by Regina Scott
Oh, he had no doubt Priscilla Tate could have found a charming way to coax His Grace into wearing the proper coat, doing his duty. But he needed more in the new duchess. Whoever became Lady Rottenford would have to navigate the highest reaches of Society while covering the social gaffs of her husband. She’d have to help guide his opinions, shape the sentiments he expressed in Parliament. In Nathan’s mind, the woman would have to be sensitive, selfless, and sincere.
He had seen few of those traits in Priscilla Tate, alas. In fact, he would have laid odds in the famed betting book at White’s gentlemen’s club that if she discovered the duke’s true nature, she would exploit it to her own gain.
So he had to rely on his own skills to extricate His Grace from his boudoir in a reasonably conservative coat. They had reached the ground floor when they met Glynnis exiting the library with a book under her arm.
She widened her already large eyes and curtsied, her lavender skirts brushing the marble floor. “Your Grace. What a lovely surprise.”
Hardly surprising to find the fellow in his own home, but Nathan merely smiled.
So did the duke. “Ah, Glynnis. What are you doing today?”
She held up the book, spine out so he could see. “I find myself curious about the Roman Empire. I thought a history might help.”
His Grace recoiled as if she’d offered him hemlock. “Why would you need to know about a bunch of foreign dead people? Don’t you fear your head will explode with all that knowledge?”
She colored as she lowered the book. “Well, if Your Grace advises it, I will certainly return the book to the library.”
“Education and enlightenment are never unwise,” Nathan said with a warning look to his employer. “I’m sure the duke would not counsel you otherwise.”
His Grace nodded so hard his neck wobbled above his intricately tied cravat. “Course I would. No one likes a bluestocking. Ask Miss Tate. She’s all the fashion. I doubt you’ll find a book in her hands.”
Very likely not. Priscilla Tate would be too smart to be caught. But by her educated conversation he’d overhead in the past, he was fairly sure she’d opened a book or two in her life.
Glynnis lowered her gaze to where her pearl-colored slippers peeked out below her white muslin skirts. “Miss Tate is a great beauty, I know. I will content myself with allowing my inner beauty to shine through instead.”
“Nicely put,” Nathan started, but His Grace cocked his head.
“Oh, I don’t know, Glynnis. A little more curl in your hair, a prettier gown with a few more furbelows, and you could be quite presentable.”
Her smile was wobbly. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace.”
“We should go,” Nathan told him before he could injure the poor girl further. He nodded to Glynnis. “Enjoy your reading.” He seized His Grace’s arm and drew him out the door.
“Have you no sense?” he demanded as they descended the stairs to the waiting coach. “You cannot tell a woman what to read, how to dress.”
His Grace pulled away and patted Nathan’s arm. “That’s the funny thing, Natty. You can’t tell a woman what to read or how to dress, but the Duke of Rottenford can. Haven’t you noticed? They all hang on my every word.” Whistling, he ambled to the carriage, where a liveried footman held open the door for him.
Nathan raised a plea heavenward. He didn’t think it a coincidence that ever since Priscilla Tate had begun spending time with the duke, Nathan’s job had grown much more difficult.
*
Miss Bigglethorpe proved easier to corner than Acantha. Like Priscilla, she was on her first Season, so she participated in the morning calls, the evening balls, just as Priscilla did. And she must have been particularly good friends with Miss Felicity Crandall, for they were most often seen together.
Priscilla spotted them at the opera the next night. She and her parents had been invited to sit in the Duke of Emerson’s private box with Emily and Lady Minerva, His Grace having been called to Whitehall as usual. Priscilla wasn’t entirely sure what Emily’s father did to support the War Office, but it kept him away from home and out of Emily’s life a great deal.
A shame she could not say the same for her own parents. Her mother and father sat with supreme confidence on the scarlet velvet-upholstered chairs, knowing any association with the Duke of Emerson would further their fiction that they ran in the finest circles. If it hadn’t been for Priscilla’s friendship with Emily, they would never have met the duke.
