A Duchess a Day

by Charis Michaels

  At the entrance, he waited, watching the crowd. It was impossible to hop from tent to tent; the rows gave way to the open area of the bonfire. He waited for a boisterous group of musicians to stroll by and fell in with their group. Helena laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth, and hurried to keep up.

  “Did the duke see you?” she whispered.

  “No.”

  “But what was his business here?”

  “God only knows,” he said. “He had two girls with him.”

  Helena thought about this. “Milkmaids?”

  “Probably.”

  “Did he look . . . happy?”

  “He did not look unhappy.” In truth, he’d looked deliriously happy with two buxom village girls on either side.

  “Perhaps I should be interviewing milkmaids,” Helena said. She shook her head. “I could never subject a milkmaid to Lusk.”

  Now they’d reached the crackling bonfire. The glowing, hissing stack threw off heat from yards away, and sparks spiraled to the sky. Helena slowed, holding her hands to the warmth, but Declan pulled her along.

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” He tugged her from one cluster of people to the next, his eyes always behind them.

  When the outermost circle of booths came into view, he picked up the pace, turned left, then—

  Lusk again.

  He stopped dead and she collided with his back.

  Heart thudding, Declan tucked Helena carefully behind him and reversed course, moving them again. A stack of barrels was piled on the edge of a row, and Declan ducked behind them, pressing against the rough wood. He peeked around the edge at the footpath. Lusk was steps away.

  “Damn,” he hissed, sliding the opposite way. He dropped into a crouch.

  What now? Helena mouthed, crouching beside him. Her eyes were bright, cheeks were flushed. She looked excited and hopeful and startlingly beautiful.

  Declan forced himself to focus. “The fastest route to the horses is through a side field with very few people,” he whispered. “We can move quickly, but I’m worried about my livery. It was foolish to embark on the market without covering the yellow. I stand out like a torch in the dark. Even if I make the entire jaunt by hopping booth to booth, I must blend in.”

  He looked around. An adjacent stall was decorated with fluttering strips of fabric, jangling metal trinkets, and bead garland. Rusted farm tools, antique furniture, and an Jacobean gown on a form flanked the opening. Colorful fishing buoys were tangled in a heap on the ground. Empty wine bottles had been embedded into the ground to form a walkway. An old sign read “Mr. Godfrey’s Treasure Trove. Fripperies, Baubles, Oddities, and Relics.”

  He looked at Helena, brows raised, and inclined his head. There?

  Helena nodded.

  Checking the crowded row, he mouthed a countdown—Three, two, one.

  They bolted.

  He looked left but darted right, obscuring his face. Helena followed as if she’d been evading men in crowded markets all her life. They didn’t stop until they were secluded by the flaps of the stall.

  Declan looked around. Thankfully, the booth was empty. The sides were strung with animal pelts, antique clothing, cloudy tentacles of discarded chandeliers, and faded oil paintings of tropical plants. Fluffy peacock fans hung from the ceiling. The floor was littered with clay pots. A teetering shelf bulged with scientific specimens in glass jars and old books.

  “What is this place?” she whispered.

  “Do not know, do not care,” said Declan, searching for anything to drape over his livery. A weathered oilcloth coat hung from a peg and he snatched it off. “I can manage with this.” He whirled it over his shoulders.

  Whistling could be heard from behind a curtain and Declan called out, “Shopkeep?”

  “Just a moment!” came the reply, then more whistling, then something shattered. Declan growled and darted to the entrance, peering out. Helena browsed behind him. When he looked back, she was fingering the crystal beads on a tear-shaped reticule.

  “Ah, the Prussian officer’s coat,” said a voice behind them. “An excellent choice.”

  They whirled around. A large man with shrewd eyes and a kind smile bellied up to the counter at the rear of the stall. “How fine it looks with your . . .” he squinted, “. . . golden tunic.”

  “How much?” Declan asked.

  “Sadly, I don’t operate in pounds and shillings, sir. Godfrey’s Treasure Trove only does business in trade.”

  “You’re joking,” Declan said. “A merchant who refuses money?”

