A Duchess a Day

by Charis Michaels

  “Girdleston will not live forever,” Helena added, “and it is my great hope that, one day, Lusk will . . . will grow up.”

  She looked at Miss Keep and made a face. “But I cannot guarantee it.”

  “I am not afraid of either of these men,” Miss Keep proclaimed. “I never intended to marry, so a husband who pursues his own diversions sounds inconsequential to me. If the arrangement comes with money and influence and I may enjoy the freedom to study.”

  She got up from her chair and walked to her desk. “But what I don’t know is if I can win him over. If he is as you describe.”

  “He is,” Helena said on a sigh, but she was thinking, She cannot. And is it fair of me to encourage her to try?

  For better or for worse, Helena pressed on. “It’s only the initial attraction that you would need to get perfectly right. For this, you would need to enchant him, in a way. And quickly—in fact, you’d have to make a very strong first impression in one afternoon. There’s a party at Lusk House next week, and I’ll invite all of the potential duchesses there to . . . in a manner . . . beguile him.”

  “Other women?”

  “I know, it sounds arcane—it is a little arcane—but I’ve had to cast a wide net, and to do so quickly. My plan is to bring all the potential duchesses together at this event. Whichever girl seems to spark his interest would have a fortnight to further ensnare him. He must throw me over before the wedding in January. It’s all very dire, I’m afraid. But someone will be the Duchess of Lusk in the end—only, it cannot be me.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Keep, looking overwhelmed.

  “Look, Miss Keep, you are very beautiful, but do you think you could flirt? Could you cozen up and appeal to him and . . . bewitch him for a time?”

  “If it meant my hospital, I could try,” she said, but she sounded very uncertain. She sounded like a bold child accepting a dare.

  Helena slumped lower in her seat.

  After a moment, Miss Keep said, “But what do you mean by the notion of flirting?”

  Helena opened her mouth to answer but before she could, Declan rolled off the wall and leaned his head through the open door.

  “Maid’s come,” he said.

  Helena nodded, looking up, and she was struck with an idea. Unorthodox. Bold and provocative. But what part of her scheme was not all of these things?

  She said, “I need a favor, Shaw. Will you come in?”

  To Miss Keep, she said, “My groom is very obliging.”

  Declan asked, “In the office?” He looked confused.

  “Come. Sit.” Helena rose. “Right here.” She stood behind her chair and patted it with three taps.

  Cautiously, Declan entered the small room. The very breadth of his muscled body put the spindly table and fragile tea service in jeopardy. The chair creaked when he sat.

  Miss Keep took up a piece of parchment and pen and resettled into her chair. She stared at Helena as if she would explain some complicated magic trick.

  “Shaw?” Helena asked, coming up behind him in the chair. “Will you help me demonstrate flirting to Miss Keep?” She settled both hands on his shoulders.

  Declan reeled around. “Ah, no,” he said. His expression said, You wouldn’t.

  Helena ignored him. “I’m no expert,” she continued, dropping her face to beside his, dangling her wrists over his shoulders, “but based on what I have seen, you must touch unnecessarily at every opportunity.”

  Slowly, wiggling her fingers over his chest, she began to tug at her gloves.

  Miss Keep madly scribbled notes.

  “Did you say that my maid, Meg, has arrived?” Helena asked sweetly, speaking close to his face.

  “Ah . . . ?” said Declan.

  Helena dropped her limp gloves onto his thighs. He stared down at them as if something had died in his lap.

  She leaned farther, encircling his neck with her hands. “Is she concerned?”

  “Who?” Declan’s voice cracked.

  “Meg.”

  “No,” he said flatly. “She’s confused. But not as confused as I am.”

  Helena laughed, pressing her forehead to his, a quick nuzzle, and then slid away. She circled the chair to sit down in his lap.

  Declan jumped as if something had bitten him.

