by Regina Scott
Sitting through the remainder of the musicale and the endless discussions afterward was torture. Priscilla was all too aware of Acantha fidgeting in the front row, as if she’d shout their shared problem aloud any minute. Worse was Nathan Kent. She could feel him tensed beside her, see him glancing about as if expecting a villain to leap out and brandish a sword at her. While Nathan’s intellect and lean physique said he could fight as well as the next fellow, she wasn’t sure whether he’d be on her side.
Finally the event concluded, and Priscilla was walking next to Emily as they followed Lady Minerva out to the Emerson carriage. She quickly told her friend everything she’d learned from Acantha.
“So we must visit her tomorrow and see if her note bears a resemblance to mine,” she finished in a whisper as they approached the open door and the waiting footman.
“Agreed,” Emily said, allowing him to hand her in. “But I cannot go in the morning, Priscilla. I must attend a meeting of the Royal Society.”
Priscilla bit back a sigh as she climbed into the coach. For as long as she’d known Emily, her friend had dreamed of being admitted to the Royal Society for the Beaux Arts, the elite group of artists among the aristocracy. The painting of her mother Emily had exhibited at their ball had earned her an invitation. No matter that Priscilla’s future was in jeopardy. She could not begrudge Emily her time to shine.
So, Priscilla spent the morning with her mother, pretending all was well. She was quite accomplished at pretending. Few at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies, from which she and her friends had graduated, had suspected she wasn’t as wealthy as the majority of the students, her tuition paid by her aunt rather than her parents.
Even now, she was certain the young ladies of the ton would be shocked out of their fashionable slippers to learn that a good number of her gowns were her own creations, made over and pieced together from cast-off clothing purchased from the rag shops near the Thames.
“Shouldn’t we be out calling, dearest?” her mother asked for the second time as Priscilla sat in the withdrawing room working over a fine wool shawl from India. It seemed the previous owner had not been diligent in protecting it from moths. A few stitches and some creative patching, and it should suffice.
She wished she could say the same for their withdrawing room. It had been furnished with leftovers from other houses in which Aunt Sylvia had once resided. Like Priscilla’s wardrobe, all the pieces were stunning in their construction, from the curved-back sofa with its rose brocade to the carved chair with arms decorated with ostrich plumes. A shame they did not complement each other as they should.
“A short time away from my admirers will only whet their appetite,” Priscilla replied, tacking some embroidered wool over a hole.
“Perhaps,” her mother said, fluttering over to light on a chair that boasted an open-mouthed lion at the end of each wooden arm. “But I have found gentlemen tend to forget a lady they do not see consistently. You cannot afford to lose your place in their affections.”
Harsh words banged against her lips, but she swallowed them. “I have never been forgettable, Mother.”
Her mother waved a hand as if to wipe away her words. “No, no. Of course not. It’s only that we have been in London nearly a month, dearest. Young ladies are becoming engaged every day, yet you remain on the shelf.”
Oh, but she was going to say something regrettable. “I have had six offers, madam. It isn’t as if I’m not trying.”
“Of course you are trying.” Her mother blinked vapid blue eyes that were rapidly filling with tears. “Perhaps you could try just a little faster.”
Priscilla was very thankful to hear a rap at the front door. Her mother hurried to answer it. No doubt she hoped a wealthy prince with a kingdom in a warm climate and suitable antecedents had come calling. More likely, it was another dun, demanding money for bills they could not pay.
Instead, Emily returned with Priscilla’s mother. “My meeting ended sooner than expected. Are you ready to call on Acantha?”
“There, you see?” Priscilla’s mother said. “Lady Emily knows what’s important.” Her mother peeled off the tasseled shawl she’d been wearing and held it out to Priscilla. “Take mine, and leave that one here. I can see that you are progressing in your embroidery, but your maid can finish the work.”
Priscilla accepted the shawl, but she could not meet Emily’s gaze. Her friend knew her mother was posturing. They had let the maid go years ago.
