by Jane Goodger
The duchess nodded at a footman, standing at attention near one of the room’s doors, and he disappeared silently. Within a few moments, two other footmen entered, carrying with them a silver soup tureen and a ladle. This was tantamount to acknowledging that Mitch was not coming. Genny swallowed down a thickness in her throat and watched as the footman put one ladle of thin-looking broth into her bowl before stepping back and returning to wherever the kitchens were.
Genny had put a single spoonful of soup in her mouth, pleasantly surprised by its rich, beefy taste, when the butler, Mr. Blackwell, entered the room, apologizing for the interruption. He had a slip of paper resting on a small silver platter.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing as the duchess removed the slip of paper, annoyance on her face. She unfolded the note, read it, then placed it back on the platter.
“It seems Mr. Campbell will be unable to attend,” she said.
“Why ever not?” Genny asked, wanting to grab the note off the tray before the butler disappeared.
“I’m afraid the missive didn’t say. He said only that he extended his apologies but would be unable to attend. I’m sorry, my dear, I’m sure you are disappointed.”
Genny nodded, feeling hot tears threaten. “I am disappointed. Terribly so.”
Genny laid down her spoon, her appetite gone. It seemed so strange that Mitch had not come to dinner. Perhaps he’d gotten caught up in the excitement of being in a strange city. Or perhaps he’d made a friend and . . .
No. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps he simply hadn’t wanted to come, to sit down at a formal dinner and be grilled by her grandparents. That made more sense. And “dressing” for dinner, she found out (thank goodness for Tillie, though she couldn’t imagine where she’d learned such a thing), meant wearing formal clothing. It seemed silly, given it was just the three of them, but it was simply what was done. Genny was already getting a bit tired of doing what was done.
Mitch walked quickly back to the hotel, cursing the uncomfortable shoes he wore and wishing he had on his well-worn boots. By the time he got back to the Langham, he was hot and sweaty and had lost any polish he’d had when he’d marched up the Glaston House steps. The sun had long disappeared behind London, and with it most pedestrians but for the gaslighters who were making their way down Regent Street. His stomach churned at the thought that Genny was sitting with people she didn’t know, feeling lost and wondering where the hell he was, her idiot fiancé.
He sharply hit the bell at the front desk, satisfied by the resounding sound it made, and waited what seemed like an eternity for the clerk to arrive. When he did, Mitch tried to be polite, tried not to let the man know the small panic beginning to grow in his chest. “Sir, would you mind checking to see if I have any messages?”
“Of course. What is your room number, sir?”
“Three twenty-five.”
The clerk, his black hair parted precisely in the middle and tamed with pomade, went to the boxes where keys were stored, but even from where he stood, Mitch could see his room box was empty. “No, sir,” the clerk said, turning back. “Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?”
No message. Mitch furrowed his brow. Could he have gotten the wrong evening? No, he remembered precisely the conversation, the duchess inviting him for dinner the following evening. It made no sense to him. The invitation, while not effusive, had been issued; did British peers often issue invitations only to renege on them?
“I’d like to check out, actually,” Mitch said.
The clerk pulled out a thick leather-bound ledger, opening to where a green satin ribbon marked the correct spot, flipped a page, and made a notation. “I see your account is paid, sir. Would you like to leave a forwarding address?”
“You do that?”
“Certainly, sir. We have many foreign visitors who like to receive their mail whilst traveling.”
Mitch nodded. “All right. Twenty-two Great Russell Street.”
The clerk paled. “No, sir. No gentleman is safe in that part of London at this time of night. I would very much like to dissuade you from taking such a course of action.”
Mitch was in no mood to be thwarted. “I think I can handle myself,” he said with quiet confidence.
The clerk looked at him as if considering his words. “No gentleman, sir. There’s cutthroats and hoodlums who lie in wait for well-dressed blokes foolish enough to cross their paths. While I don’t doubt your ability to defeat one man, if you are accosted by several, which is not uncommon, you could be severely injured. Or killed. And I cannot in good conscience sentence a man to that fate. If you’re to stay in London, sir, you should stay at the Langham.”
