His Secret Heroine

by Delle Jacobs

  It was just that she could not muster enthusiasm to find another husband. If she had only not met Reggie.

  But she had. Well, she'd best just forget him. It wouldn't do to have a husband, yet be forever brooding about another man.

  Chloe dressed with greater care than usual, but that could well have been because she couldn't decide between the blue muslin and the green. She spotted smears of mud on the green slippers that no amount of scrubbing would budge. But the blue ones were frayed at the toes. Yellow looked silly with either dress, but her yellow sprigged muslin had torn when a rather large gentleman had stepped backward onto the flounce. Something seemed wrong with everything she tried. Her hair was disastrous, flattened on one side and bushy on the other, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She sat down on her bed and stared at the tall mirror, seeing the ugly truth bounce back to her. She was every bit the fortune hunter of Reggie's accusation.

  She rather wished she had explained to him, but she had been too angry, and in any event it would have made no difference. Yet it hurt to have him think so little of her.

  Chloe sighed and put together a hodge-podge ensemble, the green dress with the yellow slippers, because the bonnet seemed to unite the two. More or less.

  Descending the stairs felt like going down into a dungeon to begin an interminable sentence for her crimes. But if she hoped to have invitations where eligible young men could be met, she had to begin with morning calls. Or old men. At least one was not likely to be married to an old man quite so long. Nothing at all about them mattered if they could not be Reggie.

  She was doing it again. She must not think about him.

  "You're quite sure?" Daphne asked her as she pulled on her gloves.

  "I'll do what must be done," she responded, tying the bow of the bonnet as they descended the stairs.

  The pounding of the knocker echoed down the corridor. Daphne raised a hand, and they paused to listen.

  Cargill's voice. "Miss Hawarth and Miss Englefield were about to depart on morning calls, but if Your Grace would care to wait, I am sure they would be happy to receive you."

  Chloe exchanged wide-eyed stares with Daphne. His Grace? Was her aunt acquainted with a duke? The only one with whom she might have connection was Reggie's father.

  Of course Cargill could not turn away such a person, but they could not rush out to greet him, either. They waited, and Cargill came to present the mysterious duke's card.

  "Marmount," Daphne said, studying the card. "Well, my dear, perhaps there is some hope. I cannot think why else the man would call on us."

  Chloe wanted to believe. Hope and trepidation hammered in her heart as she stripped off the bonnet, and she wished she had somehow done a better job of dressing, but she followed Aunt Daphne into the drawing room where the duke awaited.

  The duke stood before the chimneypiece wearing the most perfectly tailored coat of dark blue superfine she had ever seen. Silver-streaked dark hair was severely slicked back, unlike Reggie's golden hair with its distinct wave, but she would have known instantly this man was Reggie's father. The blue eyes were precisely the same shape, the same shade of summer-sky blue, and the duke had the same trim, deeply masculine shape on a tall, straight, broad-shouldered frame. He was an incredibly handsome man for his age. It pleased her to imagine Reggie looking like him in another thirty years.

  The duke straightened from his close examination of the chimneypiece. Chloe recalled the careful touches of paint she had used to conceal flaws and signs of age in the old stone, and hoped he hadn't noticed, but from the minute flare of his nostrils, she feared he had.

  Dukes did not, as a rule, pay calls on barons' daughters. Had Reggie swallowed his pride and gone to his father, after all? Chloe caught herself squeezing her hands together and forced herself to stop. She tried to smile and found herself stretching her lips ridiculously thin.

  She squared her shoulders as the bright blue eyes swept a gaze from her aunt to her, and came to an abrupt halt. A shiver ran up her spine, and she wriggled out a weak smile as she managed a shaky curtsy. Still the duke fixed his completely unreadable and overly lengthy gaze on her. People didn't stare like that. Not even dukes. She cringed inside and studied her tan kid gloves.

  "Miss Daphne Hawarth, is it not?" said the duke to her aunt, for it was a statement, not a question. "I believe you are the second daughter of the sixth Baron Hawarth. And you," he said, turning to Chloe, "will be Miss Chloe Englefield, daughter of the Seventh Baron Englefield. You will pardon me for making my own introduction." He didn't ask. He simply stated. "I am Marmount. But of course, you are familiar with my son, Lord Reginald Beauhampton."