  “But I am a very special merchant, my good sir.” He gestured to the colorful walls and hodgepodge of items spilling from the shelf. “My treasures are both payment and inventory. Never fear, customers are typically able to locate some tradable item on their very person.”

  Declan looked at Helena. She held out her hands in a gesture of Don’t look to me.

  “If it’s lady’s jewelry you’re after,” said Declan, “you should think again. She doesn’t bother with it. And jewels are hardly an even trade for this coat. It’s dank and moth-eaten and fifty years old.”

  “Jewelry is sometimes sufficient,” mused Mr. Godfrey, “but never my first choice. Rather expected, isn’t it? I prefer to deal in the realm of the . . . extraordinary.” He made a fanning gesture with both hands.

  “I’ve a comb?” Helena said, stepping up. She pulled an ivory comb from her hair and clattered it on the counter. Her hair swung behind her in a long, damp curtain.

  Godfrey examined the comb with suspicion, tapping the tines with a conductor’s wand he pulled from behind his ear. “Anything else?” he wheedled.

  “You’re looking for weaponry?” Declan guessed, his eyes narrowing. They didn’t have time for this.

  “Not necessarily,” said Mr. Godfrey. “I’ve been known to accept the odd war hammer or hurling star, but only if they’re imprinted with the date and country of origin. What more could you have?”

  Helena and Declan shared a look. Their list of offers was fast and impatient and so ridiculous Helena was laughing by the end.

  “Botany reference book?” She held out a field guide from her pocket.

  “Not unless it’s Viennese,” said Mr. Godfrey.

  “Livery tunic?” Declan asked.

  “I’m overinventoried in yellow,” said Mr. Godfrey.

  “Leather gloves?” Helena wiggled her fingers.

  “Too small.” Mr. Godfrey crinkled up his nose.

  “Crimson cloak?”

  “Too wet.”

  “Ladies’ boots?” She pointed to her toe.

  “Too modern.”

  “Belt with attached sheaths for blades?” Declan hated to part with his belt, but he was desperate. He reached beneath his tunic, revealing the broad leather belt strung with concealed daggers.

  “I’d prefer something that is not an article of clothing.”

  “But not money?” Declan ground out. “We have little more than the clothes on our backs and these few trifling suggestions.”

  “Oh, surely not?” enthused Mr. Godfrey.

  Helena laughed again but then covered her mouth with her hand. Declan spun away. “Have I mentioned that we are in an extreme hurry?”

  Helena began patting herself down. When her fingers reached the pocket of her cloak, she pulled out a leather pouch.

  “But would you consider this little sachet of apple seeds?” she asked.

  “What an interesting thought . . .” mused Mr. Godfrey, his eyes brightening. He held out his hands like a child anticipating a treat.

  Helena laid the pouch on the counter. “These are seeds from my orchard in Somerset. The apples are a new variety cultivated by my grandmother. The fruit is a beautiful red, it ripens late in the season, and the taste is a perfect mix of tart and sweet.”

  “And the seeds are poisonous!” exclaimed Mr. Godfrey gleefully.

  “What?” Declan turned back.

  “Oh yes, there is that,” Helena said, working open the
pouch. “When ground into a fine dust, apple seeds can be used as a mild cyanide. Not a deadly dose, but certainly the dust would make a person ill.” She tapped a few seeds onto the counter. “Or,” she said brightly, “you may plant them and grow a lovely apple tree?”

  “A mild cyanide,” cooed Mr. Godfrey, poking the seeds with his wand.

  “Why do you have these?” Declan asked her lowly.

  Helena shrugged again. “I tossed them into my trunk when I came to London—a talisman of my grandmother, I suppose. And then I brought them to Lusk’s farm in case I needed to impress the horticulturist.”

  “But can you part with them?”

  “Actually, I feel as if Gran gave them to me for this very purpose,” Helena said.

  “Excellent,” boomed Mr. Godfrey. “A lovely addition to my inventory. And many thanks to you. Do enjoy the coat.” He scooped up the seeds and closed a chubby fist over the pouch.

  Declan’s hand came down like an ax. “Not so fast.” He held the man in place.