  She ignored this and shimmied deeper into his lap. She wrapped an arm around his neck and pressed her palm on his chest. Did Lusk’s women drape themselves across him? Helena couldn’t say. But if she had the freedom to be playful and affectionate with Declan, she would sit in his lap. She’d wanted to be in Declan’s arms since they’d left the market. Helena’s longing was real and urgent and ever present. Miss Keep would have to pretend all of these.

  She told the other woman, “You hold eye contact for prolonged periods of time.”

  Helena gazed up at Declan. He stared back as if she’d burst into flames.

  Miss Keep scribbled more.

  “And you laugh at everything he says,” Helena added.

  “My lady . . . ?” Declan rasped. His voice was a warning.

  Helena frowned. “Obviously, it would be difficult to laugh at something like my lady, but can you see what I mean?”

  She slumped a little in his arms, happy, in spite of herself, to be so near to him. “You ruffle his hair. You say things that are funny and spirited. You suggest that the two of you embark on outings or adventures that are provocative or unorthodox. Like . . . ice skating at night. Or swimming in winter.”

  Now Helena was simply guessing.

  She glanced at Miss Keep, and the other woman stared back with a look of applied absorption, forcing herself to understand. Beneath it all was a pale, tight panic. It was as if she’d just learned that her hospital was on the other side of a deep canyon, and all she had to do was flap her wings and fly to it.

  “And this is how you landed the duke?” Miss Keep asked. “In the beginning?”

  Now Helena laughed. “Good God, no. My parents arranged the betrothal. Lusk and I cannot abide each other. I could not fake a flirtation with him if my life depended on it. Nor would I want to. And honestly, Miss Keep? I’m not certain you could either. I . . . I’m not certain you are the correct girl for this proposition.”

  Helena climbed from Declan’s lap and dusted her hands together. Declan shoved from the chair.

  “If I was a duchess,” Miss Keep ventured, “I would be so much closer to realizing the work of my life.” The words sounded forced. Her face was pinched with reluctance. She studied her notes, looking at the words like the recipe for poison.

  “Wanting to be a duchess will not be the same as becoming the Duchess of Lusk,” said Helena. “You’re a smart woman, clearly, and your aspirations are not merely noble, they are necessary. The world needs more doctors of every stripe. Who knows what you might accomplish all on your own? Quite a lot, I predict. And without having to sell your soul to the Girdleston family to do it.”

  “I . . . I am so impatient for opportunities,” Miss Keep said.

  “I believe you,” said Helena, “and I am sorry. But this was less of an opportunity, and more of a . . . terrible trade. I don’t believe it is the best trade for you. Will you forgive me for wasting your time? I . . . I had to be certain.”

  Miss Keep closed her eyes, looked at the floor, and nodded.

  As Helena and Declan made their way to the door, Miss Keep made assurances that she would not tell a soul that Helena Lark was in the clinic for any other reason than stomach distress.

  Helena believed her, and she overwhelmed her with thanks and well wishes. At the last minute, Helena suggested that she might call on one Lady Moira Ashington to inquire about a consultation. If the girl was buying herbal remedies in Wandsworth, clearly she was open to alternative treatments. Even, perhaps, a young woman doctor.

  When she said her final good-bye, Declan was already in the street. Helena collected a confused Meg and embarked upon the waiting carriage, her heart heavy.

  When they reached th
e carriage steps, Declan was shaking his head.

  “What was that?” he growled.

  “I know,” she sighed. “I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry.” And she was sorry. She’d been reckless with their plan and precipitous with Miss Keep’s rejection. The interviews were rife with anxiety and complications. The margin of error was significant.

  Declan did not respond and she climbed wearily into the carriage with Meg.

  Not seen to any of them was the lurking figure in the black cloak hovering on the corner.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Seven Duchesses (Potential)

  Happy ✓

  Sneezy

  Doc

  Helena was sorry?

  Sorry.

  Sorry for what? Declan wondered.

