by Regina Scott
Priscilla kept her smile pleasant. “My aunt is a darling, Your Grace. How I miss having her at my side! After the current title holder married, she felt it incumbent to remove herself from Society for a time to allow the new countess to accustom herself to her role.” She lowered her voice. “The present Lady Brentfield was a teacher at a girls’ school, you know.”
She hated using her beloved art teacher as bait, but at least any gossip about Miss Alexander would be kinder than what might be said of her aunt. Besides, it was true. David Tenant, the current title holder, had fallen in love at first sight with the sweet, petite artist. As he was a Yank with no understanding of Society, they were both going to need some time to accustom themselves to their new elevated stations.
“How thoughtful of the dowager Lady Brentfield,” Glynnis said. She glanced around Priscilla. “Oh, look. I believe breakfast is served.”
Priscilla turned to see Nathan Kent standing at the foot of the stone stairs, directing the movement of a number of servants bearing silver and porcelain platters. Unlike the duke’s bright ensemble, which clashed with the pastoral setting, Nathan’s coat was a proper navy, the silver buttons neither ostentatious nor ornate. When she looked at him, she saw a man, not a title.
The duke started to offer his arm to Priscilla, but Glynnis interceded. “You know you will have to offer for Aunt Hortensia,” she said with a commiserating smile.
The duke heaved a sigh as he glanced at Priscilla. “Duty, you know.”
She curtsied. “Of course, Your Grace. I understand.”
Mr. Richmont strolled up just then, dark eyes gleaming in the sunlight. He smiled at Priscilla, then turned purposefully and offered his arm to Glynnis, who strolled happily away with him.
Priscilla puffed out a sigh. Why was it with every step forward in her pursuit of the duke she felt as if she took two steps back? She glanced about, seeking some gentleman to escort her, but all around, cousins were pairing up with cousins, and uncles were leading off aunts. Only one man dared make his way through the group to her side.
“Might I be of assistance, Miss Tate?” Nathan held out his arm.
She knew her aunt would have cautioned her to wait for someone more impressive, but she was certain the duke would approve of any association with his personal secretary. Besides, she did not want to appear to be wandering to the table alone like a lost sheep.
She smiled at Nathan. “Certainly, Mr. Kent.”
Together, they approached the table, and he handed her into the mahogany seat. A marble statuette shaped like a cherub held a piece of paper with her name elegantly written in its tiny grip. She had no doubt Mr. Kent had arranged the seating and made sure she would be placed far away from His Grace to make conversation impossible. But she would find a way.
She had just placed the damask napkin in her lap when Acantha Dalrymple screamed.
Priscilla’s head jerked up. In the silence that followed, she saw the note clutched in Acantha’s shaking fingers. Something hard fell into her stomach. Glancing down, she saw a similar note sticking out from under her soup bowl.
She knew what it must be.
She snatched it up, rose, and hurried to Acantha’s side.
Everyone around Acantha was either demanding an explanation or attempting to calm her. Priscilla used her elbows to effect to hold the others back. Putting one hand on Acantha’s shoulder, she pulled the girl up out of her chair.
“Dear Acantha, how sad you are unwell,” she said, tugging her away from the table. “Allow me to help.”
Acantha’s swiveled to face her, the fine material of her blue-and-white striped gown wrinkling under Priscilla’s grip. But whatever she saw in Priscilla’s eyes made her clamp her mouth shut. Priscilla managed to wrestle her out from among the duke’s relatives and angle her toward the house.
Nathan stepped into their path. “How might I be of assistance, Miss Dalrymple?”
Acantha glanced between him and Priscilla, then let out a moan, dropping her head.
“It’s a matter of female delicacy,” Priscilla said, willing herself to blush. “I’m sure you understand.”
Most men would have scurried out of the way at such a statement. Nathan merely narrowed his eyes.
“We have a distant cousin who is a physician,” he said. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to be of assistance.”
“Nooooo!” Acantha wailed, burying her head in Priscilla’s shoulder.
