by Regina Scott
“Because Acantha Dalrymple didn’t send this,” Emily said.
Priscilla turned. With the sunlight snuffed out, the room was lit only by the crimson glow of coal in the grate. Emily, dressed in the dark blue she preferred, was a shadowy figure across the room, her voice echoing with the confidence of an ancient pagan priestess.
“How can you be so sure?” Priscilla begged.
“If Acantha Dalrymple knew your secret, do you think she’d be content merely to frighten you?”
There was that. They both knew Acantha thrived on gossip. “And what makes you think she isn’t shouting it from the rooftops this very minute?”
“Because,” Emily said, reaching calmly for a cloth to drape her painting, “she’d want to tell you first, just to see you cringe.”
She was right. That was one of the things Priscilla loved about Emily. Emily was seldom wrong. But much as Priscilla wanted to believe that evil Acantha didn’t know the truth, she could not be easy. Someone knew.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “So who put that note in my pocket?”
“That would be easier to determine if you hadn’t closed the draperies.”
Oh, of course. Priscilla hurried to open them once more. Sunlight flooded in, anointing the elegant poster bed against the far wall, the two gilt chairs near the carved wood fireplace, and Emily standing at her easel by the silk-draped wall. Priscilla blinked against the brightness as she crossed to Emily’s side.
Her friend was rubbing the sheet of parchment between her fingers. “It has a nice feel to it. I’d say it’s costly stuff.”
“So someone wealthy,” Priscilla surmised.
Emily nodded. “Someone wealthy bought it. But see the torn edge? It was ripped off a larger piece. Perhaps someone found it in the rubbish and decided to use this scrap.” She lifted the parchment to her nose and sniffed. “Though it smells more like lemon than rubbish.”
“You,” Priscilla said with a smile, “have been spending entirely too much time with Mr. Cropper.”
Emily blushed and lowered the paper. “Well, he is a crack investigator you know. I find his work fascinating. Do you know he recently captured an embezzler?”
Priscilla didn’t particularly care if he’d caught the prime minister making off with the Crown Jewels. She’d thought it bad enough that Acantha Dalrymple might know the Dreaded Family Secret, but what would a complete stranger do with the knowledge? A tremor shot through her, and she wrapped one arm about her waist.
“I’m sure Mr. Cropper is brilliant,” she told Emily, “but I can’t very well involve him in this. My entire future is at stake! I cannot allow the Duke of Rottenford to learn the truth. He’ll never propose!”
Emily eyed her. “Are you expecting a proposal any moment?”
Priscilla hung her head. “Well, no. First I must get him to invite me to his masquerade.”
“On May Day,” Emily said with a nod.
Priscilla’s head came up. “You’ve been invited too?”
Emily grimaced. “Yes, days ago. But I’m certain it’s all because of Father.”
Not for the first time did Priscilla wish she had a duke for a father. If she did, she wouldn’t find herself in this impossible position of having to wed the wealthiest fellow she could find. She could have accepted any of the six charming, but considerably less wealthy, gentlemen who’d proposed since her come out ball. Nathan Kent’s face came once more to mind, but that was silly. If she was the daughter of a duke she’d hardly marry a personal secretary, no matter how dreamy his eyes.
“You see, Emily?” she declared. “My hold on His Grace is tenuous at best. We have to find this person who knows my secret before the masquerade or I’m done for!”
Chapter Three
Emily, of course, agreed to help, and she and Priscilla determined that they must find Ariadne and Daphne Courdebas, their other two dear friends. Ariadne knew any number of useful things, and her older sister Daphne was more than willing to discover delicious facts, no matter the danger involved, especially since her escapades at Priscilla’s ball had proven that young gentlemen favor the daring.
“They planned on riding in Hyde Park this afternoon,” Emily said as she rang for Warburton her family butler. “I’ll make sure Lady Minerva stays home so we shall not be disturbed.”
Priscilla eyed her. “Giving your chaperone the slip? I’ve taught you well.”
Emily smiled. “Lady Minerva and I have an understanding. Give me a moment, and I’ll have the carriage brought around.”