Mitch let out a sigh. “I appreciate your concern, sir. The truth is, I can’t afford to stay here. I’m sailing back to New York in two weeks’ time and don’t have the money to pay for this hotel and our trip home.”
“Our trip, sir?” He looked back at the ledger. “I wasn’t aware we had another guest under your name.”
“My bride-to-be is staying with her grandparents at Glaston House, but they thought it would be improper for me to stay, too, so here I am. Just put down that address, will you? Twenty-two Great Russell Street.” He could feel his patience slipping and would be mighty disappointed if he had to use physical force on the clerk. Now that he knew he could leave a forwarding address, doing so became important.
“Your bride to be is . . .”
Mitch could feel his temper rising, hotter than a July day in New York City. “The granddaughter of the damned duke. And if she wants to know where the hell I am, I’d like to leave the damned address for her to find me,” Mitch said, his volume and frustration growing with each word.
The clerk swallowed and took a step back. “Why did you not tell me who you are?”
“I did. Mitch Campbell.” He let out a foul curse and the clerk had the nerve to look affronted, his skinny little mustache twitching.
“As a guest of the Duke of Glastonbury, you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish,” the clerk said primly. “In fact . . .” He opened his ledger again. “We’ll have your things moved to the Regent Suite, shall we?”
“Are you saying that I get to stay here for free?”
“As a guest of his grace, yes. He often hosts dignitaries and they always stay at the Langham. Always.” He pulled on a velvet rope and in a few moments, a uniformed bellboy appeared. “Please follow Mr. Campbell to his room. Three twenty-five. And remove his things to the Regent Suite. I daresay you’ll find accommodations there far better than in St. Giles.” He smiled.
Mitch turned to follow the bellboy, when the clerk called out to him. “All inclusive, Mr. Campbell. Simply charge everything to your room.”
Mitch stopped and turned slowly, looking the clerk straight in the eye so the man would know he meant what he was about to say. “Thank you.”
The clerk nodded, closed his ledger, and disappeared into the back office.
“Their graces are not at home.”
It was the fourth time Mitch had heard those words from the mouth of the butler who, each time he opened the door, seemed to not recognize the man on the other side. Mitch had told himself the last time he’d walked away, frustrated and ready to hit the first man who gave him a funny look, that this time he would not accept that same answer, delivered in that same emotionless way.
“You’re lying,” he said, the frustration of the last four days apparent in his voice. He hated it, but he’d be damned if he’d let something happen to Genny while he did nothing. It made no sense that he hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her. The second time he’d arrived at the door, he’d been ready with a note, which the butler assured him would be delivered. And every time after that, when Genny “was not at home” he’d ask if she’d left him a message. She hadn’t. And that was mighty suspicious to Mitch.
“What have they done to her?”
“I assure you Miss Hayes is well.”
“Prove it. I wan
t to see her. For four days I’ve been coming here, and every time you tell me she’s not at home. Where the hell could she be?”
The butler looked behind him, then slipped out the door to stand with Mitch on the stoop. Dipping his head as if he were about to divulge the greatest of secrets, Mr. Blackwell said, “Sir, when I say their graces are not home, I do not necessarily mean they are not at home.”
Mitch reared his head back. “You mean to say you’ve been lying to me from the start?”
The butler raised his chin. “I am doing my duty.”
Pure rage filled Mitch, for the way he was being treated, for the way it made him feel, for the way Genny likely felt wondering where he was. He wanted to kill someone. “You’ve been lying,” he spat. “And I’m not going to take it anymore, not from you, not from the goddamned duke, and sure as hell not from the duchess.” Then he physically lifted the man—no small feat, for Mr. Blackwell was not a slight man—and put him to the side.
“Sir, unhand me!”
Mitch turned on him and grabbed the older man’s lapels, pulling him up to his greater height, fueled by a rage he hadn’t felt in years. “You do not tell me what to do, do you understand? I’m going in there and I’m going to find my fiancée and then I’m going to take her away from this damned house and never come back.”
