by Julia London
But Grayson was mostly unsettled by the image of a smiling young woman wearing an apron and with flour on her cheek. The woman sitting across from him this evening had the elegance of a queen and the beauty of legends. This was the woman he had seen at the opera, the woman he’d all but forgotten after calling on her at King Street.
The jade color of Miss Bergeron’s gown had shimmered in the low candlelight. Wisps of pale blond hair fell about her face, the rest of her hair gathered in a velvet green ribbon wrapped around her head. Her arms were covered in white satin gloves and jewels dangled from her ears and her slender throat.
He’d watched her during the performance. Grayson was hopelessly tone-deaf, and music did not fall on his ears in the same soothing way it seemed to fall on other people’s ears. So he’d passed the time by surreptitiously observing the courtesan.
She’d sat almost casually, with one hand placed on top of the other in her lap, her feet tucked to one side beneath her seat. But it was the expression on her face that had captivated him—her gaze was riveted on the musicians, her expression full of rapture, and it seemed that she was bound to each note, swaying slightly with each crescendo. For once in his life, Grayson could almost feel the music just by watching her. It had been strangely and disturbingly moving.
He knew George must have been smitten upon first meeting her. Miss Bergeron was quite lovely, that was indisputable, the loveliest of any courtesan Grayson had ever met, and he’d met a few. She had a seductive air about her that drew a man’s earnest attention. Yet the most remarkable thing about her was her smile—it seemed to illuminate everything around her.
The woman could say the most outrageous, irreverent things, and they seemed very nice when delivered with that smile.
“Your Grace?”
Lord Eagleton, a viscount with political ambitions that clashed with those of Grayson’s family, had sidled over to him. An important parliamentary vote on abolishing the slave trade on British vessels would be taken soon. Grayson’s brother Merrick was a staunch supporter of abolition and had aligned himself with the Quakers and William Wilberforce, who were leading the movement. Like Merrick, Grayson did not believe in the concept of slavery and could not condone it. He certainly could not condone the transport of slaves by British vessels. Thanks to Merrick, Grayson had seen the conditions under which the poor souls were made to travel and they were as inhumane as anything he’d ever imagined. Merrick, an earl in his own right, was working hard to bring Parliament around to abolition. But there were powerful lords who benefited from the trade and were bucking his efforts.
Eagleton was one of them. “How fortuitous to encounter you this evening,” the man said, his voice smooth enough to charm a snake. “I sent round an inquiry to your secretary that perhaps you might receive me, Your Grace. I should very much like to discuss the abolitionist movement.”
Grayson appreciated the warning—he would instruct his secretary, Mr. Palmer, to decline any entreaty. To Eagleton, he said, “I think you should be speaking with my brother, Lord Merrick Christopher.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I hoped to speak with you. Britain’s trade has been built in part on the transport of slaves. Our nation’s wealth could very well depend on the continuation of it. I am not certain your brother understands the import of it.”
Grayson wondered which rich slave trader was lining Eagleton’s pockets. “I think he understands it clearly.”
Eagleton moved closer to him. “If we do not trade slaves, how soon is it before we do not trade in tobacco? Slaves harvest tobacco. Or sugar?”
Grayson turned to face Eagleton. “You underestimate us, sir. The slave trade is morally reprehensible and there is nothing you can say that will dissuade the Christophers from that.”
Eagleton’s smile faded. “Then you best hope your eager younger brother has your moral fortitude, my lord. There is a movement afoot to cast Mr. Wilberforce and his supporters aside and do what is best for Britain—not what is best for the conscience of a few religious fanatics.” With that, he walked away.
Grayson determined this most wretched evening deserved to end. He said good-bye to his cousin Victoria, who pouted when he took his leave. He summoned a footman and requested his cloak. He walked to the entry hall and sent a boy to tell his driver to have the carriage brought round.
He was thinking about Eagleton and the split of votes for and against abolition as he walked outside. He stood on the walk beneath the light of the public lanterns, slapping his gloves against his greatcoat, waiting for his carriage to be brought round.