Nathan raised his brows and took a step back, but Priscilla didn’t think he would give up so easily.
“I know exactly how you can help, Mr. Kent,” she said. “Hold this for me.” She handed him her parasol and had the momentary satisfaction of seeing him blink his remarkably fine eyes in confusion. Before he could recover, she steered Acantha up the steps, across the veranda, and into the house.
From her visit a few days ago, she knew the library lay to the right. She ushered Acantha inside and shut the door.
The room was empty of people. Instead, books on tall, white-lacquered shelves crowded on all sides, while cozy chairs waited for someone to come read.
Acantha appeared to see none of it. Feet planted on the Oriental carpet, she held out a sheet of paper. “She left another note, right in front of everyone!”
“I believe our mutual enemy left me one as well.” Priscilla pushed off the door and took the note from Acantha. Crossing to the neat, polished-wood desk, she set the two pages side by side on top of the salmon-colored blotter. Again, they seemed identical.
“If you do not leave the duke alone, there will be dire consequences,” Priscilla read aloud.
Acantha joined her in staring down at them. “We are doomed.”
“Not necessarily,” Priscilla argued. “It depends on how we respond. Of course, it will be apparent to our blackmailer that we received the notes.”
Acantha colored. “I couldn’t help it. I panicked.”
“Nonetheless,” Priscilla continued with a look to her, “the criminal will no doubt suspect we are comparing. If we return to the breakfast calm and composed, he may think himself discovered and give himself away.”
“Him?” Acantha stared at her. “You suspect a gentleman?”
“It’s possible,” Priscilla allowed. “I’d like to show these to Emily, if I may.”
Acantha stepped back and held up her hands, the lace at her sleeves fluttering. “Be my guest. I certainly don’t want to see the loathsome thing again.”
Priscilla slipped the notes into her reticule. On a whim, she selected a sheet of writing paper from the carefully arranged stack on the duke’s desk and took it as well.
“What are you doing?” Acantha asked with a frown.
“Providing more evidence, I hope.” She faced Acantha. “Now, wipe your eyes, put on a smile, and pretend you feel much better. Then go on with the breakfast as if this note was never delivered.”
Acantha’s frown grew. “Is that even possible?”
“It must be,” Priscilla said, heading for the door, “unless we want the miscreant to win at his vicious little game.”
Hand on the door latch, she glanced back to find that Acantha had squared her scrawny shoulders and raised her head. “Never,” she declared, and she followed Priscilla out the door.
*
Nathan watched as Acantha and Priscilla exited the house together. Miss Dalrymple was still wan and trembling, but Priscilla glided along with her usual gracious smile as if she was quite accustomed to dealing with mysterious female maladies.
Two of the male guests hopped to their feet to hold out her chair for her as she returned to her seat, and another insisted on filling a plate for her. In short order, peace had been restored, and she was happily holding court. He couldn’t help the feeling, however, that she was watching the company, but he couldn’t determine the reason.
She really would make an outstanding duchess.
He thrust that thought aside. He had unobtrusively followed her and his cousin about the garden, c
hecked with this aunt and that uncle about their impressions. The gentlemen were of a mind that Priscilla was much too pretty for His Grace; therefore, she must be a fortune hunter. The ladies were certain something must be false about her, for no lady could be so beautiful, sweet, and kind this side of Heaven. In other words, the entire family had aligned themselves against her, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if he wasn’t ordered to strike her name from consideration.
Somehow, he thought he’d have a fight on his hands from His Grace.
Because she was neither titled nor family, he had arranged for her to be seated toward the center of the long table, far enough away from His Grace not to monopolize the conversation. Yet it didn’t matter where she sat. Each gossamer giggle, each regal wave of her hand, had every eye glancing her way.
“That’s Priscilla Tate,” His Grace said to the great aunt at his side. “She’s with me.”
Their aunt shoved some of the Brussels sprouts into her mouth and chewed so hard Nathan thought she might spit nails.