Everything must have gone as Emily wished for, in short order, she and Priscilla were seated in an open carriage and headed through the fashionable streets of Mayfair for the nearby park.
“Is this new?” Priscilla asked, stroking the chocolate-colored velvet of the seats.
Emily nodded, the peacock feathers on her straw bonnet bobbing with the movement. “Father took delivery yesterday. He says I need to get out more.”
Perhaps His Grace the Duke of Emerson thought Emily was spending too much time indoors with a certain young man. “It’s beautiful,” Priscilla said, admiring her golden reflection in the lacquered wood paneling.
“Feel free to borrow it whenever you like,” Emily offered. “Warburton is staffing up, so I’ve been given my own junior coachman and groom.” She nodded toward the strapping fellow who sat on the driver’s bench behind Priscilla and lowered her voice. “Though he’s no Mr. Philips.”
Mr. Philips was the duke’s coachman. He had a soft spot for Lady Emily and had driven her places her father would have cringed to realize she frequented. Emily had known most of His Grace’s staff since she was a child. A shame the Tates didn’t have such loyal retainers. As their funds had dwindled, so had their staff, until they were making do with a single man-of-all-work. Priscilla’s mother had even tried cooking recently, with dismal results. She could still taste the limp, damp pieces of boiled mutton.
“Eat every bite,” her father had admonished when she’d picked at it the gray soggy mass. “Until you bring home a bigger prize, this is how we’ll be dining.”
As if she needed the reminder.
Now she and Emily rolled into Hyde Park, the green fields and trees closing around them. Emily glanced about, eyes narrowed against the sunlight, obviously looking for any sign of Ariadne and Daphne amid the many carriages, riders, and promenading couples that thronged the area.
All the while Priscilla’s mind kept tumbling over her fears. Who was intent on ruining her life? How much time did she have to stop them before her name was drawn through the mud? And what would she do if she couldn’t stop them?
Her family was down to their last pences. If an eligible suitor didn’t offer soon, they wouldn’t be able to pay their bills. The creditors would pounce, and she and her parents would be thrown into debtors’ prison. Whole families vanished into the dark corridors, never to be seen again. She might even have to become an indentured servant, traveling to America or Canada and working at hard and gruesome labor until every last pence was paid.
No, no, no. She could not dwell on that dismal future or she’d go mad. She nearly cried out in relief when Emily spied Daphne and Ariadne on horseback, stopped on one of the riding paths near the broad green waters of the Serpentine.
They looked dashing in navy riding habits with gold braid on the shoulders and front. Ostrich plumes bobbed over the tall riding hats perched on their light-brown curls. Several young men had stopped as well, clustering around them on horseback and on foot as if to beg a moment of their time, or a waltz at the next ball they would attend. Priscilla wondered that her friends would even notice her and Emily approaching in the shiny black carriage. However, as soon as Emily’s driver stopped the coach, Ariadne turned her chestnut mare to join them.
“Thank goodness,” she said as the groom helped her to dismount. “I couldn’t stand another minute. Horses, horses, horses! Do boys talk of nothing else?”
Poor Ariadne. Until the ball, she�
��d never had the courage to speak to a young man. Now she seemed to think she hadn’t missed much.
“You’re conversing with the wrong gentlemen,” Priscilla told her with a smile. “Some have a great many interesting things to say.”
“Certainly Mr. Cropper does,” Ariadne said with a wink to Emily. Emily examined her gloves as if expecting to find flecks of paint on them.
Which wouldn’t have been so surprising, actually.
“We need your help,” Priscilla said into the silence. “Would you fetch Daphne over?”
Ariadne’s round face scrunched up. “She won’t come. She’s just agreed to race.”
“Race?” Priscilla stared at her. “In Hyde Park, with so many people around? Is she intent on creating a scandal?”
Ariadne paled. “No, but she seems intent on maintaining her notoriety.”
“Then we must stop her,” Priscilla said, rising from her seat.
Emily frowned up at her. “Are you truly so worried about Daphne’s reputation?”