  Sorry for jeopardizing his wholesale betrayal of Girdleston by flaunting their obvious intimacy in front of a woman they’d only just met?

  Sorry for allowing a perfectly willing candidate to simply walk away?

  Sorry for making him want her through it all?

  It was impossible to guess at her regret, and they were given no opportunity to discuss any of it, as she was locked inside the carriage with her maid, and then her sister Camille rushed to receive her when they reached Lusk House.

  Declan went through the motions of stable chores with jerky, agitated precision. He ate dinner with the other grooms in stony silence. Girdleston summoned him to the green salon for his nightly threatening. This time, thank God, he also paid him: £75 and a bottle of brandy. Declan gave the liquor to Nettle and wrote a long-overdue letter to his father.

  Da,

  Still on the new job in Mayfair.

  Busy but well.

  You would be appalled—they’ve given me the most jaundiced shade of yellow livery, and the fit is terrible. I look like a walking daffodil.

  Beyond that, they feed me well, and they stable the finest horses and the most modern carriages. The client is . . .

  Declan paused, his pen hovering above the page.

  The client is beautiful and clever and demanding.

  The client leaps from one bold, erratic gesture to the next.

  The client is trapped.

  The client is relentless.

  The client thrills me.

  The client embodies something I’ve never wanted but now struggle to do without.

  The client has hair as black as ebony and green eyes.

  The client terrifies me.

  The client is killing me.

  The client is more than I can handle.

  The client may send me back to prison, and I don’t even care.

  The client needs me.

  The client may deliver us all.

  He could hardly write any of these.

  He settled on:

  The client is a spirited young woman who requires my full attention. I’m sorry there’s not been a spare afternoon that I may visit you.

  Before I post this, there is one more thing. I may have managed a new situation for you and the girls. It is a forest cottage in Somerset. There is a village nearby and a river. I’ve not visited the site, but I’ve been to Somerset, and it’s lovely.

  We cannot rely upon it, and I only mention it because you must be prepared to relocate quickly if I can make it come to pass.

  Tell the girls. I know Somerset would be a significant change, but we’ve been over this. The good reasons far outweigh the bad.

  I am sorry to tell you this by letter instead of a visit from me, which is long overdue. You are never far from my mind, and I have enclosed money for firewood and lantern oil and meat. It is more than usual, so please take care not to squander it. It is important that you keep some savings, Da. The next bundle is not guaranteed. Provision for the winter, buy the girls some frivolous treat, but ration. I’m sorry it is not more. I’m sorry for everything that has happened these last nine months.

  Your son,

  Declan

  The mere act of writing the words imbued Declan with a new sense of purpose and a fresh stab of guilt.

  Yes, Helena’s family was shackling her to a future she did not want, but what of the future of his family? Where had his loyalties gone?

  She’d made him so angry at the medical office. He’d felt like a passenger, watching a reckless coachman steer his team along the crumbling edge of a high cliff. And she expected him to enjoy the ride.

  Tomorrow, he would speak with her. He would remind her that decisions about these women were made together. And that, always, they were discreet. With everyone. The intimacy they shared was not on display. In fact, the intimacy that they shared must stop. He was not her London diversion.

  He would not touch her again—not tomorrow, not ever.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Helena was slated to visit the British Museum in Bloomsbury the next day. She would tour the exhibits, sketch the artifacts, and speak to a docent about becoming a patron. It was Thursday, and there were no scheduled family outings; this visit was purely for herself.

  And to scout the next potential duchess.

  The candidate was Miss Jessica Marten, a young woman who was said to haunt the museum most days, assisting her father with research and transcription.

  Despite the coldness of the morning, Helena elected to walk from Lusk House to the museum. She’d known Declan was out of sorts when they’d left Miss Keep the day before, and she’d worried about it all night. She would not ride in anxious solitude inside the carriage while he glowered outside, not when they could walk and talk.

