did the rest of it go? Something about laying up supplies.

  Some years ago, their father had turned off a maid for selling little embroidered bags. The maid had stitched the bags during her sleep time and on her day off. Her father’s reasoning had been that the maid was stealing time from him.

  But the memory gave her an idea. She remembered the girl sobbing as she collected her things, and one of the other maids comforting her. “You can go to Mrs. Benton. She’ll take ye, and find ye an’ honest place.”

  Then the maids had seen Dahlia, and stopped talking. But it had sounded as if Mrs. Benton was a person who could help a maid turned off without references. But until she could find this Mrs. Benton, she would have to plan how to manage until she found a position.

  It was a desperate plan, but it was a hope, a way out of the terrible muddle in which she found herself. As a Duke’s daughter she had few practical skills. Most of her learning was intended to make her more presentable as a wife to a nobleman, not to sustain her independently. She certainly had no references.

  She had to try. She could not just sit here and tamely submit to her father’s wishes however deeply he might be in debt.

  Dahlia went to her dresser and pulled out several linen handkerchiefs. She spread them beside the tray. Next, she tucked the kippers inside one toasted bun and spread the other with butter and jam, shielding the sticky content with the crusty outsides. These, she quickly folded up in the handkerchief and hid in her secretary desk. Then she ate the eggs, the soft, cooked fruit and drank the tea. She felt amazingly better and much more herself.

  With her emergency provisions, such as they were, hidden away she laid out her sewing kit and embroidery silks to support the ruse she was beginning to put together in her head and rang for Suzanne. “You must have been very hungry, My Lady,” the maid commented as she placed the stack of linen squares on one corner of the bed and then picked up the tray.

  “I was,” Dahlia replied, “Far hungrier than I thought. I won’t need you this morning, Suzanne. I am going to do some drawing and then some embroidery.”

  “Will you not dress, My Lady?” Suzanne asked.

  “Since I have no intention of going out, I don’t believe I will,” Dahlia replied, laying out her charcoal and some thick drawing paper.

  “Very well, My Lady,” Suzanne sounded a bit doubtful about this plan, but it wasn’t her place to protest.

  As soon as the maid had withdrawn, Dahlia laid out one of the linen squares and placed the drawing supplies on it, making a neat bundle. She then made another bundle of the lace and embroidery thread, then withdrew her meager foodstuffs and placed them in a third bundle. After a moment’s thought, she made a fourth bundle of her manuscript and the little book by Mary Shelley, and as a final after thought, added the crumpled piece of letter she had found in the hall.

  Dahlia then stripped to her chemise and began to dress herself. First, she slipped into her hose and pantalettes, then donned three petticoats in spite of the growing heat of the day. Next, she pulled on a short stay that laced up the front, then a filmy camisole, and covered it all with an old morning dress of brown pinstriped bombazine that Miss Emma had suggested she donate to the poor box. A brown cotton walking dress followed that up, one that she frequently wore to Green Park to play with her sisters, and that was loose enough to go over the morning dress. She stuffed her feet into her oldest walking boots, which she felt looked sufficiently worn as to excite no notice.

  She topped it all with a light summer shawl that modestly covered her necks and bosom. She had three pennies and a shilling left in her reticule from yesterday’s shopping trip. Wrapping the other five shillings and one farthing in a one-pound note that she kept in her writing desk for emergencies, she pinned them inside her bosom.

  Hair, what should I do with my hair?

  She quickly ran her brush through it, then a comb, braided it up and bundled it into a knot that she secured with hairpins from the dressing table. She looked at the brush and comb with some regret, but they had her initials entwined on the back. Best not to take them. Wooden combs were not too dear. She could buy one after she secured lodgings or a position. Or maybe that should be the other way around?

  Oh, dear! How do maids and shop girls obtain positions? Wasn’t there an agency where father hired new help? How will I find Mrs. Benton?

  Finally, she hiked up her skirts and tied the bundles to her waistband, distributing them carefully so that their bulk was hidden by the folds of her extra petticoats. With a little adjustment, she was satisfied that with all the extra clothing, she looked a little plumper than usual, but the bundles did not show. They felt a little awkward, but they seemed secure. On an impulse, she picked up the last of the pieces of linen and tucked them into her bosom as a sort of fichu.

  Having managed to outfit herself without drawing notice or anyone coming to check on her, she listened at the hall door. Hearing no one, she unlocked it and slipped out.

  Deserted! Now what? If I go through the kitchens, the staff will report immediately to the butler or to father. Dressed as I am, I can’t go out the front.

  To buy herself some time to think, Dahlia went up the family staircase to the long gallery, and from there slipped into the storage attics. The floor was dusty, and she pinched her nose to keep from sneezing. I shall be a spy, like Aphra Behn. Spies do not sneeze.