Priscilla felt her face heating. In truth, for just a moment, she’d been more worried about her own. What would Nathan Kent think that one of her closest friends was so daring as to race against a gentleman in the middle of crowded Hyde Park? She’d seen the way he’d looked at her when they’d crossed paths at Emily’s earlier. If he had been anywhere near her before she’d found that note, she might have thought it came from him, so closely had he studied her.
Did he think her as daring as Daphne? Would he see her as unworthy to marry the duke? Would he caution Rottenford against her?
Would he refuse to see her ever again?
She only cared because he had the duke’s ear. Truly.
But her fears should not infect her feelings for her friends. Priscilla sighed. “Certainly Daphne may race. Perhaps it’s not so terrible that we must rush to warn her.”
“Good thing,” Ariadne said, gaze on her sister across the way. “For there she goes!”
Priscilla whirled, setting the coach to shaking, even as a cry went up from the group of young men surrounding Daphne. Priscilla barely felt Emily reach out a hand to steady her. Her heart leapt into her throat as Daphne on her gray gelding and a young man astride a large bay urged their horses into full stride. They pelted down the track, the golden sand flying from the hooves. People cried out, dashed out of the way, waved their hats and handkerchiefs in salute.
Determined to watch, Priscilla put her hand to the edge of her bonnet to further block the sun.
“Can you see them?” Ariadne asked from the ground.
“They’re neck and neck,” Priscilla reported as Emily rose to join her. “No, wait, Daphne’s pulling ahead. Oh!”
“Mind the nanny!” Emily cried, even though Daphne could not hear them. Priscilla’s heart pounded in time with the receding hoof beats as her friend jerked the horse to miss a woman and a small child who had strayed onto the track.
“Don’t worry,” Priscilla told Ariadne when she could catch a breath. “Daphne’s fine.”
“And, yes!” Emily declared, “she’s won!”
“Oh!” Ariadne hopped up and down in obvious excitement. Even Emily applauded as Daphne turned the horse to accept her praise at the other end of the track.
Priscilla forced herself to take deep, even breaths. In truth, she was rather proud her friend was such an excellent rider. Now they just had to fetch Daphne back to the carriage and find a way to stop the gossip before the Duke of Rottenford or Mr. Kent caught wind of this little escapade.
“Miss Tate?”
The familiar voice knocked the air right out of her again. Chilled, Priscilla turned to look beyond Emily.
An elegant white coach with gold appointments and perfectly matched white horses had pulled to a stop on the other side of Emily’s carriage. The wheels were a shiny red, and the coachman on the box sat in dignified splendor in his crimson and gold livery. From inside the handsome equipage three pairs of eyes gazed back at Priscilla. The Duke of Rottenford’s wide mouth was grinning, making his two prominent front teeth stand out like signboards of welcome. Miss Glynnis Fairtree’s pale face was marred with a deep frown. And Mr. Kent?
His eyes didn’t look nearly so dreamy when they were narrowed in suspicion.
*
“Miss Tate!” His Grace cried, wiggling his long fingers. “Fancy meeting you here. What excellent luck!”
What rotten luck! Nathan had just managed to fix His Grace’s attentions on a squirrel when they’d come across the other carriage. It would have been far better had he managed to fix the fellow’s attentions on Miss Fairtree, but Nathan could not blame His Grace there. He knew Glynnis far too well.
Miss Fairtree and her mother were distant relatives, on His Grace’s maternal side, like Nathan. The previous duke had determined them to be the requisite poor relations who must be kept solvent through generosity. They had a suite of rooms in the ducal town house and were expected to be included in every activity when His Grace was in town.
Glynnis certainly had not had the easiest of lives, losing her father at an early age, being reminded daily that she owed everything to the charity of others. As if embracing her long-suffering role, she was pale and solemn, her hair an indeterminate shade of brown without luster or bounce. Her gowns always seemed too loose for her frame. Next to Miss Tate, she faded into the background like a well-worn carpet.
Standing precariously now in an open carriage, Miss Tate still managed to dip a graceful curtsey. “Your Grace, what a lovely surprise.”