And if it wasn’t for her skill with a needle, they would not be so well dressed now. Only she knew the embroidered silk of her mother’s cerulean evening dress had come from a native outfit from far off India. And her father would never have admitted his top hat had been blocked and brushed into shape after Pricilla had noticed it in a neighbor’s dustbin.
Her own outfit was equally pieced together; the green velvet bodice and Circassian sleeves were from a masquerade costume her aunt had once worn, the white satin skirts from a gown with a stained sleeve. The gold lace trimming the daring neckline had been pulled off an old court dress. And Emily had given her the emerald satin band that held back her curls. No one would guess the emeralds at her throat were paste.
Except perhaps Emily. Priscilla had come to realize that little escaped her. Her friend sat beside her in a satin gown the color of melted chocolate, eyes narrowed as she glanced about the other boxes around and across from them. Priscilla had never understood why Emily favored the dark, dreary colors. With her dramatic coloring, curly sable hair and pale complexion, she could easily have pulled off something more bold.
But Emily’s mind did not run to fashion. She had found her talent for uncovering secrets was nearly as great as her ability to paint, and that was saying something.
“There she is,” she murmured to Priscilla as they waited for the first act to start.
Priscilla glanced around with an exaggerated sigh, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, and let her gaze pause on the box across the way a second longer than necessary. Both Miss Bigglethorpe and Miss Crandall had also dressed for the evening, the former in a soft blue that complimented her fair coloring and the latter in a spring green that made her dark curls shine and brought pink to her round cheeks. Or perhaps she had indulged in a pot of rouge.
“We can rule out Miss Crandall,” Priscilla whispered to Emily. “She has not the face, figure, or fortune to command a duke.”
“All the more reason for her to be jealous of you,” Emily countered. “And if not that, she may be helping her friend.”
Priscilla raised a brow. “You are very good at this.”
Emily smiled. “I’m learning. Jamie’s given me advice in several areas. Do you know there’s a way to tell if someone is lying by the way they move?”
Priscilla chuckled. “Only if the person is unused to playing a role. Veteran liars learn to school their faces, their movements.”
“You can be scary sometimes, you know that?” Emily said.
Priscilla smiled.
The lights flickered, then dimmed, and she lost sight of the pair. That didn’t mean she forgot them. Opera had never been her favorite theatrical, so she let the sweeping arias float over her as she considered this strategy and that. When the lights flared to life again, she touched Emily’s arm.
“I’m going to speak to them. Keep my parents busy.”
Emily’s eyes widened a moment, then she turned gamely and asked the Tates about their plans for the summer months. As her parents angled for an invitation to spend August at the Duke of Emerson’s countryseat, Priscilla slipped out the back of the box. She’d barely taken two steps before a voice called out.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” Emily’s aunt strode up to Priscilla, dark skirts flapping. Like Emily, she was small and sharp, from her pointed noise to her grasping fingers. Now she affixed Priscilla with such a look she might have thought Lady Minerva was her blackmailer.
“I saw friends across the way,” Priscilla re
plied, keeping her voice and face pleasant. “No need to trouble yourself.”
“Your parents may be dim, but I am not.” She squinted at Priscilla. “You’re out to meet a boy. Admit it.”
Priscilla allowed herself a gossamer giggle. “Oh, Lady Minerva, how you go on.” She patted the woman’s hand. “Please don’t concern yourself. I’m not out to cause a scandal.”
“Only for someone else,” Lady Minerva insisted, pulling away. “What will you give me to keep silent about seeing you?”
Well! Priscilla opened her mouth, then shut it again and leaned closer. “Listen, you harridan. I’ve dealt with far more difficult spies, and I’m not about to be put off my game by you. Tell my parents; they’ll applaud my initiative. Tell Emily; she’ll assure you I know what I’m doing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if I should tell Rottenford?”
Priscilla stiffened. “I’ll deny it to my last breath.”
Lady Minerva cackled. “You see? I knew you were sweet on the fellow. But you’re going the wrong way.” She tipped a thumb over her shoulder. “His box is back there, two doors down from ours.”