  To Helena he said, “You’re certain?”

  The smile she gave him, gratefulness and kinship and something more, something misty and personal, a look just for him, caused his throat to go tight.

  She nodded.

  Declan released Godfrey and gave him a curt nod. “Thank you. If anyone asks, you never saw us.” To Helena he said, “Let’s go.”

  Helena was calling a polite farewell to Godfrey while Declan peeked out of the entrance.

  Damn! He clamped the tent shut and spun. “Lusk is outside,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Declan said.

  To the shopkeeper, he called, “Is there another way out?”

  “You’d be amazed,” sang Mr. Godfrey, “at the number of customers who ask this very question. It happens so often I’ve constructed a side entrance for this purpose.” The large man pulled the rear curtain and gestured to a flap that led to the alley behind his stall.

  “Thank you,” said Declan, taking Helena by the hand. “Any idea who your neighbors are? To the back?”

  “But of course,” said Mr. Godfrey. “It’s dear Mr. Jones-Tussle. We set up near each other when we can. Old friends, don’t you know.”

  “Please tell me,” grumbled Declan, slipping into the alley, “that Mr. Jones-Tussle sells Japanese screens or giant hats.”

  “No,” said Godfrey, “textiles.”

  “Close enough,” said Declan, and he pulled Helena into the opposite tent.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They were laughing when they spilled into the textile booth. Declan held her behind him, looking around. The tent was empty. And styled like a harem room. Heavy woven tapestries hung from the walls; the floor was piled with pillows. The dirt was padded by carpets. Colorful yarn weavings hung from the spokes of the tent.

  Helena grabbed his shoulders from behind. “Where did you see Lusk?” she asked breathlessly, her lips close to his ear.

  “Across from Godfrey’s stall. He was two yards away.” He turned his face to hers, his heart thudding.

  She nudged closer to his ear. “It’s a little exciting,” she whispered, “to evade him.” She brushed his cheek with her nose. His hat fell.

  “Helena,” he rasped. A very weak warning.

  She released his shoulders and pulled off her gloves. She pressed into his back, sliding her hands over his shoulders and down his chest. “Everything you do is exciting.”

  “Helena, we mustn’t,” he rasped. “This tent is not private. This . . . interlude is not part of the plan. This is the opposite of the plan.”

  “I hate the plan.” Her lips were so close to his mouth.

  “The plan is your idea.” He felt behind him, grabbing her hip.

  “But you designed it.”

  She kissed him. She couldn’t reach his lips, but almost. She kissed the side of his mouth, his cheek, his ear.

  Declan turned his head to meet her. The kiss was meant to be quick and finalizing. But she licked him. She went up on her toes, almost climbing his back. One kiss became two, became ten.

  He growled and twisted, grabbing her by the waist and sliding her into his arms.

  “It’s not a bad plan,” he said, kissing her properly, “all things considered.”

  “It’s a lovely plan,” she breathed. “I’m thrilled by the plan . . .”

  And now she jumped up, straddling him. He caught her bottom with two hands.

  “You thrill me,” she laughed.

  Declan bounced her in his hands, finding the exact perfect alignment of her body. They were suspended there, reveling in the rare combination of familiar and fleeting. He knew her body, even when he should not. They’d done this before, but they shouldn’t do it now. It was reckless and pulse-pounding and she was impossible to resist.

  “Do you know,” she panted between kisses, “I was actually worried I’d be bored when I came to London.”

  “Easily bored, are you?” he teased, but in his head he thought, I am a diversion to her.

  And then, Does it matter? He delved his tongue into her mouth. He’d pleasured scores of women in his life and never cared about it beyond their mutual release. This could be no different. He could be her diversion.

  “Running away was a suitable distraction.” She sighed, digging her hands beneath his collar to find heated skin. “But I’d no idea how diverting compliance would be.”

  “I’ve got news for you, sweetheart. This is not compliance.” He shifted her into one hand and bit off a glove, shifted her again and bit off the other. Every readjustment pressed her tantalizingly against his need. Helena squirmed and moaned into his mouth, setting off an explosion of sensation. Declan kissed her harder, kissed her breathless. He kissed her until his legs shook and he was forced to widen his stance to support them. Her roving hands slid between them, seeking the heavy bulge of his erection.

