This was her third trip to town since the sentiment had first been shared, and Daisy hadn’t yet paid a call. The fact that her father had a wife and two small children shouldn’t have given her pause, she supposed. But it did. Despite the life she had lived with her mother and sister and him—back before her mother’s death—she had no place in his life these days.
She shouldn’t even be in church, given her status as an illegitimate daughter. He would argue otherwise, though. Rules be damned, she remembered him saying when her mother insisted they abide Society’s—and the church’s—edicts. Her mother had done so because, she, too, was an illegitimate daughter and would never think to go against protocol.
Not when she was mistress to the heir of a dukedom.
Daisy wondered if she had made a mistake in coming to church. The London summer heat had perspiration dribbling down her back and between her breasts, moistening her stays. A twinge in her leg reminded her she needed to angle her heeled slipper just so, or she would have difficulty walking later that day. The edge of the lace ruffle at the end of her sleeve tickled the back of her hand, but she ignored it in favor of concentrating on what the bishop was saying. When that didn’t work, she allowed her mind to wander, remembering where she had been three years ago—down in Dover—, two years ago—on the Continent, and a year ago...
York.
She resisted the urge to sigh aloud at how that assignment had played out. Nearly a year spent playing mistress to a marquess suspected of smuggling meant getting too close, becoming too attached. Then she had been forced to throw him over for a wealthy trader who proved to be the real target. A man who was responsible for arranging the shipments of liquor into York by way of a strip of beach owned by the marquess. At least their association had only lasted a few months before he was arrested.
She had never felt more soiled in all her life.
That return to London had her discovering she no longer had a position with the Home Office. Your limp gives you away, Miss Albright, the secretary had said when she was dismissed with a small pension and the pay for her time in York. Her one assignment with the Foreign Office—the one in which she was sent to Belgium and was shot in the leg for her trouble—helped end her career, it seemed. Despite her offer to accept a position in an office as a clerk, she was told she was retired.
Trips to Bath and Brighton proved diverting but expensive. A brief stay in her childhood home had her experiencing melancholy before the first day ended. Every room held memories of her late mother. And the week spent alone at the Burrough’s country estate in Derbyshire only reminded her there was a reason she stayed there in the past—she preferred the city.
Having come into her majority a few years ago, she knew there were funds in a bank should she need them. Her father had seen to it, assuring both her and her sister, Diana, there were dowries set aside for them. Now that her own funds were nearly depleted, she realized if she didn’t land a position and soon, she would have to live off her inheritance.
The thought of becoming another rich man’s mistress wasn’t the least bit appealing.
“Pardon me, but are you going up?” the old woman to her right asked in a quiet voice.
Startled from her reverie, Daisy lifted her head to discover Communion was being served. She shook her head. “No. I’m...” She was about to say, “not allowed,” but said, “I’m not.” She turned a bit to allow the woman to pass, her gaze lifting in search of her father. Then she remembered he would have been one of the first to be served and decided it was too late to catch a glimpse of him.
When the service ended and the occupants of the first row filed out of the church, she pretended to read a hymnal when in fact she was watching James, Duke of Ariley, as he made his way down the aisle. He won’t recognize me, she thought with some relief. He won’t even give a glance in my direction.
What surprised her, though, was that his duchess, the former Lady Helen Harrington, sister to Stanley Harrington, Earl of Mayfield, wasn’t by his side. She wondered if the duchess was ill, or if she was spending time away from London. If so, had the children gone with her? Or were they still in London?
It was odd to think she had a younger brother and sister. She had known for years she eventually would have other siblings besides Diana—her father required an heir, after all—but she hadn’t imagined when she might meet them. What they might think of her.
Her thoughts wandered as she waited for the remaining rows of parishioners to exit before she finally stood and made her way toward the front door. Having sat too long, her leg bothered her a bit, and it was several steps before she could overcome the slight limp that the Home Office had claimed gave her away.
Concentrating on her gait, she was caught completely unawares when her father threaded an arm through her crooked elbow and pulled her off to the side in the vestibule.
Since she was in a church, she hadn’t thought to be on guard, to tense her muscles and react by punching her assailant with a fist to his cheek followed by an uppercut to his chest and a knee in the groin.
Thank the gods.
For she was suddenly facing her father. Staring at his wide, blue eyes and expression of recognition.
“It is you,” he breathed.
Daisy blinked. “Hello, Father,” she replied with a quick curtsy.
“What the...?” He almost said, “devil,” but caught himself. They were still in the church. “I’ve been worried sick about you,” he scolded.
Her eyes widening at his claim, Daisy gave a shake of her head. “You needn’t have been. I am quite fine. Didn’t you get my letters?”
James frowned. “Letters?” He repeated.
Daisy allowed a sigh of frustration. “I sent letters from Brighton, Bath, Cherrywood, and Scarborough.”
The expression on the duke’s face suggested he would be having a discussion with his man of business. “I may have,” he hedged. “But why on earth are you wearing that hideous wig? And cosmetics? Daisy... that is a wig, is it not?” he asked in a quieter voice, his expression indicating his disgust.