  She took care with her appearance, wearing a crimson dress with burgundy trim. She chose mauve gloves and hat, and Meg plaited her hair and pinned the braids in looping coils at the back of her head. She had a faint matador-ish look when she descended the stairs for breakfast. Considering Declan’s mood, this felt appropriate.

  She sent for Shaw immediately after breakfast. Girdleston hovered in the grand hall, peppering her with questions about where she intended to go on foot with no proper chaperone. Helena cheerfully informed him that she wished to research fossilized plants at the British Museum. She’d asked Lusk to escort her, she reported regretfully, but alas, the duke declined.

  When Declan appeared, she stacked his arms with sketch pads, reference books, drawing materials, and a living specimen of Malus domestica in a clay pot. The final touch was admitting to Girdleston that she had (begrudgingly) begun to rely upon his groom—and they set off.

  “You’re angry,” she said, striding in the direction of Cumberland Gate.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I am angry.”

  They made the corner at Oxford Street, walking east. The cold air stung her eyes, but she did not feel chilled. She felt only him, his silence and rigid displeasure. A sharp animosity crackled with every clip, clip, clip of his steps. He radiated frustration.

  “Should I begin to toss out guesses?” she asked.

  “You truly do not know?”

  Helena stopped walking and he almost collided with her. She pivoted to face him. “Truly, I do not know.”

  “Fine,” he said, guiding her from the bustle of pedestrian traffic. “You were too cavalier and familiar in your ‘flirting lesson’ with Miss Keep yesterday. It put the plan in jeopardy and our collaboration at risk. As your groom, I am powerless to do anything more than say, ‘Yes, my lady,’ and follow your lead. I was forced to comply, and I didn’t like it.”

  “Why not? Because the demonstration dissuaded her?”

  “Because you sat in my lap and cooed in my ear for the benefit of someone you’d known ten minutes. Lap-sitting and ear-cooing is not the behavior of an heiress and her groom, and certainly not the behavior of an heiress and her ‘minder.’ What if Girdleston learned of the stunt?”

  “He won’t. Miss Keep can be trusted.”

  “We have no idea about Miss Keep; you’d never met her in your life.”

  “I don’t need to meet her to recognize an earnest girl with serious pursuits, desperate to gain
some control of her future.”

  They were on a schedule, and Helena resumed their progress down Oxford Street. “Joanna Keep lives in a world where she’s at the mercy of almost every man and any woman older than she is. She could gain control through shallowness or manipulation, but she has not. If I thought Miss Keep was inauthentic or a schemer, I would have been more prudent. I also would have happily dangled her before Lusk without a second thought. But she is clever and earnest and genuine. She is better than Lusk deserves. And we can trust her.”

  A trio of boys darted in front of Helena, their hats overturned and filled with stolen eggs. One boy tripped and fell, making a mess of yolks and shells and a string of profanity. Helena tsked and stepped around the mess.

  “My situation is not exactly like Miss Keep’s,” she went on, winding her way through scrambling boys, “but I am more like her than most young women. Enough to know that she’ll not gossip about me. I’m vying for some control over destiny, just as she is. The flirting demonstration was for her benefit, and as strange as it was, I believe it was useful. She will not betray the favor.”

  “You hope she will not,” Declan said.

  “I have very good instincts about people. Look how right I was about you. I trusted you on the first night.”

  “That was sheer luck. One-in-a-million chance that Girdleston posted me to your detail instead of any of a hundred men who would’ve delivered you to him on the spot.”

  “You call it luck, I call it a gut feeling.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt strongly about her intuition, but she was beginning to believe this wasn’t a quarrel about her instincts; it was about her taking advantage.

  “Look,” she said, opening her eyes. “I can acknowledge that it was . . .” and now she searched for the correct word, “. . . exploitative to summon you and drape myself upon you. I was trying to be nimble. And opportunistic.” She walked a few steps, thinking about his complaint. Heat crept up her neck; she felt her face go red. His point was valid. As her groom, he was at her mercy. In full view of the public, he must do what she said.