Finally, His Grace pushed back his chair and stood. “Thank you all for coming. I hope you enjoyed the meal. Perhaps we could all wander about a bit more, and then you can go home.”
As speeches went, it would not have ranked among the best. Normally Nathan would have intervened, but he was more interested in Priscilla. As the others rose and began jockeying for partners, he was the first to her side.
“His Grace has a prize rose, Miss Tate,” he told her, offering her the parasol she had thrust into his keeping. “I’m certain he’d love for you to see it.”
She glanced to where two of their aunts had commandeered the duke and were bending his ear with no doubt well-meant advice. “Perhaps I should ask him to show it to me.”
“He’ll join us shortly, no doubt,” Nathan replied. He took her arm and led her deeper into the garden. She strolled along beside him, her parasol held primly over her head, her gaze drifting from this flower to that shrub as if enthralled by the beauty around her.
He knew how she felt.
“What was really wrong with Miss Dalrymple?” he asked as they crossed a stone bridge over a little pond.
“Really, Mr. Kent,” she said, trailing her fingers along the white marble. “You cannot expect me to divulge a friend’s secrets.”
“I was under the impression that you and Miss Dalrymple were not such great friends,” Nathan countered, offering her a hand to help her down onto the path on the other side.
She laughed. He’d never met a woman whose laughter held more joy. It was as if he could see it sparkling in the air.
“We have had our differences in the past,” she allowed, “but this Season has drawn us closer.” She cast him a glance. “And as her friend, I must caution you against questioning her today. It would mortify her no end.”
No doubt, but leaving Miss Dalrymple alone would also keep him from learning the truth. “It seemed to me she found her place at the table distressing. I believe she was holding her place card in her hand.”
She smiled and tapped his arm. “You, Mr. Kent, are entirely too observant. What woman wouldn’t be upset to find her name misspelled at such an event? It would be as if she were an afterthought, a nonentity.”
He couldn’t believe it was that simple. “And why did she require your support?”
“To regain her composure, of course. I assured her no insult could have been meant. It’s clear His Grace enjoys her company.” She cast him another glance, emerald eyes hidden by her lashes. “Or is it you who disapproves of her, Mr. Kent?”
He stopped by a shrub trimmed to resemble a Grecian urn. “Me?”
She gazed up at him. “You, sir. The duke holds your opinion in high regard, that much is evident. Have you decided that Miss Dalrymple does not warrant his attentions?”
“Certainly not,” Nathan said, but she took a step closer, and the scent of roses washed over him, more potent than any flower in His Grace’s garden.
“And what of me?” she murmured, gaze downcast as if she was afraid to see the answer in his eyes. “I do so hope I’ve made a good impression on you.”
She was flirting again. He wasn’t sure she knew how to react to a gentleman otherwise. Some part of him wanted to respond in kind. He could imagine himself drawing her into his embrace, gazing into those too-green eyes, and murmuring, “No woman has ever made such an impression on me, my dear Priscilla.”
Instead, he took her elbow and directed her back the way they had come. “I believe you have made an impression on every member of the family, Miss Tate. And I believe that was your goal in coming here today.”
“If my presence reflected well on His Grace, I am delighted.” Her steps were slow and measured as if she was in no hurry to return to the duke’s side. “Tell me, Mr. Kent, what was your goal? Are you concerned about dire consequences?”
He could see her eying him, waiting for his reaction. “Dire consequences, Miss Tate? For what action?”
“What indeed?” She angled her parasol as if to keep the sun from her creamy complexion, but in doing so, she hid her face from Nathan. “I’m sure you’d never accuse me or Miss Dalrymple of being false.”
Only with a great deal more evidence than he now possessed. The duke would never believe him otherwise. “Have I done something else to offend you?”
“Certainly not! Oh, look, there’s His Grace with my mother. I must thank him for a fascinating afternoon. Perhaps I can return some time to see his rose.” She broke away from Nathan and drifted across the grass so lightly he would have sworn the blades did not so much as bend with her footfalls.
