She tried to spot any sign of recognition in his demeanour, but his face remained unreadable.
The duke bowed. “Not at all. I have a house in these parts, and we will simply arrive a day early.”
“Then the room is yours, madam,” said the innkeeper. “Shall I also have supper warmed for you?”
She indicated the parlour behind the duke.
“Yes, thank you,” Maggie said. She turned to their rescuer. “Your Grace, we really cannot thank you enough.”
“It is nothing, I assure you. Will you join my wife and me for supper?”
Maggie hesitated. It would be unconscionably rude to refuse, but the duchess would surely know her on sight as the renegade daughter of the Earl of Chenefelt, even if the duke did not.
Yet she did not wish to offend him after he had done them such a kindness.
“We would be delighted,” she said at last.
Maggie hoped they wouldn’t catch her out and cry rope on her to her father. Then again, perhaps she was just being silly – the duchess was well above telling tales.
When her ladyship appeared in the parlour, and was introduced to the Maggie and Cecile, she gave them her warmest smile before insisting that they sit down to partake of the delightful meal before them.
She gave no sign of having ever set eyes on them before.
“Mrs Smith has a surprisingly apt cook,” she laughed, as though they were just strangers met by chance upon the road.
Her Grace was a fashionable lady in her early thirties, with a very handsome disposition, and charming eyes. Her ready smiles and earnest manner quickly won Maggie over despite her wariness.
She had only met the lady a handful of times several years ago, when she had been too nervous to appreciate the duchess’s quick wit. The duke, a decade older than his wife, was very distinguished, with a tall bearing that commanded much respect in society. He was known as an expert on matters of estate management and had made a remarkable success of all his holdings upon inheriting them most unexpectedly.
After supper, when Cecile had retired to bed, and the Duke had gone out to stretch his legs before setting off on the final leg of their journey, Maggie found herself alone with the duchess. Lady Strathavon looked at her somewhat intently a moment, before adjusting her shawl.
“You know, Madame, I envy you your stay in Paris. It is a most marvellous place right now – the fashions are truly remarkable. His Grace has a house there, newly purchased now that the war is over, and it is a great shame that it stands as empty as it does. In fact, I think that it might be just the thing if a tenant were to be found for it, however temporarily.”
Maggie looked at her in astonishment, but the duchess wen to speaking unconcernedly, her expression thoughtful.
“Perhaps you might be persuaded to take up temporary residence there?”
“Lady Strathavon, I am sure I could not.”
The duchess raised an eyebrow. “I beg to differ: I am very sure that you can. I feel as if I might know your aunt, you know, and I think that it would be very remiss of me not to help her niece. Oh, don’t be distressed. I mean you no ill – but you are the niece of Lady Compton and the daughter of the previous Strathavon’s admiral, are you not? You bear a striking resemblance to your father. It is unmistakable. Now, I do not know what your own adventure may be, but perhaps I understand the need for one better than might you think. And I would feel much easier knowing that you are safe. Just remember to keep your wits about you, and I am certain you will come about. And I pray you write to me if you find yourself in some great pickle. I will speak to your aunt, of course. Now, what is your adventure, pray? I beg that you indulge me. Why the masquerade?”
Maggie hesitated, but the lady’s expression was open and friendly – and she had heard enough about the duchess’s escapades to hope that the lady really might understand. It would be good to find some comfort and advice in the woman – despite her bravado and determination to conquer Paris, she had very little notion of how to begin.
Lady Strathavon waited patiently while Maggie decided on her response.
At last, she took a deep breath and lifted her chin. “I mean to go to Paris to find a life of my own. My father would have me marry my odious cousin Stanhope, and won’t hear of me having a Season to meet someone more suitable. The only life that awaits me there is an intolerable marriage, or spinsterhood and dreary country rain. I think I would rather die than live like that. You needn’t worry – I am not a fool. I shall make a respectable life for myself as the baroness: and widows have a lot more freedom than debutantes ever will. I have enough money to see me through for quite a while. Only, I must have the freedom to choose my own fate – that is what I want, and it is what I must get.”
Lady Strathavon nodded. “A daring plan, if ever I heard one.”
She said nothing more for a long time, brow furrowing thoughtfully. Maggie wondered if she had made a mistake – was the woman utterly scandalised? Would she tell her husband and force Maggie to return home? Would word of this spread to the ton, rendering the Dacre name instantly infamous?
When the duchess spoke at last, Maggie felt as though she would faint from sheer nerves. “Yes, I do understand, though it is a great risk you are taking – but then, risks can and do pay off. Sometimes breaking rules is the price of freedom. Well, if you are to proceed with your escape, I think there can be no other option – you must stay at our Paris house.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say a moment, though it would certainly be a great relief to have some place to find her feet. “It would be so kind of you. Most kind! But His Grace…”
Lady Strathavon laughed. “Oh, Strathavon won’t mind in the least. At least, not once I have explained it all to him. But that probably won’t be until we are on the road – else we’ll be here all night. I shall send a message to Paris right now, so that the house be made ready for you. Here, I shall give you directions on how you may find it. And I must also write my dear friend the Comtesse de St Mercy. I think you will find her friendship rather useful.”