Giving him a quelling glance, Daisy said, “Of course it is, Father. I didn’t wish to be recognized.” By you, she almost added, in case your duchess was with you.
The Duke of Ariley's’ face screwed up. “Are you on a mission?” he asked in a whisper. Then he gave his head a quick shake. “Of course, you aren’t.”
Daisy angled her head to one side. “How do you know I am not?” she countered, a bit indignant. At one time, she had thought her work for the Home Office was a secret. And it would have been if her father wasn’t a duke. If the Home Secretary hadn’t admitted to Ariley that he had sent her on the mission to York. He had probably neglected to mention the Foreign Office had taken over that particular assignment before it was complete.
As to how James Burroughs, Duke of Ariley, even suspected her of working for King and country, she had no idea. He never said how he suspected her secret enough to ask in the first place.
And she hadn’t asked.
“Never mind that,” he said as he offered his arm. “I’m taking you home.” He started to lead them to the front doors of St. George’s. “See if we can’t find you some proper clothes.”
Daisy attempted to pull her arm from his. “I cannot be seen with you like this,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “What will people say?”
Ariley turned and regarded her with a quizzical brow. “If I let you out of my sight, it might be another two or three years before I see you again, and, dash it Daisy, I cannot abide that.”
A bit stunned by his response, Daisy regarded him for a moment. She had never for a moment doubted that he loved her and her sister, Diana. He had been a doting father, a doting lover to her mother. He had mourned Lily Albright for weeks after her death, and continued to be a good father well after the time she and Diana could look after themselves.
But he had an entirely new family now. A well-regarded duchess. Two children. The very last thing she wa
nted to do was embarrass the duchess by showing up on her doorstep. She was the duke’s illegitimate daughter!
“My Helen wishes to meet you,” he said then. At Daisy’s continued look of surprise—she was quite sure no wife of an aristocrat wanted to have anything to do with by-blows or bastard children—he added, “She married me knowing I already had a late mistress and two daughters. I made it clear you and your sister were important to me.”
Although his words merely reinforced her memory of his devotion, she still wasn’t convinced meeting his duchess was the best idea just then. “Did you tell her what I was doing for employment?” she asked, thinking if Helen shared the on-dit with those who visited her parlor, then it was no wonder she had lost her position in the Home Office.
“No. Of course not,” James replied. “I didn’t even know for the longest time.”
“May I enquire as to who told you?”
He inhaled sharply, his eyes darting to one side—clear signs he was about to either change the subject or claim he didn’t remember. So Daisy was shocked again when he said, “Chamberlain,” referring to Matthew Fitzsimmons, Viscount Chamberlain. “And only because he thought I already knew. I pretended I did, and he said a bit more than he should have over drinks at White’s.”
Daisy arched an eyebrow. “Chamberlain knows better than that,” she said. Chamberlain had been running the Foreign Office for years, and he only knew about Daisy because of her assignment in Belgium. And because there had been that bit of interoffice cooperation at the end of the York assignment. Smuggled liquor from another country fell under the Foreign Office’s purview.
Oh, and because Chamberlain’s niece had ended up stranded on a deserted island with the marquess for whom Daisy had been a mistress for nearly a year.
She gave her head a quick shake, her regret over that particular assignment still too painful.
The first rule of being a mistress was to never get too close. Never fall in love or believe an offer of carte blanche would be extended for longer than the time on the original contract.
She had come to care for Ethan Range, Marquess of Plymouth, during their year together. I probably didn’t love him, exactly, she decided. But the pain she had felt at telling him she had accepted the offer of another protector had her cringing. Had her wishing she could tell the Home Office she was done trying to discover the true culprit.
The Duke of Ariley looked suitably chagrined. “All right, then. I forced it out of him.”
Daisy blinked, once again pulled from her reverie. “What?”
Her father shrugged. “I threatened to have Chamberlain fired from his position if he didn’t tell me what he knew about you.”
Rolling her eyes—she nearly laughed at hearing her father’s claim—Daisy sighed. “Well, I can no longer claim to be in service to King and country,” she murmured. She was about to add, “Because of you,” but the duke surprised her.
“Because of me,” he said in a whisper. “At the time I threatened him, you were in Belgium. I was... beside myself with worry. You could have been shot...”
“I was shot,” Daisy said, matter-of-factly.
“You could have been kill... wait. You were shot?” he asked, his voice rising so anyone left in the church could have heard him.
Closing her eyes a moment, Daisy waited for him to calm down before she said, “Flesh wound. In the leg. I am fine,” she said before he could quiz her further.
“Were you the agent who got the missive to Wellingham?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Daisy blinked before giving her head a shake. No one was supposed to know about that mission. Four agents, all given what was supposed to be the same note and dispatched from various locations, were to rendezvous with Wellingham just before what became the Battle of Ligny.
But she didn’t make it. At least, not in time. Not quite.
Someone did, though. For the message did make it, and eventually Napoleon was defeated.
Just not that day.
“I was shot just before I got there,” she whispered.
“Jesus, pet, you could have been killed,” he replied in a frantic whisper.
“But I wasn’t.”