A soft ahem startled him; Grayson glanced to his right.
Bloody hell. He could not seem to escape the beautiful courtesan this evening.
She moved closer; the hood of her cloak framed her face and made her eyes seem even greener. “You’re leaving? The second movement hasn’t even begun!” she said. “Perhaps you might find it more to your liking than the first.”
“I rather doubt it.”
She said nothing for a moment. Then added, “I adore music. It’s so uplifting.”
Her eyes, he noticed, were sparkling even brighter in the crisp night air.
She cocked her head, a bemused frown on her lips. “If I may, Your Grace, there is no need to be anxious around me. I do not intend to embarrass you.”
He almost rolled his eyes. “You cannot embarrass me, madam. I find the mere presumption offensive.”
Miss Bergeron’s lovely eyes widened. “I beg your pardon. I merely meant—”
“I know precisely what you meant, Miss Bergeron. You expect me to welcome this intrusion into my life, and if I do not, you attempt to disparage me.”
“No! I … my apologies if you thought so. I meant only to … to—”
“To what?” he demanded.
“To make a proper acquaintance,” she said, her voice small.
“Allow me to disabuse you of that desire, Miss Bergeron. You and I will not be friends.”
Something glinted in her pale green eyes. “No, I suppose we will not, for I don’t believe I could ever befriend a man as unkind and ungentlemanly as you.”
That certainly took him aback. “Pardon?”
“I explained to you the first time I met you that I did not ask for this, either, Your Grace, but I do not have the power to remove myself from the situation. I have tried to be kind and you … you have let your disdain for me be known at every opportunity!”
Grayson bristled. She was too bold by half. “You obviously do not know who you are speaking to in such a manner—”
“Oh, I am well aware,” she said, her eyes glittering now. “I am aware that, by all accounts, you are quite warm and charming to your acquaintances, but to someone such as me, who is well below your station in life, you hold yourself up as a preening peacock who has had his feathers set up!”
He gaped at her. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner. “You are unconscionably brazen, Miss Bergeron!”
Her expression suddenly changed; she looked almost sad. “Perhaps I am. I will endeavor to be less brazen. But I am not diseased, Your Grace. I have only done what I must to survive.”
Grayson stared at her. He was angry—one did not address a duke so boldly—but he also felt a glimmer of shame. And now that he’d been so chastised, he was uncertain what to say to her.
A coach was approaching on the street, and he assumed it was his. Miss Bergeron looked to the carriage. So did Grayson. It was not his, but it was, apparently, hers. As it rolled to a stop, a coachman leapt off the back runner to open the door. Without a word, Miss Bergeron walked forward and stepped gracefully into the coach without looking back.
Chapter Six
At one o’clock in the morning, Diana paced before an elaborately carved hearth in her suite of rooms. The fire had long since been reduced to coals, and Diana had been dressed in her woolen dressing gown and furlined slippers for over an hour. She was almost unaware of the drafts in the stately old mansion; her thou
ghts were racing uncontrollably, her imagination conjuring a number of horrible images.
Grayson had been expected hours ago after a recital at Whitehall, but he’d not come. Millie, Diana’s personal servant, would have let him in the back door and brought him up the servant’s entrance to her suite. What could have kept him? Diana tried to tell herself there was any number of reasonable explanations—unexpected visitors, a horse with a thrown shoe, a carriage with a broken axle.
But wouldn’t Grayson have sent a messenger? Of course he would have, which meant something else, something worse had befallen him. Thieves came to mind. They were bloodthirsty and ruthless, and Diana heard they came up from the docks at night and preyed on innocent people. The very thought propelled her to pick up a single candle and leave her rooms in search of answers.