Out in Emily’s carriage, Priscilla settled the shawl about her arms so that it drew attention to her figure, then adjusted the white chip bonnet so that some of her curls slipped free to gleam in the sunlight. One never knew who one might see, riding in an open carriage.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” she told Emily as the vehicle set off from the pavement. “I don’t think I could have born another minute.”
“Neither could I,” Emily muttered.
Priscilla frowned at her. Emily had never been one to show strong emotions, but she had expected her friend to betray a bit more animation following her first meeting of the impressive society. Instead, Emily’s mouth was set in a thin line, and her dark eyes were stormy.
“I’m not sure why you’re so concerned,” Priscilla tried. “You aren’t the one being scolded hourly for failing to bring the right gentleman up to scratch.”
Emily sighed, fingers rubbing against each other in the lap of her plum-colored gown. “You’re right. Forgive me, Pris. Let’s focus on our task, and put the rest of this behind us.”
Priscilla could only agree. They talked of upcoming events as Emily’s driver navigated the streets of Mayfair. In a short time, they reached the Dalrymple house and were ushered into Acantha’s presence by a stern-faced butler.
Priscilla could not help her smile at the sight of the girl. Acantha’s hair had been brushed back from her face, and she wore a blue muslin gown with long sleeves trimmed in bands of ecru lace. Emily frowned at her as if she’d never seen Acantha before.
“Well done,” Priscilla murmured as she took a chair close by. “A great improvement.”
Acantha tipped up her chin. “I would not go so far as to say great, but I will own it puts me in my best looks.” She glanced to where her mother was seeing some other lady callers to the door, then leaned forward. “So, you’ve come to help?”
“Indeed.” Emily held out her hand. “May I see the note?”
Acantha drew a slip of parchment from her sleeve. Emily and Priscilla bent over it.
“A torn edge,” Emily murmured with a glance to Priscilla. “Rough, misspelled handwriting.”
She was right. The note bore an uncanny resemblance to the one Priscilla had received.
“And you found this where?” Emily asked Acantha, straightening. “When?”
“In my reticule, two days ago.”
The very day Priscilla had found the note in her pocket. The same person had to have sent them.
Just then, the younger Dalrymple sisters scampered into the room. Unlike their mousy-haired sister, their hair was tawny and bounced with curls, and their blue eyes sparkled with mischief. At seven years of age, the twins were too young for the Barnsley School, but Priscilla had a feeling their parents were counting the days. They slid to a stop in front of Priscilla and Emily and spread their pinafores as they curtsied.
“Miss Liddle has a headache,” one proclaimed.
“Again,” her twin added.
“So we came to see you!” the first finished triumphantly.
“Mother!” Acantha bellowed.
Her mother hurried up, bright as the sun in her yellow muslin gown. “That’s quite enough, girls,” she scolded, seizing up a hand of each. “You know your sister must entertain callers.”
The first pouted, looking far more like her older sister Acantha. “She’s always too busy for us.”
“Her and her duke,” the other agreed in a sniff. “And that Priscilla Tate person.” She glared at Priscilla.
Priscilla raised her brows, but Acantha flushed red. “Children belong in the nursery.”
That set them both to howling in protest, but their mother marched them out of the room and shut the door behind her.
“They are impossible,” Acantha lamented, collapsing back against her chair. “They pester me constantly, demanding my attentions. They have no concept of the pressures of the Season.”
Or which bits of gossip to ignore. Priscilla decided not to dwell on how many times her name might have been raised in complaint that Acantha’s sisters knew and despised it.
“Wait until it’s their turn for a Season,” Emily advised Acantha. “Now, quickly, before your mother returns, where did you go the day before yesterday and who could have slipped the note into your reticule?”
Acantha gazed up at the coffered ceiling where green ocean waves billowed from a painted sea. “I entertained callers all morning: His Grace and his cousin, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Richmont, Lord Eustace, Miss Bigglethorpe, Priscilla, and her mother. I was fitted for a new gown at two, and I went riding at four. That evening I attended a ball at Lady Baminger’s. It wasn’t until I was preparing for bed that I found the note.”
