Chasing the Heiress

by Rachael Miles

  “But when it’s over, you will let me go.”

  “When it’s over, if you ask me to, I will.”

  “To what exactly have we just agreed?”

  “I think we’ve agreed to be . . . friends.” He waited, uncertain, for her response.

  “I haven’t had a friend in a long time.” Her face turned from serious to light. “I would like to be your friend, Colin Somerville.”

  “Then, friend, I do not believe you are a scullery maid.” He watched carefully, but her face offered no shock or surprise. Instead, she merely held up her fingers, red and raw, and grinned.

  “Do I need soap-suds to convince you?”

  “My concerns are real, Lucy. If you are a member of the gentry, and if we are recognized while traveling together, it will create a scandal unless we are betrothed. We’ve already agreed to keep our own confidences. I simply need to know: should we pretend to be betrothed?”

  Her back stiffened. He was right. A member of the gentry, then.

  She thought for a while. “That’s a great many ifs.” He noticed with a certain degree of admiration that she had avoided answering the question of whether she was gently born. “If I say yes, that we should pretend, will you let me tell my story in my own time?”

  “I agree, but only if you promise you will tell me.” He sought the truth in her eyes.

  “Then, yes. If I am a member of the gentry and if we are seen, it would be best to be betrothed. And yes, I promise to tell you why I’m a scullery maid.”

  “We should announce our engagement then. I can do upstairs. Will you do downstairs?” Colin reached for the bell beside his bed.

  “Wait!” She looked startled for a moment. “If we announce that the scullery maid has become engaged to the duke’s brother, it will draw attention from every quarter. We should be honest with your family, telling them that, if necessary, we will pretend to be engaged to avoid a scandal—but with everyone else, I should be just a hired nurse.”

  He caught her hand. “I want you to know, Lucy, if if necessary happens, I’ll pretend to be engaged all the way to the altar. You saved my life, and we are friends. Whatever your story is, whenever you can tell me, I will believe you and protect you.”

  Lucy blinked away tears, and she lifted his palm to her cheek. Closing her eyes, she curved her face into his hand. He barely heard her whisper, “Thank you.” But when she opened her eyes, they were filled again with mischief.

  “Oh, don’t worry, friend. You won’t be trapped into a marriage. I promise to leave you at the altar.”

  Chapter Eight

  Later that afternoon, Nell pulled Lucy into the pantry and shut the door.

  “Lucy, girl, why didn’t you tell me? I knew it from the first day he was awake, oh, the way he looked at you. But I would have thought . . . well, he made me promise to keep your secret. And of course I will. I wouldn’t do nothing to harm you, gel. And now—” Nell brushed tears from her eyes. “This way I won’t worry about you when you leave. He’s an honorable one, he is. I won’t worry at all. I know you’ll be cared for.”

  “So, he told you . . .” Lucy let her words trail off, hoping Nell would tell her explicitly what Colin had said.

  “Well, I fair to made him. There he was, telling me he was going to hire you as his nurse.” Nell snorted. “I told him everyone knew nurse was just a polite way of saying mistress, and that you were too wellborn for people to think you were his doxy. I stuck my finger in his face, I did, telling him you deserved a proper home and a proper man. Then he confided—oh, Lucy, he spoke so sincere—that you wanted time to tell his family, not just the duke and his fiancée, but the whole lot of brothers and sisters, so you were keeping it a secret until a great party at the ducal mansion the duke holds every Advent.”

  Lucy felt her stomach fall into her feet. “You will keep our secret then, Nell?”

  “Oh, of course, dearie. No one will suspect a thing. I’ve made such very good excuses.” Nell beamed.

  Lucy listened as Nell excitedly detailed her morning’s work. Once she’d learned of Lucy’s engagement to Colin, Nell had moved Lucy’s things from her attic room in the main building into the lodge, placing her in the best guest room not already occupied by one of the duke’s party. Seth now shared the suite with Colin, less in deference to Lucy’s virtue than to Nell’s pronouncement that it was bad luck for the newly engaged Lucy to sleep where a woman had died in childbirth. It was all superstition. But Lucy was grateful not to have had to refuse the room.