  "But of course, Your Grace," said Aunt Daphne, giving over her hand, which the duke took graciously. "We are acquainted with your son. He is such a fine boy."

  The nostrils flared again. "Yes."

  Chloe followed her aunt's example. She thought her hand shook just the smallest bit, and she caught a hard gleam in the duke's eye that led her to believe he noticed. He was all that was proper, but something bothered her, something more than the social distance between them.

  "Miss Hawarth, I should like to become better acquainted with your niece, which is fitting, under the circumstances. You will not object if I drive out with her this morning."

  Chloe's gaze met Aunt Daphne's with a question. Her aunt clearly did not have the answer.

  "Your Grace, my niece would be delighted, would you not, my dear?"

  "Yes, of course," Chloe said, swallowing hard between words. The Duke of Marmount meant to take her up in his carriage? Surely Reggie was wrong, then. Perhaps they had merely been quarreling before, but the duke wanted to see his son happy after all.

  Chloe installed her bonnet once more and accepted the duke's escort out to the waiting carriage, a sedate model of coach that she guessed had been maintained to perfection for a number of years. Glossy black enamel showed not a flaw, and the ducal crest shone bright, picked out in blue and red, with gold leaf. She suspected if she inspected it with the same scrutiny the duke had shown toward her chimneypiece, she would not have found a speck of dirt. The interior was equally as spotless.

  The duke handed her up in a paternal manner. Chloe's mind stumbled about in confusion trying to match what she saw with Reggie's description of his father. His tiger barely leapt aboard as the duke snapped the ribbons and the carriage pulled out, driving with the smoothness of an accomplished whip, without the frightening speed. The man drove for comfort, not for show.

  She had a hundred questions she wanted to ask, but refrained, remembering the code of etiquette Aunt Daphne had so carefully instilled in her over the years. Patiently, she waited for the older gentleman to begin the conversation.

  "I knew your father," he said. "He was the seventh Baron Englefield."

  "Yes, Your Grace," she replied, concentrating on being the most perfect young miss the duke might ever have met.

  "He attended Eton at the same time I did, but he went on to Cambridge then. Of course I encountered him numerous times in Lords. And the eighth baron was your uncle, was he not?"

  "Yes, Your Grace. He was my father's brother and of course my guardian before I came of age. The ninth baron is my cousin Bertrand, his son. "

  "Which was but a few months past. A bit of a spendthrift as I recall. The eighth baron."

  Did he know? "I was not well acquainted with him, Your Grace, as I lived with my aunt. Uncle Lowell felt it best I be raised by a female."

  "Indeed." He fell silent, continuing his drive almost as if she were not there, reached the gate and continued along Knightsbridge. Once along the tree-lined street, where no other carriage drove so early in the day, he tossed a long assessing look, as hard as ice, at her. Chloe felt a sudden chill.

  "You met Reginald at a house party. Mythe's, was it not?"

  "Yes, Your Grace, at a reading, actually. He—"

  "Mythe was always a ridiculous bluestocking. That wife of his, as well. Reginald is not writing poetry ag
ain, is he?"

  Chloe almost gasped, but caught herself. He said it in the way one might accuse a son of drunkenness or worse. Reggie had said he loved to write. But if his father disapproved, then no wonder he kept it secret. But he hadn't actually said he was doing so. "I do not know of any, Your Grace."

  The duke's mouth worked sideways minutely, reminding her of a mouse sniffing about for a dropped tidbit. "He is doing something, I am sure of it."

  He flicked his whip, and the tip danced eloquently above the backs of his cattle. The elegant carriage picked up speed.

  "I am not one to mince words, Miss Englefield. I wish to discuss your connection with my son."

  "Your Grace—"

  "You are quite lovely. I can see why Reginald is taken with you. But he is quite above your touch. He will in all likelihood become the next duke, and a baron's daughter will not suit as the next duchess."