Priscilla frowned. That made for entirely too many people with opportunities to play the blackmailer.
“And your reticule was with you the entire time?” Emily pressed.
“Not while I was riding, silly,” Acantha said. “And I didn’t take it to the ball. It didn’t match my gown.”
How very nice to have such a choice. Priscilla clutched her reticule closer.
“So anyone who called might have given you the note,” Emily surmised, “a servant could have slipped it in when you were elsewhere, or someone at the seamstress’s shop could have provided it.”
Still too many choices. Acantha did not seem to agree, for she waved a hand. “Our servants are entirely trustworthy, and so is the staff at Madame Levasard’s.”
Madame Levasard? Priscilla had had call to patronize the famous dressmaker. On a commission from Aunt Sylvia, paid before her fall from grace, the skilled designer had crafted the gown Priscilla had worn to her come out ball. But Priscilla hadn’t seen the woman in nearly two weeks.
Emily was clearly of the same mind, for her dark eyes narrowed. “Then it must have been one of your callers.”
Acantha shook her head, and a curl popped free to hang along her ear. “Miss Bigglethorpe has been a dear friend to me. Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Richmont, and Lord Eustace are true gentlemen who would never pen such a note. That leaves . . .” She turned to Priscilla, her eyes narrowing too. “You.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Priscilla said. “I didn’t give you that note.”
“I don’t see why not,” Acantha insisted, straightening away from the chair. “You’ve never been nice to me until last night, and I know you’ve set your sights for Rottenford.”
“She didn’t send you that note,” Emily said before Priscilla could do more than puff herself up to protest. “She received one too.”
“Emily!” Priscilla couldn’t help her cry. Letting Acantha know about the other note was surely courting disaster.
Emily turned to her. “She must know, Pris. It’s the only way we can compare circumstances and unearth the culprit.”
Acantha was staring at Priscilla. “Did you really receive a note like mine?”
No use denying it now. “Yes,” Priscilla admitted. “Identical in word and misspelling.”
“And you were both together that morning,” Emily reminded them. “Are you certain no other caller had reason to warn you away from the duke?”
Priscilla met Acantha’s gaze and knew they were both puzzled.
“I suppose,” Acantha said slowly, “Miss Bigglethorpe might have set her cap for him. He is an exceptional catch. And Lord Eustace is a bit on the possessive side. He gets miffed if I so much as mention another gentleman in his hearing.”
“He is one of the gentlemen I refused,” Priscilla said. “So is Mr. Richmont.”
Acantha colored as if she did not like the reminder.
“Then we will have to question them all,” Emily said. She rose. “Never fear, Acantha. We will uncover the truth.”
“Thank you.” Acantha hopped to her feet as well. “I cannot tell you how good it feels to know I am not alone.”
Priscilla wished she felt the same way. As they took their leave and returned to the carriage, she couldn’t help going over their conversation in her mind. It wasn’t hard to imagine another girl might be jealous of her. She’d faced that emotion more times than she cared to remember. But her and Acantha Dalrymple both?
Who else was out for her duke?
Chapter Eight
“It makes no sense,” Priscilla told Emily as they headed for the Emerson house in Emily’s carriage. “How did Miss Bigglethorpe, Mr. Richmont, or Lord Eustace know about Aunt Sylvia? I haven’t met Miss Bigglethorpe above a few times, and I always keep that knowledge from my suitors.”
“Perhaps one of them has a relative living at the same estate,” Emily guessed, leaning back against the velvet squabs. “Or a country house in the area.”
“And they also know Acantha’s pearls are paste?” Priscilla protested.
Emily shrugged. “Lady Minerva did make that accusation aloud at our ball. One of them might have overhead or talked with someone who overheard.”
Priscilla shook her head. “Too coincidental. Something more is at play, Emily. You may depend on it. But if you must find a way to question them, you could start with Miss Bigglethorpe’s father. He’s a member of the Royal Society.”
Emily’s look darkened. “And a more inveterate gossip you are unlikely to find. Like father, like daughter, perhaps?”