  Of course, Nell insisted that Lucy could no longer work in the kitchen, but when Lucy begged, Nell agreed she would be welcome at the large table where the family and servants ate. She was Nell’s fairy tale: the serving girl who had won the love of a handsome lord.

  But she felt disappointed somehow. In the kitchen, at least she had felt useful, unlike the endless days of nothing she had endured at her great-aunt’s home when she’d returned from the wars. To be sure, she had loved her great-aunt, but of what use was a title with no estate and no tenants to give it purpose?

  * * *

  The rap at her new bedroom door was authoritative, and the Duke of Forster entered without ceremony. Lucy shut the door behind him, without thinking of the proprieties.

  He looked at her intently as if seeing her for the first time. “Lady Wilmot asked me to convey her invitation to join her for tea.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She stood her ground, unashamed, as he inspected her from head to toe and back again. “I would be honored.” She picked up her shawl.

  “My brother tells me you are pretending to be engaged. That he needs you to complete his obligation to the child, but that he is in earnest about the engagement if you are.” He stared directly into her eyes, as if waiting for her to turn away. When she didn’t, he continued. “What will you take to leave him at the end of this? I can pay you handsomely.”

  “I have no designs on your brother.” Lucy set the shawl back on the chair and folded her hands neatly in front of her. “We have simply become friends.”

  “In a week?” Forster racked his fingers through his hair.

  “Sometimes friendship takes no time at all,” Lucy said gently.

  “I find that difficult to believe.” Forster stood, unmoving, his body taut and predatory.

  “You are a different man than your brother.” She motioned to the one chair in the room, but he shook his head in refusal.

  “I am a man who will protect his brother at all costs.” He stepped forward, intentionally close.

  “I assure you: Colin needs no protection from me.” She stood her ground. “When this is over, I will disappear from his life as quickly as I entered it.”

  “Good.” He turned the chair backward and sat, as if at a negotiation. “How much do you want?”

  “I want nothing, Your Grace.” She remained standing. “Only safe passage to a destination of my choosing when this is all over. And that your brother has already promised me.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Are you his lover?”

  “No.” She bristled.

  “Do you intend to be?

  “Were you in the wars, Your Grace?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see how that . . .”

  “In the wars, we all knew that life was fleeting. That the man standing beside you at breakfast might be dead by noon. We knew if one had an opportunity for pleasure, or laughter, or even love, it wasn’t to be ignored. Your brother is a kind man, a good man. If he wishes, and if for one brief moment we can give one another happiness, I will not say no.”

  Aidan was taken off guard. “You would compromise yourself with him.”

  “I have no designs on him. And I have no intention to marry, so the notion that our liaison—if there is one—would compromise me is irrelevant.”

  “Where were you?

  “In the end, at Waterloo.”

  “I was called home after Salamanca.”


  “Then we understand one another,” she said.

  “Yes, I believe we do.” Aidan rose. “My brother is, as you say, a kind, good man, but he’s also a soldier. If you decide to stay with him, be very sure that you aren’t simply another duty he finds himself obligated to fulfill.”

  * * *

  Lucy stood outside the drawing room connecting Lady Wilmot’s and the duke’s bedrooms. She lifted her hand to knock, then lowered it, then repeated the process—all without actually knocking on the door.

  “It helps if you breathe deeply, then knock.” Seth lounged against his bedroom door a short distance behind her. “And have courage: I have found few women will actually slam a door in your face, however much they may wish to do so.”

  “Do many women wish to slam doors in your face?” Grateful for the delay, Lucy stepped toward him, turning her back to the drawing room door.

  “More than you would expect.”

  “And why, may I ask, do you have such difficult relationships with women?” Lucy asked.

  “Because he would rather be planning how to increase my next harvest or how to ditch a field.” Sophia had joined them so silently Lucy had not heard the door open. “And by the time he returns home, he has entirely forgotten that he was to escort some girl to a dance or to partner with her in the second half, or even to come to London for a family dinner hosted by the duke.”