He was suddenly pulling her out of the church and down the front steps to his town coach, a gold ducal crest emblazoned on a door that a footman was seeing to opening the moment he appeared from inside the church.
Daisy thought about attempting to escape. Thought for a fraction of a second about stamping a half-booted foot onto the duke’s Hoby-clad foot. But the image of his valet attempting to repair the damage to the top of his boot had her deciding to simply allow him whatever he wanted. “You really intend to introduce me to your duchess when I look like this?” she asked once they were both in the town coach.
“Of course not. I’ll have Jarvis escort you to your bedchamber where you can wash off those cosmetics and change into one of your gowns.”
Daisy stared at her father. “My gowns?” she countered.
James gave a shrug. “Yes, your gowns. You have a bedchamber at Ariley Place. I saw to it anything you left behind in Kent was moved into it after your visit there last year,” he explained. “Figured if you went there again, you would find my note and understand how badly I wished to see you again.”
Daisy inhaled, holding the breath a moment. “You’re certainly full of surprises,” she murmured, a wan grin appearing. She wondered what he might have written in the note. “Too bad you didn’t read the ones I sent to you,” she said in a whisper.
He angled his head. “Daisy,” he said on a sigh. “What ever happened to have you going off to... work... when you could have stayed under my protection? Made a good match and been married? Had children?” he asked in exasperation. “My grandchildren might have been playmates for my new children.” He managed to avoid a wince when he realized how the last might have sounded to his oldest daughter.
Angling her head to match his, Daisy pulled first the awful hat and then the hideous wig from her head. The brunette hair beneath fell in curly waves around her face, youthening her appearance by at least ten years. She then unbuttoned and pulled the ragged pelisse from her shoulders, revealing a sky-blue gown of fine lawn embroidered with tiny flowers and leaves. Digging into her reticule, she pulled out a linen handkerchief and wiped her lips before folding it and then giving her face a quick wipe.
James watched in fascination as she transformed into the daughter he remembered. “It’s not too late,” he whispered in awe.
Daisy gave a shrug. “I never wanted that life, Father. I am too much my mother’s daughter, I fear. Although I promise I shall never accept an offer of carte blanche, I cannot be content doing embroidery all day long—”
“Your sister was a dance instructor,” he interrupted. “At Warwick’s. Now she’s a viscountess. Runs her own household. Or, at least, she will when she returns from her wedding trip.”
Her lower lip caught with a tooth, Daisy considered how to respond. She knew very well her younger sister would one day be a countess—The Countess of Aimsely—for Diana had married the oldest son of Mark and Patience Comber, Earl and Countess of Aimsely. Adam Comber, Viscount Breckinridge, might have been a ne’er do well in his younger years, but before the eve of his thirtieth birthday, he had quite suddenly decided to marry Diana Albright. “I sent her my congratulations when I learned of it,” Daisy said with a grin. “She is far better suited to the role of an aristocrat’s wife than I would ever be.”
For just a moment upon learning of her sister’s marriage, she wondered who might take Diana’s place at Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School. The thought of teaching arithmetic and dancing to daughters of wealthy cits didn’t hold much appeal, though. “Poor Mrs. Streater must have been beside herself on attempting to fill that position,” Daisy commented.
For just a moment, James appeared interested in what she had said, but at her quick head shake, he realized she wasn’t about to apply for a position at the finishing school. �
��If you cannot see yourself teaching young ladies or running your own household, perhaps... perhaps you would be willing to run one of my estates. As an estate manager. Or...” He faltered, not sure if she had the skills to run what was essentially a business.
What practical skills did former spies possess?
“Careful, or I may require you make me an estate manager,” she warned with a grin. “Actually, I have an application pending at Lady Bostwick’s charity,” Daisy finally admitted. “Finding Work for the Wounded. She has been successful at placing old fogeys in positions all over London. Good positions.”
James couldn’t help the wince that appeared at her mention of “old fogeys.” “I’m aware of her success,” he replied, his words sounding sharp even to his ears. “Faith, Daisy. You’re the daughter of a duke. My daughter. The least you could do is take your inheritance—”
“I started to, Father. Last year,” she interrupted. “The interest, at least.” She knew she would be in need of the funds whilst on her travels. Her salary had been enough when she was on assignments, but when the Home Office let her go, there was no pension. No hope for a future position.
Furrowing his brows, James gave her a sideways glance. “You didn’t take any of the principal,” he countered.
He had her there. She had felt like a thief just taking the interest that had accrued. She knew he intended it for a dowry. “It’s true. I... I thought it best I leave it in case—”
“Take the money,” James said in a hoarse whisper. “Use it as you see fit. But please, don’t live in squalor—”
“Oh, I do not live in squalor, Father. I only dress as if I do when... when it suits my needs,” she countered. Like when I don’t wish to be recognized because I feared you would have your duchess with you.
So much for her disguise.
“Pray tell, how long did it take for you to recognize me?” she asked.
Her father allowed a broad grin. “Not even a second. I know those eyes...” His voice broke, his own eyes brightening with tears. Struggling to maintain his composure, he finally managed to add, “You have your mother’s eyes, as does Diana,” he whispered softly.
The Conundrum of a Clerk Page 3