Priscilla felt cold and gathered her mother’s shawl closer for all the day was sunny. “I am doomed.”
“If he’s the culprit, you may be right.” Emily shivered as well. “I’m sorry, Pris. I didn’t mean to sound so dismal. It’s just that the meeting of the Royal Society was not what I expected.”
Priscilla frowned at her. “How so? I cannot believe they would be unkind to the daughter of a duke!”
“As some of them are dukes and duchesses, my rank hardly matters,” Emily assured her, gaze out over the carriages they were passing. “And that wasn’t the problem. All they do is talk, about themselves, about their families, about their friends. I’ve never heard such gossips! I was given an earful at the meeting today, and some of it had to do with your duke.”
Priscilla stiffened. “What about His Grace?”
“It seems he’s the head of a rather large family,” Emily explained, fingers tapping at her plum-colored skirts as if she found it hard to describe something without painting a picture of it. “No siblings still living, but countless cousins, aunts, and uncles of varying degrees. One of them fancies herself a sculptress: mushrooms and toadstools, of all things, out of marble! He supports her and all the rest from what I gathered.”
“You mean he’s actually poor?” Priscilla stared at her aghast. “Aunt Sylvia’s last husband, the late Earl of Brentfield, had that problem, to her everlasting regret. All his funds were tied up in art.”
“I don’t think it’s as bad as all that,” Emily said as the carriage rounded the corner onto her street. “His Grace seems to keep his family members like Miss Fairtree out of generosity. But because of that, they are keenly worried about who he will marry.”
Priscilla nodded, drawing a breath. “His wife could well encourage him to turn them all out and use the money to support her interests instead.”
“Precisely.” Emily’s fingers stopped tapping. “So it seems they’ve provided him with a watchdog, someone who will make sure no fortune hunter gets near him.”
Priscilla jerked upright. “Nathan Kent! Of course! I knew he had too much influence for a personal secretary.”
Emily nodded as the carriage drew to a stop in front of the town house. “Any woman who wants to gain His Grace
’s attention will have to impress Mr. Kent too.”
Priscilla leaned back with a smile. “Child’s play. Now that I know the truth, you can be sure that Mr. Kent will be living in my pocket within the week.”
*
“Natty,” His Grace whined as he studied his tall length in the Pier glass mirror of his bedchamber, “when is my new coat to be delivered?”
Nathan kept his face and tone civil. It was only noon, after all. Much too early for an apoplectic fit or to tender his resignation. And their family would approve of neither.
“I believe the tailor said Tuesday next, Your Grace,” he replied, nodding to the valet who hurried forward with a proper navy coat. “And I also believe we agreed that it is Nathan or Kent.”
The duke frowned. “Why? We were Natty and Percy growing up. I distinctly recall our nurse using those names.” He peered at Nathan. “We are cousins, after all.”
“Distant cousins,” Nathan reminded him. “Several times removed. I know you never expected to inherit the dukedom, especially when you haven’t yet reached the age of twenty and five, but some formality is expected.”
“Dratted boating accident,” His Grace muttered. “Whatever possessed my father and brother to go out on the Thames in January? Some maggot about ice fishing, no doubt. Such fascination with a sport is unhealthy. Haven’t I always said so?” He wrinkled his nose at the coat the valet offered. “Don’t I own something happier?”
“Happier, Your Grace?” The valet glanced at Nathan for guidance.
“Try the bottle green coat with the velvet lapels,” Nathan suggested, and the valet hurried back to the dressing room.
Nathan regarded his employer who was now fussing with the crested gold buttons on his waistcoat. “You’re attending Parliament later. You want to be taken seriously.”
His Grace frowned. “Whatever for? As it is, you’ve forbidden me to speak. Not that I mind, of course.” He shuddered. “I have no wish to be ogled by half the ton while I prose on about some tiresome subject.”
No, he’d prefer to be ogled for his coat, it seemed. Nathan hid his sigh. Was it any wonder he was having trouble securing the right lady to play duchess?