“Sir, no!”
Mitch ignored him, pushing the door open with such force, it slammed against the wall with a resounding crack, frightening a maid so greatly, she let out a blood-curdling scream. She stood there, eyes wide, a feather duster trembling in her hand.
“They truly are not in today. They’re at the Botanical Gardens.” Mr. Blackwell hurried after him as Mitch barged into the house and began his search.
“I don’t believe you. Genny!” He moved down the hall, calling her name over and over, drawing servants to the ruckus from all over the house. He ignored them, ignored their frightened faces, the way they cringed when he stormed by, opening every door he saw, slamming it closed when Genny wasn’t there. He moved systematically, looking in rooms, closets, alcoves, becoming more and more frantic with each empty room he saw. He got the terrible feeling the duke and duchess had kidnapped Genny, had taken her away where he would never find her again. All the while, Mr. Blackwell followed him, trying to convince him that Genny wasn’t in the house when Mitch knew she was.
“Genny!” he screamed, his voice becoming raw. He ran up the long, curving staircase, taking two steps at a time, calling for her constantly. And then, room by room, he searched, as the butler, and now the housekeeper, Mrs. Parsons, followed him. He heard the housekeeper urging all the other servants to get back to their posts, most likely thinking a madman was among them. Well, they were right. He felt crazed, filled with longing and fear and anger that they had kept Genny from him. She was alone in a strange city with purely awful people who didn’t love her, didn’t understand her.
After he’d searched every room and Mr. Blackwell’s pleas had sunk in, he stood in a long hall, bent over, hands on his knees, panting, sweating. Defeated. He slumped to the floor, pressing his back against the wall, raising up his knees and pressing his eyes hard into his hands.
When he found a bit of control, he glanced up at Mr. Blackwell, knowing he looked like a broken man, knowing his eyes were burning with unshed tears. “Why are you doing this to us?” he asked, and the butler winced and looked at the housekeeper, who stood there wringing her hands.
“They are our employers,” the butler said, clearly upset by the entire scene.
“Is she all right?” he asked, not caring that his voice cracked. He swallowed. “Miss Hayes, is she harmed?”
“No,” the butler said hastily. A pause.
“Yes,” Mrs. Parsons said, sounding fierce. “I can’t take this anymore,” she said, turning to Mr. Blackwell. “It’s wrong. The poor girl is broken-hearted. She doesn’t sleep, hardly eats. I can’t watch it anymore without doing something. And now this.” She waved a hand at Mitch.
“Mrs. Parsons,” the butler said harshly, “both of our positions depend upon our not doing anything. Perhaps you don’t need this position, but I do.”
Mrs. Parsons shook her head. “I saw what they did to Lady Mary and I’m not going to allow it to happen to that poor girl.” She pointed at Mitch. “Look at what they’ve done.”
Mitch got an inkling of just how pathetic he must look to them, so he stood even though he could have sat there forever.
“Does Genny know I’ve been coming each day?”
“She does not,” Mr. Blackwell said.
“You told me you delivered my notes. You lying sonofabitch.”
Mr. Blackwell stepped back, clearly afraid of the rage that Mitch knew was burning in his eyes. “I said only that I delivered the notes, not to whom. I did not lie.”
“Genny thinks I’ve not come? She must be worried sick.”
“They’ve told her—”
“Mrs. Parsons,” the butler said sharply.
“It’s wrong. And you know it is.” Mrs. Parsons turned to Mitch, her expression softening considerably. “They’ve told her that you left, sailed back to America. Without her.”
Mitch fell back against the wall, shaking his head. “And she believed them?”
“Why would she not?”
Mitch swiped two hands through his hair. “Why do this thing? I know I’m not a duke, but, hell. What kind of person does such a thing?”
“Come with me,” Mrs. Parsons said, and marched down the hall, the keys at her waist jingling in time to her precise steps. At one room, she stopped and beckoned the two men to follow her.