“Miss Tate,” Nathan said before his cousin could prattle further. “Lady Emily, Miss Courdebas, have you met His Grace’s cousin Miss Fairtree?”
Glynnis’s thin lips curved in a grimace of a smile.
Miss Tate’s smile was more generous. “Of course. Miss Fairtree, how delightful to see you again. Isn’t this weather to be praised?” She drew in a deep breath designed, Nathan was certain, to draw attention to her impressive chest wrapped in her pink satin pelisse.
“Exceptional,” His Grace agreed with a ready nod.
“Did you see me?” The elder Miss Courdebas had just ridden up, face flushed and feathered riding hat askew on her honey-colored curls. “Beat him by a good length, and it would have been more if I hadn’t had to detour around that nanny.”
Miss Tate’s lovely face was nearly as pink as her pelisse, her bright smile brittle. “His Grace the Duke of Rottenford was just commenting on the weather.”
“Why?” Her friend glanced around. “It isn’t very exceptional.”
Miss Tate looked as if she was having trouble breathing.
“And we should be going,” Lady Emily put in, resuming her seat. Of the four ladies, she alone did not seem discomfited by the meeting. “If you’ll excuse us, Your Grace, Miss Fairtree, Mr. Kent, we have some pressing business with the Courdebas sisters. Good-day.”
She faced front, pointed nose aimed at a distant copse of trees. As His Grace muttered farewell, smile fading, the youngest Courdebas sister scurried into the carriage, leaving a groom to deal with her mount. The elder sister brought her horse alongside the coach, still chatting about her precipitous race down Rotten Row.
Miss Tate was the only one to keep her gaze fixed on the Rottenford coach. “Good-day, Your Grace,” she said. “I hope to see you soon.” Once more she curtsied, bowing her head in a token of respect.
But when she looked up, green gaze shuttered in a haze of lashes, it was not His Grace’s gaze she held, but Nathan’s.
“My word but she’s lovely,” His Grace proclaimed as the other carriage rolled away.
Glynnis sighed as if she could only wish for such presence.
“There are many lovely sights in Hyde Park,” Nathan insisted, signaling their driver to continue on the circuit.
In answer, His Grace wrinkled his long nose. Did he realize how that looked? With his prominent front teeth, his cousin resembled nothing so much as a hungry hare. It was not a characteristic to inspire co
nfidence.
And confidence was needed. The Duke of Rottenford had a number of responsibilities, from the task of helping guide the empire to attending to a massive estate that employed a large village and lesser estates on foreign shores. Yet Percy Wishton, now Lord Rottenford, had never been trained to the position, being born the younger son. He had been forced to assume the title on the unexpected deaths of his father and older brother. His affable nature and other considerations made him ill-suited to the role now.
But he was the duke, and it was Nathan’s duty to ensure he fulfilled the requirements. Keeping up the façade was a great deal easier if fewer people, particularly Priscilla Tate, knew the truth about Percy’s deficiencies. Nathan had guarded the secret too well to give it up now.
Chapter Four
Priscilla sat with her back against the squabs of Emily’s lovely carriage as the new coachman took them deeper into the park, away from prying eyes. But she could not relax, even in the company of her three friends. For one thing, they were all regarding her expectantly, knowing she had requested their aid. For another, she could not shake the feeling that Nathan Kent understood exactly why she needed them.
Yet how could he know? Her father and mother had taken great pains to ensure no one realized the truth about Aunt Sylvia. And only Aunt Sylvia, her friends, their former art teacher Miss Alexander, and Priscilla knew the true extent of Priscilla’s involvement in the dark deeds at Brentfield Manor before Easter.
That involvement had been the mark of the old Priscilla, a girl who was willing to do anything to secure her ends. She was better than that now. She squared her shoulders.
“Thank you all for being willing to help,” she told her friends. “Someone is trying to blackmail me.” Once more, she pulled the odious note from her pocket. Ariadne bent closer, and Daphne craned her neck from horseback as Priscilla went on to explain how she’d found it.