“You won’t –”
“No, I won’t tell her your real name. Barring disaster, that secret is yours to reveal.”
*
Before the sun had fully risen, Maggie made her way downstairs to enquire of Mrs Smith about the ships or packet boats which were scheduled to cross the Channel within the next day.
Cecile, who had been as surprised as Maggie by the duchess’s kind gesture, looked a little uneasy at the thought of the crossing, and the innkeeper shot her a pitying look.
“If you wish to sail as soon as possible, madam, there is one ship that would serve best of all. There is a little schooner captained by a seasoned gentleman named Captain Tom Souville. It will leave at first light tomorrow, once the night’s storm has passed.”
“And none will set out any sooner?”
Mrs Smith shook her head firmly. “None with the sky as it is. I am not a sailor, but I have lived my whole life by the sea. It would not be a risk worth taking. Captain Tom’s a bit of a pirate, madam, but he’ll get you to Calais safely and quickly. He is known to make the crossing in four hours,” the woman said, with a note of fondness in her voice.
Maggie considered this a moment before nodding and asking Mrs Smith to send a boy to book their passage, feeling a little disappointed at the delay.
On the whole, however, her spirits remained buoyant, especially now that they had somewhere to stay the moment they set foot in Paris.
Maggie did not question the wisdom of her flight – she had made a choice and the future stretched before her, a little scary but full of undiscovered potential.
She couldn’t wait to see Paris.
Who would she become in so splendid a city? It was almost overwhelming to think that she could be anyone she pleased.
They spent the day sewing in their room: the storm made it very unpleasant out of doors and it was far too wet to venture out to have a look at the shops. Maggie felt a calm comfo
rt settle over her the moment she took out her much-used gilded broderie set. The gilt had faded long ago, rubbed off with years of use, but that made it even more special.
“We must find a shop and fabrics as soon as we are settled,” Maggie told her companion.
Cecile nodded. “And we will need a name for the modiste – something memorable. Madame Finette, perhaps! It was my aunt’s married name. I like the sound of it. I think that if we cultivate an air of mystery, that might win over the fashionable ladies.”
Maggie felt delighted. “Certainly. We will spread word about town that a mysterious new modiste, who works miracle with satin, has opened shop for a very select clientele. That will have them lining up!”
When they were too tired to continue with their needlework, the women settled into a private parlour to take their supper. Mrs Smith brought in mulled wine, meat pies and cold cuts for what had to be the best repast Maggie had ever tasted. The night before, she had been too worn out to appreciate the food, but now the delicious meal was just the thing to lift her spirits.
Seated in the cosy dining room next to a warm fire, they spoke quietly of the journey ahead before retiring to bed.
“Oh, it will be so marvellous to have a shop. To think of all the fabrics, and the trim… We shall have silks and velvets, and glass beads from Venice,” Maggie whispered when they had extinguished the candles.
It was a recipe for utter felicity: and there was only one thing missing.
If only there was some way for her see Hart again, amidst her grand success, she thought sadly. But he would be much too preoccupied with Lady Alice too spare her so much as a thought.
Maggie lay still a while after Cecile had fallen asleep, listening to the breakers and the gulls in the distance, which had replaced the raging of the storm. The sound was an absolute marvel. She had never heard the sea before and she had fallen completely in love with it from the first.
Despite her utter exhaustion, she found it very difficult to asleep. It must have been hours that she lay quietly in the dark, ensconced in her warm blankets and listening to the waves.
But she couldn’t think of Hart. Hart was impossible, and there were so many other things to occupy her attention. That, after all, was what she had wanted from her first Season: to see and do and be.
*
Captain Tom and his crew were hard at work preparing and loading the ship when Maggie and Cecile arrived at the docks. The captain was everything Maggie had expected – weathered and piraty, with bright eyes and a roguish air about him. In a word, he was utterly charming.
Maggie and Cecile stood on the pier, watching as various crates were loaded on board the Queen Anne, before ascending up the plank along with some other passengers. The sky hung above them in a steely canopy, but the captain seemed confident that they would not meet with a storm en route.
Cecile looked very reluctant once the plank was withdrawn and the crew prepared to depart. She held on to the side of the ship, looking pale. She insisted she was quite hale despite this, though she gratefully accepted a cup of water from a kindly crew member.
With the practiced ease of a dance, the crew had the schooner well on her way towards France within a matter of minutes. The sea was rather rambunctious, swelled from the night’s squall, and the cold grey waves splashed over onto the deck.
Maggie watched the white cliffs grow distant with an unmistakable sense of relief. She felt a little sorry to be leaving England, but a whole new life lay ahead and her father’s men would surely lose her trail once she landed in Calais.
*
“What is all this about Maggie being missing? Tell me everything,” Hart said as he entered the room. His voice was calm, which suggested that his mind was already at work on a solution.
Frederick Dacre was in the process of pacing the private dining room on the second floor of White’s Club, his face looking uncharacteristically pale with worry. At these words, he stopped.