The Eustis house was dark and silent at this hour; dawn came early and the servants retired early. Diana moved silently through the wide halls, past the paintings of her husband’s ancestors, past the statuary and porcelain objets d’art. She moved down the grand, curving staircase, ran across the large entry and into another corridor. At the end of that hallway was another, narrower staircase that led up to the servants’ wing. These were the rooms reserved for the highest-ranking household staff— Hatt the butler, the cook, and the housekeeper—as well as two footmen and two maids. The other servants slept below stairs, two to a room. Lord Eustis did not believe in dailies; he preferred his servants to be on hand at all times.
At the third door on the right, Millie’s room, Diana rapped lightly, then glanced furtively around, afraid someone might hear her and open their door. Unfortunately, no one seemed to hear her—not even Millie.
Diana rapped again, a bit louder.
After what seemed an eternity, the door swung open and Millie blinked as if the candlelight hurt her eyes. She was wearing a woolen nightgown and a cap on her head. A long, red braid hung over her shoulder. “Mu’um?” she whispered, clearly surprised.
Diana pushed past Millie and stepped into the room. It was small, perhaps no larger than ten feet long, and had a single dormer window. It smelled of ash and lye soap and the coals in the brazier were cold. It was wintry in that small room. “Millie… has no one come?” Diana demanded in a loud whisper. “Surely at least a messenger has come.”
“No, mu’um,” Millie said, shaking her head.
“When did you retire?” Diana asked, her tone accusing, but she couldn’t help herself.
“Half past eleven,” Millie said uncertainly.
“Half past eleven! What if a messenger had come? You must endeavor to remain below until midnight!”
“I’m sorry, mu’um, but I must be up with dawn’s first light—”
“Yes, I understand, but you see my point, do you not?” Diana insisted.
“Yes, mu’um,” Millie said quietly.
Heavens, it wasn’t the girl’s fault, Diana understood that, but she was filled with anxiety. Grayson never failed her, and on those rare occasions when something did indeed crop up, he sent word.
Millie frowned and folded her arms around her, shivering from the cold.
Diana had entrusted Millie with her secret. With her life, really—for if Millie were ever to turn on her, she could ruin Diana. Lord Eustis would never forgive her for having an affair, especially as she had not provided him the heir he so desperately wanted. That Millie had the power to ruin everything was something Diana could not forget, and even now, as frustrated as she was with Grayson’s absence, with Millie’s failure to stay near the door when she was most needed, Diana checked herself.
“I beg your pardon, Millie,” she said. “I do not mean to be so sharp, but I’ve an awful headache.”
“You should take a bit of laudanum for it, mu’um,” Millie said frostily.
Diana looked at the girl; the uncertainty had gone from her eyes, and in its place was something much harder. “Yes,” Diana said carefully. “Perhaps I should.”
Something had shifted in that room. Millie sensed her power over Diana. “I would have gone to you straightaway if a messenger had come … just as I always do.”
“Yes,” Diana said. Coming here suddenly felt like a very big mistake. “Well then,” she said, forcing a smile. “I shan’t keep you longer. As you say, dawn comes early.”
She moved past Millie. As she reached for the door, Millie put her hand on the knob.
“There’s just one thing, if I may, mu’um,” Millie said smoothly.
Diana looked at the door. She forced herself to smile. “Yes, Millie?”
“I need more coal for the brazier.”
The servants were allotted so much coal per week, and Millie had used her allotment. Yet her gaze was openly defiant, for she knew that Diana could not possibly refuse her; the price of her silence was coal.
“Very well,” Diana said. “I shall ask Mr. Hatt to bring some coal to you tomorrow.”
“And a blanket,” Millie said.
Diana bristled. She looked away from Millie to the door. “A blanket, of course,” she said. “Did I not make that perfectly clear? Coal and a blanket. Will you open the door now?”
Millie slowly pulled it open, then leaned against it, watching Diana as she walked out of the room, striding swiftly down the corridor before the chit could ask for more.
Chapter Seven
Grayson’s secretary, Mr. Palmer, sat across the polished cherrywood desk from him making meticulous notes, just as he did every morning. His head was down, the bald pate of his head shining back at Grayson. The man’s spectacles defied gravity and remained perched on the very end of his nose, but Mr. Palmer never seemed to notice, so intent was he on his duties. He asked questions only when absolutely necessary, and rarely made suggestions.