  Seth shrugged and offered a slow smile.

  “And then the next day he appears at the particular lady’s door, and smiles like that, expecting all to be forgiven,” Lucy predicted.

  “Even worse, they often forgive him.” Sophia stood by Lucy’s side.

  “It is not my fault women find me charming.” Seth winked.

  Lucy began to comment, but Sophia placed a hand on her shoulder. “It is not a conversation worth having. Someday, he will forget the wrong woman, and she will slam the door in his face, and I will invite her to tea to celebrate her good sense.”

  “Aw, Sophie, you know I mean well.” Seth hung his head, almost sheepishly, but not quite.

  “We are ignoring you, Seth. Go amuse your brother.” Sophia took Lucy’s arm and led her to the drawing room door. “Come. Sit with me. Your Alice has provided a feast.”

  “A feast?” Seth stepped forward to join them, but Sophia shut the door firmly behind her.

  “There.” She brushed both palms across the other. “We have our feast all to ourselves. And we can . . . converse.”

  “I am not sure why you would wish to converse with a servant,” Lucy averred.

  “That’s the beauty of rank.” Sophia grinned. “One can converse with whomever one pleases. But truth be told, I am not a particularly good aristocrat. Until my parents died, I lived in a country parsonage, then after that my uncle raised me in the country with my cousins. I had never even been to London until I married my late husband Tom.”

  Sophia gestured to the chairs beside a table covered with papers and drawings. A silver tea service sat on its own table to the right. “If I may ask, Lucy, how has a woman of your talents come to be a scullery maid?” She seated herself and began clearing the papers into neat piles to make room for their tea.

  “My parents died abroad.” Lucy seated herself across from Sophia. “When I returned, I lived with elderly relations until their deaths. I found myself on my own, and Nell was willing to hire me.”

  “But surely you do not wish to wash dishes for the rest of your life.” Sophia raised the teapot in question, and at Lucy’s nod, she began to pour. “Have you aspirations?” She handed Lucy her cup.

  Lucy let Sophia pour her own cup before answering. “The duke believes I aspire to marry his brother.” She watched for Sophia’s reaction. Would Sophia bluster? Retract or defend her question? Or coldly and politely inform Lucy that she would be an unsuitable match?

  Sophia set her cup down. As the corners of her mouth rose, she pressed her lips together and covered her mouth with her hand. But it was no use—she burst out in hearty laughter. “Oh, my.” She shook her head, looking down; then she raised her eyes to Lucy’s. “When he fails, he fails spectacularly.” She lifted her teacup in a mock toast. “To Forster, who often seems to have left his diplomacy at the Treaty of Paris.”

  Lucy toasted as well, letting her tea cup clink softly against Sophia’s. “Men like the duke do not often need diplomacy.”

  “Forster has needed his diplomacy a great deal in the last year.” Sophia held out a platter with small cakes and sandwiches. “But that is my story. And, I would like to know yours.”

  Lucy felt her stomach clench. “I have little else to say.”

  “Then I will make it easier,” Sophia asked. “If you could do any one thing, what would you do?”

  Lucy looked toward the ceiling, thinking. “When I was in the war, I collected recipes. Remedies for burns, for fever, for stopping bleeding, anything that might help save a life or alleviate suffering. I thought someday I might print a book of the best, most reliable cures, and distribute it in places where there was no ready physician or where the physician’s fees are too dear.”

  “What would you call it?” Sophia bit into a slice of carrot cake.

  “Call it?” Lucy questioned, swirling the cream in her tea with a teaspoon.

  “Yes, you must have thought of a title.” Sophia encouraged. “Every woman her own physician?”

  “‘Physician’ suggests that the book would help diagnose illnesses. I would wish only to provide treatments for those illnesses,” Lucy explained. “I suppose it would need the word apothecary or pharmacy. Perhaps the Family Pharmacy? Or maybe Herbal Medicine?”

  “I like both of those. And your name?” Sophia sipped her tea. “Would you use your own? Is it just Lucy? Or short for something? Lucinda? Lucille?”