  There was a back stair from the attic, she knew, one made for bringing up furniture to store. It branched away from the servants’ quarters and came down in the stable yard to enable loading and unloading delivery wagons. Deeper in the house she could hear voices, and the smell of roasting meat and cooking vegetables wafted from the kitchen. It made her stomach gurgle a little. The eggs, fruit and tea had been a rather light breakfast.

  She kept her head down so the bonnet would shield her face and walked quickly past the stables as if she were on some errand.

  Once away from the townhouse, she looked about her, and decided to head for the market street. She kept her eyes downcast, like any modest serving girl, glancing only out of the corners of her eyes for signs. Might someone require a servant? A shop girl?

  I hardly know what I am about.

  She walked quickly, not heeding her direction except to move away from the more fashionable parts of town and into neighborhoods that were increasingly less prosperous.

  By the time she took notice of her surroundings, they were very shabbyand populated with odd characters. Some were ragged, some dressed in finery. Knots of urchins ran about, seemingly without purpose. Groups of women stood about in exaggerated poses.

  There was a fountain in the middle of a tiny paved area at the center of a crossroads. The day had begun to be quite warm, and Dahlia was feeling the effects of wearing so many layers of clothing. Her bundles dragged at her waist. She sat on a little seat by the edge of the fountain, planning to rest for a moment while she got her bearings.

  She found that the appetite whetted by the smell of roasted meat and vegetables at the townhouse was now growing quite sharp. She reached through the pocket slits in her skirts and drew out the bundle that held her tiny hoard of food.

  Eat it all now or save some for later?

  Dahlia decided to eat the kippers now and save the jam and butter for later, but it all tasted so good and she was so hungry that soon she was daintily licking the sticky crumbs from the second bun off her fingers. The handkerchief that had held her repast was sticky with jelly. She dipped it in the fountain, intending to rinse it clean.

  “Well, look what we have here,” a voice drawled in her ear.

  �
�Ain’t she sweet, so clean and dainty,” said a rough voice on the other side of her.

  Dahlia snapped her head up, eyes wide, and found herself looking straight into the dirty face of a fellow so wrinkled and black with grime that she scarcely took him for human. The owner of the first voice slipped up behind her and grasped her elbow roughly, “How much, Girlie? I got a prime cuckoo that’s lookin’ for a nest.”

  “Just got paid,” the second one said, fencing her in from the front. “We can show you a good time.”

  “Leave me alone!” Dahlia cried out, standing up and clutching the wet handkerchief in one hand, with her reticule bunched in the other. “I’m looking for honest work.”

  “We just offered you honest work,” the first one coaxed. “All you need do is say how much. You look clean. We could pay a little more for a nice, clean bit o’ muslin.”

  Dahlia jerked her elbow, trying to wrest it out of the first man’s hand and shoved her fist holding the reticule against the second. “Leave me alone!”

  She might as well have been trying to move carved stone. “Oh, she’s shy!” the second man jeered, jerking her against his chest. “Come on, sweetheart, give us a kiss.”

  Then there was a loud thud and the second man dropped to the cobblestones at Dahlia’s feet. The first man dropped her elbow and backed away. “I’m sorry, Scarlett. I don’t need no mingle-mangle.”

  “I’ll give you mingle-mangle, Bo Harding. Can’t you tell Quality when you see it?”

  Dahlia looked up into the face of the biggest, toughest looking woman she had ever seen in her life. The stranger had a wild mane of dark hair, a red mouth and huge dark eyes in a white face. She was dressed in the strangest costume imaginable with her skirts kilted up to her knees revealing striped stocking of the most violent orange and green hues. The petticoats thus revealed were gray with grime, and her over-dress was of threadbare velvet.

  “I’m Scarlett, little chickadee, and this here’s my turf. What’re you doin’ here?”

  “An’ it please you, ma’am,” Dahlia said in a tremulous voice, imitating one of the newest kitchen maids, “I’m looking for work. I mean, work like a housemaid or shop girl.”

  “Oh, Lud,” the big woman swore, “You are in the wrong place. We gotta get you out o’ these parts before you get hurt. You want Mrs. Benton’s Genteel Agency, and that’s about three blocks over and a good bit east.”

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” Dahlia said in a small voice. It really wasn’t very difficult to let her voice tremble. Mrs. Benton! What an amazing coincidence! Could I really be so lucky?

  “Don’t you worry about that,” the woman said. Her voice was an amazingly deep alto, rather like a sand papery velvet. “I’ve got to get you away from here before you take up all my trade. Can’t have that.”

  “I do not wish to take your trade,” Dahlia said in an even smaller voice.

  “And a good thing, too. Come along now, I’ll go with you an’ introduce you to Mrs. Benton. I heard her say just this morning as how there was some nonesuch as was being notoriously picksome about hiring house staff. Had a dried-up old aunty, lookin’ down her nose at most o’ the help offered, can you believe it? But you look just straight-laced enough to be what the old harridan will fancy.” Scarlett caught Dahlia by the elbow in a grip that was almost as strong as the man’s and started steering her back toward the way from which she had come. “Didn’t catch your name, little chickadee.”