Stepping into the room, Mitch got the overwhelming feeling that this was Genny’s room. Her bed. Her brush. Her scent.
Mrs. Parsons stepped before the fireplace and looked up. “There is your reason, Mr. Campbell.”
Mitch looked up directly into the face of Genny—or at least a very close representation in oil.
“That is her mother,” the housekeeper said. She turned to Mitch. “Do you know the story of Lady Mary?”
“She married a man her parents thought she shouldn’t.”
“A steward. It was such a scandal. It broke her father’s heart and humiliated her mother. We all thanked God she didn’t have a sister, for such an elopement would have ruined any girl’s chances of marriage. Her grace believed Mr. Hayes was a fortune hunter, but I believe to this day he was devoted to Lady Mary.”
“So, it’s because Genny reminds the old bat of her dead daughter? That’s what this is all about?”
“Please refrain from using such derogative terms when speaking of their graces,” Mrs. Parsons said sternly. She took a bracing breath. “It is either Miss Hayes’s uncommon resemblance to her mother, or the money.” Mrs. Parsons was looking up at the painting, so she didn’t see the look of confusion on Mitch’s face. But Mr. Blackwell did.
“What money?” Mitch asked.
Mrs. Parsons turned to him. “Miss Hayes is an heiress, Mr. Campbell.”
Mitch just laughed and shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Parsons. She doesn’t have a penny to her name. The only thing of value she had when I met her was a few bits of jewelry her mother left. We got two hundred dollars for them. She was living alone in a one-room shack.”
The two servants looked at each other curiously.
“She doesn’t know,” Mr. Blackwell said, sounding stunned, then turned to Mitch. “How did her father die?”
“He got mauled by a bear. Before he died, he made Genny promise to go back to England. That’s all I know.”
“She doesn’t know,” the housekeeper repeated with certainty. “You see, Mr. Campbell, Miss Hayes’s great-grandmother was a very progressive woman. She did not believe that it was fair a woman could not own property, that she was completely under the control of her husband. I think also she knew her granddaughter was of the independent ilk, so she created a fund for Lady Mary—a fund that would come to her, and only h
er, upon her marriage. And of course, upon Lady Mary’s death, it would have gone to Miss Hayes.”
“It was an enormous sum,” Mr. Blackwell said.
Mrs. Parsons leaned forward and whispered, “I think the idea of that money going into American hands bothers the duchess.”
Her grandparents, in more ways than one, were desperate to keep Genny by their sides. All the pieces fell into place, like a puzzle that seemed impossible to solve. “You have to help her,” Mitch said.
Again the servants looked at one another and seemed to come to a silent decision.
“Sir, if we lose our positions, and without a reference, it would be disastrous for us both. If we do help you, their graces can never know we had any part in it.”
Mitch took a deep, shaking breath, knowing everything depended upon these two people in front of him. “I need to see her, to let her know I’m here and waiting. That I would never leave England without her.”
“Tonight. Nine o’clock. There’s a narrow lane that runs behind the property, where the mews are. Go to the second gate and wait.”
Mrs. Parsons smiled and gave the butler the warmest of looks. “Mr. Blackwell, you do have a heart, after all.”
“Quiet, woman!” The harshness of his words was considerably diminished by the red stain on his cheeks.
“Have her ready to leave,” Mitch said, and was surprised when the servants, in unison, rejected that plan.
“She can’t leave tonight,” Mrs. Parsons said. “Neither one of us will have a chance to forewarn her of your visit. Surely you will not ask her to leave with only the clothes on her back. This needs a bit of planning; they watch her like a hawk, you see.”
The butler furrowed his brow. “The night of the Medford ball, then. He could attend, then bring her back here. We’ll have her packed, a carriage ready.”
“He can’t go skulking around Medford’s estate,” Mrs. Parsons said, rejecting the plan. “What if he gets arrested as an intruder?”
“After the ball then?”
“I’m leaving with her tonight.”
Two heads swiveled Mitch’s way and they both looked at him as if they’d forgotten he was there.