Priscilla hesitated. In truth, from the situation of Emily’s box, she hadn’t been able to see into the ones nearest her, and she hadn’t considered the fact that His Grace might be attending tonight. Should she do as she’d planned and accost Miss Bigglethorpe, or find a way to ingratiate herself with him?
“Tick tock, tick tock,” Lady Minerva sang out. “You have a choice to make, girl, and intermission only lasts so long. What will it be?”
Priscilla pulled the gold-colored ring off her gloved finger and handed it to Lady Minerva. “Tell the Duke of Rottenford that you saw me in the corridor on the way to greet my friends Miss Bigglethorpe and Miss Crandall. Be sure to mention I was unescorted and appeared to be in distress. If that doesn’t bring him to my side, nothing will.”
Chapter Nine
Nathan wasn’t surprised when someone pounded on the door to the ducal opera box. Some members of Society were always determined to curry favor with so highly placed a gentleman as the Duke of Rottenford. He excused himself from where he sat with His Grace, Glynnis, and her mother and went through the crimson velvet curtains masking the door. With a nod, he instructed the waiting footman to answer the knock, expecting to see an up-and-coming Parliamentarian or a matchmaking mama on the other side.
Instead, Lady Minerva Southwell stood in the corridor, the slender chest of her black lace evening gown rising and falling in a most alarming manner, two splotches of color decorating her high cheeks.
“Priscilla Tate is wandering around this theatre unescorted,” she announced. She thrust a boney finger into Nathan’s blue satin-striped waistcoat. “And I want to know what you intend to do about it.”
Nathan glanced over his shoulder and lifted the curtain to make sure the duke was safely engrossed in conversation with his cousins, then let the curtain fall and stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. “Are you saying, madam, that Miss Tate is in danger?”
She threw up her hands. “Miss Tate is the danger, if you ask me. The good Lord should have known better than to put so much potential in such a potent package. Now, are you going after her, or shall I?”
Nathan frowned. “Where exactly did you see her?”
She shook her gray-haired head as if she thought him quite obtuse. “That doesn’t matter! It’s not where she was but where she will be that should concern you, young man. She was making for the box of a Miss Bricklebatch and Miss Cranberry.”
Nathan nodded to a couple who were strolling past, then lowered his head to meet Lady Minerva’s gaze. “Do you perhaps mean Miss Bigglethorpe and Miss Crandall?”
She waved a hand. “Their names are immaterial. Miss Tate is not.” She pointed an imperious finger down the corridor, where others were now exiting their boxes in search of companionship and refreshments. “Go! Before it is too late!”
Nathan went.
He could not mistake the woman’s urgency, even if he questioned her reasoning. Miss Tate could likely take care of herself, even in a theatre crowded with all manner of persons. But given his concern over the note he’d found in the duke’s pocket, it seemed wisest to confirm she was safe.
He’d noted the two ladies across the way from them earlier. Miss Bigglethorpe in particular had been encouraging of His Grace’s attentions. But though her family was well known to the House of Rottenford, her reputation as a headstrong beauty had led Nathan to steer his employer away from her. Had she decided to take matters into her own hands? Perhaps eliminate any rivals along the way?
He found the box easily enough. The door was hanging wide, with no sign of a footman. As Nathan hesitated, from inside came the sound of female voices raised in argument.
“I don’t much like your tone, Priscilla Tate.” That clear voice belonged to Miss Bigglethorpe, unless he missed his guess. “Just what do you think I’ve done?”
“If you are innocent, I have no need to answer that,” Priscilla replied, voice low and determined. “I merely asked what you knew about a certain note connected with the Duke of Rottenford.”
A note? How did Miss Tate know about the note if she hadn’t sent it? Yet if she had sent it, why was she questioning Miss Bigglethorpe about it? And she’d certainly never warn the duke away from herself!
“Unlike some people,” Miss Bigglethorpe said, and Nathan could imagine her patrician nose in the air, “I have no need to resort to love letters to express my interest in a gentleman. The gentlemen pursue me, not the other way around.”