“Is everything all right with Miss Tate?” Glynnis asked, joining him.
Nathan shook his head, bemused. “She seems her usual impossibly perfect self, but I cannot help feeling she is up to something.”
“Up to something?” Glynnis’s voice was sufficiently strong that Nathan turned to eye her. She had paled, and one hand pressed against the chest of her green gown.
“Nothing nefarious,” he assured her. “But never fear. I’ll discover the truth.”
Chapter Fifteen
Priscilla wasted no time in enlisting Emily’s help. She made sure her mother, still extolling the duke’s virtues, was safely deposited at home, then hurried across Mayfair on foot. Though it was now approaching evening, the lamplighters making their way along the street, she rapped at the door of the ducal town house, which was opened by Warburton.
He eyed her. “Miss Tate to see Lady Emily, immediately, I presume?”
“Exactly,” Priscilla said, starting past him into the entry hall.
“She is working on a painting,” he advised, closing the door behind her. “I believe you know the way.”
With a nod, Priscilla set off.
Emily’s painting has progressed since the last time Priscilla had seen it. Dark clouds lined the horizon, brightened only where lightning gleamed. Dozens of fighters in the red or white of the houses of Lancaster or York lay sprawled in the foreground, blood in pools about their mangled limbs. Though the notes weighted heavily in her reticule, Priscilla put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “What’s happened?”
Gowned in a dull brown dress covered by her painting smock, Emily turned her gaze from her work to frown at Priscilla. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
Priscilla dropped her hand. “Well, you do tend to paint what you feel. The darker the scene, the deeper your emotions.”
Emily glanced at her painting, then set down her brush. “Nonsense. I simply like battle scenes.”
The militant tone in her voice warned Priscilla more was involved. “Did someone at the Royal Society caution you against them?”
“No,” she said with a sigh, wiping her fingers on a rag. “Not recently.” She glanced at Priscilla again. “I have tried to paint other things, you know. Like that portrait of my mother.”
Priscilla nodded, remembering. Emily had displayed the portrait at their come out ball to high praise, even fro
m the patroness of the Royal Society.
“But you don’t enjoy them as much,” she guessed. She couldn’t help her smile. “With the exception of the portrait of Jamie Cropper, of course. I do hope you repaired your rift with him.”
Emily’s look was as dark as her painting. “Mr. Cropper has been too busy of late to sit for his portrait.”
Priscilla’s stomach sank. “Then Nathan Kent lied. Bow Street is still investigating me.”
“No, it isn’t that. His commission was truly rescinded. He simply finds himself unable to attend me. He seems to find my devotion questionable.” Her lower lip trembled, but she straightened. “Now, you didn’t come to hear my pitiful story. How was the Venetian breakfast?”
“An ordeal,” Priscilla assured her. As she fished out the notes and presented them to Emily, she explained what had happened.
Emily studied the notes. “These weren’t sent by the same person.”
Priscilla frowned, peering closer at the stiff black lettering. “What do you mean? They look identical to me.”
“They are identical, to each other. But they don’t match the previous notes, yours or Acantha’s. For one thing, the language is much more polished. And see here?” She pointed to the edges. “The paper has been cut rather than ripped from a larger sheet. And I would wager it isn’t the same stock.”
She went to a lamp set on a side table near her work and angled one of the notes to the light. “There’s appears to be a watermark. I can’t quite make it out.”
“Perhaps this will help.” Priscilla offered her the piece of stationary she’d taken from the duke’s desk.
Emily compared it to the notes. “A perfect match! It looks like the Royal Warrant of Worther and Sons, stationers to the King.” She glanced at Priscilla. “Where did you get this?”
“From His Grace’s private stock in his library.” She hated to admit her thoughts. “Someone in his household must have sent these.”
Emily’s eyes widened as she lowered the sheets. “Not necessarily. Anyone at the breakfast could have slipped into the library just as you did. Although, it might have been more difficult to hide the notes on the table without the staff or the guests noticing.”