  “But can I . . . ?” she breathed into his ear. “Is this alr—”

  Declan moaned and went down on one knee, pulling her with him. Plush cushions were stacked nearby. He need only fall back to sprawl her across him.

  “Declan,” she breathed, “I need . . .” She closed her fingers around him. All useful thought ceased. Her touch was a pulsing burn of pleasure.

  “Declan,” she pleaded.

  “What—?!” ranted a voice from beyond Declan’s haze of desire.

  He froze.

  “What is the meaning of—”

  Helena giggled against his mouth. Declan swore in his head. He looked in the direction of the sound.

  Sunlight spilled through the raised flap of the tent. An angry textiles merchant glowered at their entwined bodies.

  Declan looked back to Helena. She bit her lip. Her expression was the blushing, bemused embodiment of Oh dear.

  In that moment, he would have traded Newgate to kiss her one more time.

  But he pivoted sideways, tumbling Helena gently onto a pile of cushions and blocking her from view.

  “Easy, mate,” Declan called to the merchant, and disentangled from Helena. He vaulted to his feet.

  “I’ve got a guinea for five more minutes.” Declan dug into his pocket and came up with a jingle of coins.

  “I run a respectable business,” the merchant insisted, staring at the coins.

  “Of course you do,” Declan agreed, tossing the gold, “and a successful one. Which is why you’ll not pass up the opportunity to turn your easiest profit of the week. Five minutes.”

  The merchant grumbled but closed his hand over the coins and went away. Declan secured the tent flap and turned back to Helena. She was flushed and tousled but smiling, working her hands into her gloves.

  “Five minutes?” she asked. “You could have bought us an hour.”

  “We do not have an hour,” he said, tugging on his own gloves. “We don’t have five minutes.”

  “You are a terrible groom,” she sighed, tucking back her hair.

  Yes, but what of the diversion? he thoug
ht. Before he could stop himself, he said, “Liked that, did you?” It came out with more curtness than he’d anticipated.

  “What?” Helena paused, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

  “The kiss?” He looked away.

  “Was that ‘a kiss’?” she laughed.

  “Kisses,” he corrected.

  “Of course I liked it. But, Declan, how could you not know this? Have I displeased you?”

  Declan considered this, putting on his hat. She pleased him in every way. This situation was not her fault. She’d been very clear from the beginning. She wanted his help. He’d not conceived of helping her exactly this way, but he had no right to complain. So what if she found him exciting and desirable? If it was adventure she craved, he could give her that.

  “I am the opposite of displeased,” he said, peeking out of the tent. “I live to serve.”

  “But that was not serving,” she insisted. “That was—”

  He stopped her by raising a flat palm. He turned back. “You would not believe this,” he said. “I think we may have stumbled upon Lady Moira.”

  Helena raced to the tent door, her heart in her throat. Peering out, she saw two liveried footmen in royal blue standing sentry outside of a deep stall. Their smart uniforms stood out like toy soldiers in the crowd of tan wool. Beside the tent was a sign that read “Herbal Remedies and Cure-Alls.”

  Helena snatched Declan’s hand, strumming with excitement. Oh, to leave the market with the connection they’d come for. Squeezing his hand, she examined the tent, waiting for some sign of a lady to match the liveried servants.

  He was just about to engage one of the footmen when a sallow young woman emerged from the tent with a full basket over her arm. She spoke briefly to one of the footmen, handed off the basket, and pulled a heavy linen kerchief from her pocket. She glanced at the sky, holding the kerchief to her face.

  “Oh,” said Helena. The excitement draining away.

  Declan said, “That’s her?”

  Helena stepped outside the textile booth, staring at the girl. Her thin hair was pulled tightly from her face. A hat designed for warmth (not fashion) obscured her profile. Thick gloves turned her hands into woolly mitts. A heavy wrap swallowed her shoulders, and she shrugged deeply, burrowing within heavy folds.