“Then of course you have no interest in the Duke of Rottenford,” Priscilla said. “After all, I haven’t seen him trouble himself to further your acquaintance.”
“Oh! I’ll have you know we spoke at length a fortnight ago, and he took me driving only last week. He is a frequent caller!”
If by frequent she meant he ambled by on his way to another appointment once or twice a month, she was correct.
“How nice. The fact that he dances with other ladies must not concern you, then, with him living in your pocket and all.”
Nathan winced. Now he knew why some people referred to certain tones as catty.
“I’m quite sure I could care less how the Duke of Rottenford spends his time.”
Nathan had heard enough. He rapped on the open panel, and all voices instantly hushed. It was Miss Cranberry, er Crandall who came to see who was visiting. He could only surmise that their parents had gone out during the intermission, thinking the gazes of a dozen other people sufficient chaperonage for the short time.
One look at Nathan, and Miss Crandall paled, blinking her blue eyes. “Oh, Mr. Kent.” She glanced past him. “Is His Grace with you?”
“No indeed,” Nathan said. “Though he sends his regards. We simply wished to know whether you and Miss Bigglethorpe are enjoying the evening.”
“Oh, well.” She shuffled on her evening slippers, light green skirts swinging. “The music was lovely.”
But present company was not. That much was clear by the tension in her pale face. “I quite understand. May I escort Miss Tate away so you can enjoy the rest of the opera?”
“Oh, yes, thank you!” As if she realized how rude that sounded, her smile of relief vanished. “That is, I’ll see if she’s ready to leave. Excuse me.” She ducked back behind the curtain.
There was a whispered confrontation, and then Priscilla burst through the curtain quite as if she’d been shoved from behind. Every golden hair was still in place, but her emerald eyes snapped fire, and her cheeks blazed with her emotions.
Nathan bowed. “Forgive me, Miss Tate, but Lady Minerva gave me to understand you were in great peril.”
She smoothed down the satin of her skirts. “She would not be mistaken.” Glancing up, her smile blossomed, and once again, he swore the scent of roses floated on the air.
“And how chivalrous of you to come to my aid,” she said, threading her arm through
his and directing him out into the corridor. “I must thank His Grace for sending you.”
Some part of him wanted all her thanks directed his way, even if he suspected it wasn’t entirely sincere.
“I doubt we’ll have time to meet with him before the second act begins,” he told her, “but I will be sure to thank him for you.”
Her mouth quirked, but she kept walking at his side down the scarlet-papered corridor. “How considerate.” She slanted him a glance wreathed in lashes as gilded as the lace at her impressive décolletage. “I hope my conversation with Miss Bigglethorpe did not concern you.”
“On the contrary,” Nathan said, tightening his grip on her arm, “I find myself quite curious about this note associated with His Grace.”
Her color deepened, but her laugh danced in the air like the notes of a song. “Oh, we ladies are forever passing notes, praising this gentleman, lamenting the hard heart of another.” Her gaze brushed his again, as soft as a caress. “Would you like to know what we say about you?”
Yes. No! What was he thinking? What was she doing? Before he could ask, she drew him to a stop along the wall, glancing both ways as if to ensure they were alone, then pressed her mouth to his ear.
“We say Mr. Kent is the reason for His Grace’s success,” she said, voice low and husky. “He must be as talented as he is handsome to be given such authority.”
Nathan tried to pull away from the siren song, but there was no direction he could move without coming in contact with her body. And he was certain she knew it.
He put both hands on her waist, and her eyes widened. He picked her up and set her back from him, trying not to think about how those curves would feel in his embrace. Meeting her startled gaze, he said, “I liked you better when you weren’t flirting with me.”
She flamed. “And I liked you better when I thought you were a gentleman.” Turning, she stalked down the corridor toward the Emerson box.
*
Tears scalded Priscilla’s eyes, and she blinked them back. She had no reason to feel ashamed. She’d been doing her job, playing her part, using the gifts she’d been given to save her family. Always before, the gentlemen had stammered their admiration. She’d never had one look at her as if she were being untrue to him. Or herself.