  Lucy paused on the cusp of giving her real name. Though she liked Lady Wilmot, Lucy knew very little about her. Better to be circumspect than be disappointed if her ladyship turned out to be something other than the gracious companion she appeared to be. “I think perhaps just ‘A Nurse from the Peninsular Wars.’ That allows me to indicate I know something of healing while remaining anonymous.”

  “That seems reasonable.” Lady Wilmot offered her another cake. “I made much the same decision recently when I published a book on botany for girls. I called myself Mrs. Teachwell.”

  “Was the book your aspiration, Lady Wilmot?” Lucy found herself intrigued.

  “Call me Sophia. I have so few women whom I would call friend, and I think we find each other’s company congenial.” Sophia smiled shyly at her, then rustled through the sheets of paper on the table. “My book grew out of an intellectual partnership I shared with my late husband, so I would not call it an aspiration.”

  “But this.” Sophia handed Lucy several colored architectural drawings of a large hall. “This is the plan for how I would like to refashion an unused gallery in the ducal mansion. I would like to form a salon. I had one in Italy, but it was purely intellectual, focusing on books and art and politics, all very heady. But I would like this salon to be more useful, a place where its members help one another, where each of us could contribute her skills to a common purpose.”

  “Of us?” Lucy repeated, oddly touched. Like Lady Wilmot, she could not remember a time when she had had another woman as a friend. She began to examine the drawings: warm colors on the walls and furniture, a large fireplace on one side, long windows on the other.

  “We would add bookcases along these walls.” Sophia pointed. “If it’s to be a useful salon, we must have a robust library. I’ve already given a preliminary list to a bookseller—Constance Vassa at The African’s Daughter—but I am limited by my own interests in botany. Perhaps you could advise me on the more medical books.”

  “The Materia Medica lists all the pharmaceutical properties of the plants and dosages.” Pleased to be included, Lucy answered without thinking, then she bit her lip. “The doctor in the camp hospital always raged that he needed better bo
oks. I learned from him.”

  Sophia nodded as she poured another cup of tea. “I have spoken to the local surgeon. Had he known Colin was the brother of a duke—he assured me—he would have come to his aid immediately. His preferred treatment regimen relies first on bleeding, then he administers a mixture of calomel and camphor, alternated every four hours with opium. Do you know how those work?”

  “Calomel—it’s a mercury compound—causes vomiting, while camphor causes sweating,” Lucy answered slowly, not knowing if Sophia needed her explanation or if this were some sort of test. “Together with bleeding, the idea goes, the treatment releases harmful pressures in the body. Then the opium stops the diarrhea and gives the patient some relief from the cycle of purging.”

  Sophia met Lucy’s eyes, her face an unreadable mask. “Colin indicated that the bullet carried fabric into the wound and you dug the threads out. But the surgeon assured me that he often leaves them in. Like the rope that led Theseus out of the Minotaur’s maze, he said, the threads give the poison a way out of the body.”

  Lucy’s cheeks flushed with surprise and anger, and she clenched her hands under the table. She had thought Lady Wilmot understood and approved of her methods. “That treatment would have killed him,” she said, keeping her voice level, her eyes on the tea service.

  “I know.” Sophia spoke in almost a whisper. Looking up, Lucy could see that her eyes brimmed with tears. “Had you not been here, we would have lost Colin, and not the way he has been lost these last months, but truly and irrevocably.” Sophia wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “As I see it, we owe you a debt, Lucy, and one we cannot easily repay. So, whether you aspire to Colin or not, you will always have a place with us. The ducal manor is quite large, or there are other properties if you would wish to have a place of your own.”

  “But you do not know me. I could be a murderer, a thief, a . . .”

  Sophia lifted her hand to stop Lucy’s sentence. “Nell, who is a woman of good sense, holds you in great esteem. Colin, who does not use the word lightly, tells me you are his friend. My salon could use someone like you, someone who knows how to doctor wounds and treat illnesses—and who isn’t afraid to stand her ground when she knows she’s right.”