  "But Your Grace—"

  "Do not think I am ignorant of your situation. I am not as easily bamboozled as those silly matrons and fops who are so taken in by you. You, Miss Englefield, are an adventuress."

  Chloe's jaw dropped open. She stared at the duke, and the ice in his sideways glare grew colder.

  "You, Miss Englefield, are up the River Tick and mean to make a marriage of the greatest of convenience to you. I wish you good fortune in your endeavor. But it will not be with my son."

  "But I—he— Your Grace, we do not—"

  "Do you think to fool me, Miss Englefield? You waste your efforts to try to soften me with your charm."

  "No, Your Grace, but surely you must know that Reggie and I have already decided we will not suit."

  The man's gaze sliced over her, through her like a carving knife through cold meat. "Really, Miss Englefield. I am appalled that you think me an innocent. You were seen together only last night. Women of your kind do not simply decide they do not suit a man of means and position such as my son. You cannot persuade me you have not assessed your chances and found Reginald useful. But you overreach yourself, young lady. You will either renounce your ties to Reginald or face the consequences."

  As Chloe overcame her shock, pure, boiling rage poured in to replace it, and the almost uncontrollable urge to tell the man exactly what she thought of him. Poor Reggie! His father was everything he had said! But before her mouth opened, she stopped herself. Anything she said would only reverberate back on Reggie, if not herself. She'd best be very careful.

  "What do you want, Miss Englefield?"

  Chloe's brow screwed into a frown. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace?"

  "Are you familiar with the term, 'cut your losses'? It means to arrange to lose as little as possible when one has no choice but to lose. You are in precisely that position. If you persist in your alliance with Reginald, I will see to it that you suffer. If he should happen to marry you against my wishes, I will cut him off entirely. And I will see to it that your own good name is damaged beyond repair. Do you understand me?"

  Now he threatened her, as well? Chloe felt the urge to jump up and claw the man's eyes out. Never had she met anyone so blatantly, arrogantly obnoxious!

  "Therefore I ask you, Miss Englefield, what is it you want? It is quite obvious Reginald will require some persuading, since he rarely knows what is in his own best interest. It is a simpler matter to dispose of you. How much will you require?"

  "Require?" If her eyes got any bigger, they would surely pop out of her head.

  "Five thousand pounds, Miss Englefield. That is what I will pay you, and not a farthing more, but it should cover your most pressing debts and keep you in gowns long enough to find a more suitable husband. For that, I will expect you to inform my son that you have no more interest in him. You will, in fact, have nothing more to do with him. You may handle the matter in any manner you choose, but those are my conditions."

  Chloe felt hot tears well up behind her eyes. To think she had actually persuaded herself this man had come to make her acquaintance! "Please take me home."

  "I await your answer, Miss Englefield."

  "My answer is that you may choke on your money. Take me home or let me down."

  "Don't be absurd. You are miles from home. A lady does not walk alone."

  "I am in less danger from the footpads of London than from you. If you do not turn about immediately, I shall get down of my own accord. I am quite capable of walking miles."

  "As I have taken you up in my carriage, I cannot in good conscience allow that. You will stay until I hear your answer, and then I will return you to the care of your aunt."

  "Very well, Your Grace, my answer is that as I have already said my adieus with Reggie, I will not do so again, and I will not accept your money. Now you have received your answer, so please take me home."

  The duke's cool blue eyes froze with icy hatred. With a jerk, he brought his cattle to a halt and turned in the seat. "Do not toy with me, Miss Englefield. I can break you."

  "I believe you, and I believe you are accustomed to breaking people. I have said that I understand you, and that I do not intend to marry your son. But that decision was not yours. It was ours. Now, please take me home."

  The muscles in the duke's jaws bulged and shifted, and Chloe wondered if he might clench his jaw so tightly his teeth would break. Deep rage boiled in his eyes, and the ribbons in his hand curled in the pressure of his grip.

  With a start, he cracked the whip and the startled pair of blacks leapt to a trot, nearly throwing Chloe from the carriage, which turned a sharp circle in the wide lane, almost tipping as she clung to the padded seat. His whip cracked above his team, forcing them ever faster, heedless of anything in his way. Chloe wanted to slap the whip from his hands. "You do not spite me to abuse your cattle, Your Grace."