This morning, however, Mr. Palmer had asked Grayson three questions thus far: Did His Grace intend to decline the invitation to the Sumner supper party, as he had previously instructed the opposite? Did His Grace wish to invite his younger sister to luncheon on Sunday, as he had included all his siblings currently in town, save Mary? Did His Grace mean to authorize the payment of four geese when five geese had been purchased?
Grayson’s mind was someplace other than his affairs; he quickly corrected himself. He was ready for this interview to end, but there was that thing, that little thing that kept knocking around in his head, making him cross and inefficient. Katharine Bergeron was right. He had judged her harshly because of her occupation. “There is one last thing, Palmer,” Grayson said. “I should like you to purchase a trinket. A necklace, perhaps, something a lady would like.”
“And deliver it to Lady Eustis?” Palmer said, his pen scratching against the vellum.
Diana, Diana, he could not forget Diana. His failure to appear last night undoubtedly had her at sixes and sevens. “Quite right—please deliver one to Lady Eustis. And one to Miss Katharine Bergeron on King Street.”
Palmer’s pen stopped moving on the vellum.
“I shall give you direction to Miss Bergeron along with a note to be delivered with the necklace,” Grayson added.
The pen moved on the paper.
“That’s all.”
Mr. Palmer gathered the papers in his lap, and the case beside him, and stood. “I shall wait in the anteroom for the morning’s correspondence, Your Grace.”
“Good day, Mr. Palmer,” Grayson muttered, and withdrew a piece of vellum. He dipped a pen in ink, and wrote: Miss Bergeron, please accept my sincere apology for having offended you. I assure you that was not my desire. Darlington.
Quite short, but in his experience the ruffled feathers of a woman were better soothed with a bit of pretty jewelry than with words.
Kate would allow Digby’s discerning palate to be the final judge of her latest batch of petits fours, but she thought she’d put a little too much salt in them. Nevertheless, she was putting the finishing touches on them when Aldous hurried into the kitchen. That alone was enough to startle her; Aldous never hurried.
&n
bsp; “Come at once,” Aldous said anxiously. “It is Digby.” He left the kitchen just as quickly as he’d entered it.
Kate dropped her knife with a clatter, and wiping her hands on her apron, she rushed after Aldous.
She found the two men in the drawing room. Aldous was pouring whiskey and Digby was sprawled on the settee. His clothes were torn and dirty, his lip cut, and one eye swollen shut. “Digby!” she cried, rushing forward. “What in God’s name has happened?” She fell to her knees beside him as Aldous put the whiskey into Digby’s hand.
Digby did not answer straightaway, but drank the whiskey as if it was water. He grimaced at the taste of it, then handed the empty glass to Aldous. “More, please.”
“Digby!”
“Is my face as mangled as it feels?” he asked tightly, touching his fingertips to his cheekbone.
“Quite,” Aldous said without hesitation.
“What happened to you?” Kate cried.
“A bit of foolishness,” Digby said as he gingerly probed his lip. “I was down at the quays to see a couple of gents about the perfume trade and who should I chance to see but Meg. I asked the lass about the man she’d seen who so closely resembled you. She confirmed she’d seen him at the Rooster and Crown, and I bravely ventured into that decidedly squalid public house on the quay at St. Katharine’s.”
“Oh no—”
“I foolishly believed that a pair of gold sovereigns might jog a memory or two.”
“Jogged more than a memory by the look of it,” Aldous quipped.
“Digby, why ever would you do such a thing? You don’t have enough in your purse to be handing sovereigns about!”
“Yes, well, in spite of my mangled appearance, the sovereigns served their purpose,” he said with a hint of indignation in his voice. He closed his eyes and rested his head. “I now know that one Jude Berger is a seaman on The Princess merchant ship, and that The Princess is quite adept at sailing around naval blockades and actively pursues the slave trade.”