Frederick was unspeakably relieved to see Hart. The marquess looked dishevelled and he was still dressed in the evening clothes he’d worn the previous night. He had clearly rushed back out the minute he arrived home to discover the missive.
Frederick was not the least surprised at his friend’s brisk manner – Hart always kept his head in a crisis.
He sighed and motioned a waiter to bring Hart a glass of wine. “There isn’t anything to tell! Father tried to force her to marry Kingsley Stanhope, damn him, and I expect my sister took flight. Nasty sort of character, Stanhope. Cousin of ours. Never liked him above half, myself. It is just like Maggie to play a trick and bamboozle us all, though. Why did she not come to me? I own I haven’t the faintest notion where she may have gone. She left no word. Took her barouche and said she was off to look at lace or some such thing. It is only a blessing she took decent horses and not a pair of bone-setters! Perhaps she’s been the victim of abduction… But there has been no ransom note, and she isn’t enough of an heiress to tempt that sort of rogue.”
“That does not seem likely,” Hart agreed, a dark frown on his handsome face. “Could she have eloped?”
“What, to Gretna Green? Impossible. Not Maggie. Father thought she may have done, but that is a banbury story – there isn’t anyone for her to elope with.”
They spent some time debating the situation, trying to decide where Maggie might have gone and what was to be done about it.
“You know what a nasty way father has about him when riled.”
Lord Hartley sat at a little table, nursing a glass of wine and looking much calmer than his friend. “I have some notion, yes.”
“And he has certainly been riled. He should have known better than to try and force her – it is obvious Maggie would never have agreed to become Stanhope’s tenant for life. And bullying her just made things worse. This is a veritable disaster!”
“She took Cecile with her, and all her jewellery. She means business, mark my words, though dammed if I know what business she is about.”
It had been some eight hours since his sister had been discovered missing and four since the news came from Chenefelt. Frederick hadn’t wasted a moment in dispatching a bow street runner with a note to Hart, because the man always knew just what to do when trouble came knocking.
Frederick was very fond of his sister and the thought of her travelling all alone just about set his teeth on edge. Sweet, naive Maggie could not hope to survive on her own. He swore that he knew utter agony for every minute that passed in inaction.
“Either way, we must keep mum on the matter – if word of this were to get out, my sister would be ruined,” Frederick said decisively.
Hart nodded grimly.
“It seems to me that her flight may indeed have been deliberate, if your father really tried to bully her into matrimony with this cousin of yours!”
Fredrick was momentarily taken aback at the passion in his friend’s voice.
“You know, I think so too. What’s more, I suddenly have a nagging suspicion I know just where the girl would have gone. She’s always had a head full of fancies, Maggie. I think it very likely she may have decided to follow one such whim. Not a week ago, I overheard her conversing with Cecile on the subject of Paris. She was all moon-eyed about it, but I didn’t give it much thought then. And she’d questioned me about Paris after we returned from the Tour, remember? It would be just like Maggie to decide to see for herself – I imagine she fancies that she is having an adventure. That she will come about and land on her feet the moment she’s out of Father’s reach.”
“Hmm. To Paris… that is easy enough to determine.”
“Indeed. It may be a wild goose chase, but I think it may also be the best trail we have just right now. There is no time to lose. We must go after her. Tonight.”
Hart considered this as Frederick moved across the room to ring for his cloak.
“We cannot both go,” he said at last.
Frederick turned around to give his friend a bewildered look.
<
br /> “But we must! Already she has a day’s head start.”
“That is correct. But if we both go running heedlessly in pursuit of your sister, then we won’t hear of it if some other news should come in. This is not the time to be hasty.”
“Then you propose we stay here and wait?” Frederick’s expression made it clear what he thought of such a notion.
Hart gave him a patient look, while retrieving his driving gloves from the table. “Not at all. You will remain here in case another runner should come. I shall go to France. I could have my chaise ready within the hour. You, my friend, speak barely a word of French and so could not hope to be of any help in that country.”
Frederick considered arguing before deciding that Hart had always been much better when it came to plotting and strategy, and his advice did seem sound. Hart thought of Maggie as his own sister. And Frederick could not pretend that his French was even remotely passable.
“Very well. I see that I am fated to stay here and wait – you have me brought at Point Non Plus.”
Frederick’s dark expression communicated just how much he hated the thought of staying behind.
“I will find her, and bring her home. I promise,” Hart said in a low voice.
*
The Strathavon house in Paris was magnificent, situated squarely on the fashionable avenue de Richelieu. Maggie could not quite believe it when she first caught sight of the elegant façade. Judging from her expression, neither could Cecile.
They hesitated a moment, unsure how to proceed.
“Well, I expect we had better knock on the door – I wonder if they really are expecting us?” Maggie said at last. She felt nervous about appearing suddenly on the front step of a strange house, without even Lady Strathavon to introduce her to the staff.
“I hope they are. There would have been time enough for them to receive word,” Cecile said, though her voice was a little hesitant.
“Then there is only one thing to do – and it’s no use sitting around here.” Maggie let Cecile hold the horses while she descended the barouche and proceeded to the front door.
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 5