  From his ramrod back to the gloved fists gripping the ribbons, the man stiffened even more. "They are as replaceable as you are, Miss Englefield."

  But the duke slowed the blacks to a respectable trot. Chloe refused to acknowledge the change for fear he would take it as reason to resume his abuse. He turned onto Leicester Square and tooled to her town house. The team jerked to a surprisingly precise halt.

  Chloe moved to the edge of the seat.

  "You will wait for me to hand you down." The duke leapt down from his seat and walked, perhaps bit too swiftly, around the carriage.

  She had no wish to cede to the man's false decorum, but she figured she'd better pick her battles, and that one, in the scheme of things, was not very important.

  She suppressed her angry urge all the way to the door, then turned to the duke, her jaw as tight as his.

  "Do not forget, Miss Englefield."

  "I will not, Your Grace. I shall say, though, that I admire your son greatly, and I wish you were able to see the fineness of his character. I am so sorry for Reggie that he must deal with a father such as you. He is a fine man, and he deserves far better. Even more the pity because he loves you. But I think I pity you even more, for you could have your son's love, but you are intent on driving him away. And you will succeed."

  "Your pity is wasted. Good day, Miss Englefield." The duke executed an extremely proper bow, pivoted abruptly, and with rigid precision retraced his steps to his waiting carriage without so much as a backward glance.

  Chloe surprised herself as she realized she did mean her condolence to the duke. What a pitiful creature he was. He did not even seem capable of understanding what it was he had lost.

  From the safer side of her door, she peered out through the beveled glass to see the elegant black carriage already gone. She was glad he had not chosen to escort her into the house, for she wished to be shed of him as quickly as she might.

  She wondered if there was a human being alive besides Reggie who actually loved the man, and decided it was unlikely.

  Chapter Eight

  "Are you quite all right, Miss Englefield?" Cargill asked. Alarm shone in his eyes as he took the bonnet she thrust into his hands.

  "Quite so, Cargill. Thank you
." Chloe cast about for her aunt and saw the drawing room door standing open.

  "You have another caller, I'm afraid, Miss Englefield."

  And not one Cargill had hoped to see, she surmised. She questioned him with her eyes.

  "Mr. Rafferty, ma'am. The draper."

  Rafferty was more than just a draper. He had arranged for the collection of slightly used furniture and just about everything that had gone into making this shabby town house presentable.

  "Duns already?"

  Cargill nodded ominously. "Possibly, yes, miss."

  "Well, I should rather have all my troubles come in one day and be done with them for a bit," she replied. But she suspected such things were more likely to keep piling up. Chloe squared her shoulders and walked into the drawing room with her hands clasped properly before her.

  "Good morning, Mr. Rafferty," she said.

  Rafferty was an ordinary sort of fellow for his age, tending slightly to fat, dressed all in a heavy brown wool. Deep wrinkles from sitting creased both his coat and trousers. "Good morning, Miss Englefield," he said with a proper tradesman-like bow, guilt edging his nervous face. "I have just been conversing with your aunt."

  "As I see. Have you something new for us? Perhaps the blue draperies I requested? As you can see, the facings are badly faded."

  "Ah, yes," he replied, nodding and bowing all at once, with hands held at his waist as if he clasped a hat in them. "No, Miss Englefield, I have nothing that will do, yet. Of course, I might surely find something, but there is that matter of the bill..."

  Chloe's teeth clenched. He would not dare make mention of it if she were a man. "It has not been above two months, Mr. Rafferty, and you have received some payment. I am surprised you bring up the matter."

  His lightly balding head bobbed repeatedly in such a way that caused Chloe to wonder if the man had some unusual sort of twitch. "Of course, Miss Englefield, but the bill is, well, quite large. And there is the matter of your additional order. But I am afraid, of course, well, something must be paid first. Surely you understand a man must make a living, and if there are other items to be found for you, well, I must pay the merchants who find them for me, you understand. I am afraid, of course, if something is not settled on the account, well, I am very much afraid I will have to, well, do something."