  “Da…uh…Daisy. Daisy Smith, from Dorset.”

  “Well, little Miss Daisy Smith from Dorset, you walked yourself right into Covent Garden and almost close enough to get snapped up by one of the abbesses.”

  “What? I don’t understand. Why would I be afraid of a convent or an abbess?” Dahlia tried to focus on what the woman was saying, but it didn’t make sense.

  “Oh, Lud,” Scarlett rolled her eyes skyward, “What a mooncalf. We aren’t talking about religious orders, little chickadee, unless you counts worshiping men’s parts a minute or two so’s they’ll drop their purse at your altar.”

  “Wor…Oh! Oooh!” Dahlia blushed a brighter red than Scarlett’s worn velvet skirt. “I’m not looking for that kind of work.”

  “No, somehow I didn’t s’pose ye are,” Scarlett said. “Now here we are at Mrs. Benton’s. She does hirin’ for the big houses and she’ll likely find ye a place. You take care now, and don’t come back to my turf lest ye come ta harm.” The statement should have sounded like a threat, but it came out more like a gentle remonstrance.

  Dahlia entered the shop and found herself looking at a gray-haired little woman, dressed in cheap black bombazine. The woman looked up from the ledger in which she was making marks and said, “I don’t have any maids for hire today.”

  “I’m looking for work, not for a maid,” Dahlia said.

  The woman put her pen down. “Let me see your hand, child.”

  Dahlia held out one hand. The little grey woman took it and turned it over. “That’s a delicate hand, miss. If it has done a hard day of work in its life, I shall donate all of today’s earnings to St. Mary’s. What was it you did at your last job?”

  “I was my lady’s personal maid, ma’am.”

  “I see. Did you steal those clothes?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. She gave ‘em to me as part of my wages.”

  “That is a fine dress for a maid that got turned off. What happened?”

  “My lady had a brother.”

  “Say no more. It is one of the oldest reason’s for pretty domestic help getting turned off. Did your mistress at least give you references?”

  “No, ma’am. Her father forbade it.” As she got into her role as a wronged maid servant, Dahlia found it easier to spin the fictitious story of one Daisy Smith. She even felt tears welling up in her eyes. But that could have been a response to her recent plight.

  “I’m Mrs. Benton, and I run this agency. What can you do, Miss Daisy Smith, who got turned off without references?”

  “I can dress hair, do fine sewing, keep accounts and read aloud with expression.”

  “Hmmm. You sound more like a companion than a lady’s maid. Still, I think I might have a position for you. Do you know your way around London well enough not to get lost if I give you the address?”

  Dahlia decided it was better to plead ignorance as if she were a little country girl rather than own up that she knew the better parts of London very well, but might not be able to find her way from where she was. “No, Mrs. Benton. It is awfully big, and I get turned around.”

  Mrs. Benton frowned a moment. “I see. I suppose that’s how you wound up in Scarlett’s territory. Count your blessings that you didn’t wander into Black Betty’s turf.”

  “That would have been bad?” Dahlia asked.

  “That would have been very bad,” Mrs. Benton said, and she rang a bell.

  In just a few moments, a man with glossy black hair, huge brown eyes and dark brown skin appeared, wearing red and white livery. “Please take…what was your name, miss?”

  “Daisy Smith, Mrs. Benton.”

  “Thank you. Raul, please take Miss Daisy Smith over to the townhouse at this address. Take this letter, Miss Smith, and ask for Mrs. Garrity. She will interview you, and if you do well, she might hire you.”

  Chapter 13

  Having given his curricle into Herbert’s keeping, Roger mounted the steps of the modest townhouse and used the plain door knocker with some authority. In a few minutes, a slim young footman answered the door. “How might I be of service?” the young man asked.

  “If you will be so good as to take my card and tell the man of the house that the Duke of Shelthom is here.” Roger drew a card from his card case and handed it over.

  “Oh! Of course, Your Grace!” The footman said, “Would Your Grace like to wait in the library?”

  “Thank you, that would be most kind.” Roger nodded his appreciation.

  The footman showed him into a small, slightly shabby room. Its wall
s were lined with books. A worn sofa slumped before a cold fireplace that was flanked on either side by equally worn wing-backed chairs. A large trout, mounted on a nicely finished plaque of densely grained wood, graced the mantle. The fireplace, mantle and chimney were framed by two French windows that opened onto a small garden.

  “I am sorry to keep Your Grace waiting,” a quiet voice said behind him. “I was with my accountant.” Then, as Roger turned to face the speaker, “Roger! You old dog! When did you come to town? I heard you were rusticating. It is very good to see you, Captain Kingman.”

  Roger laughed and stretched out his hand, “Geoff, I had no idea you’d been knighted. What kind of mischief earned you Prinnie’s attention?”