The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1)

by Isabella Thorne

  20-6-1-21-21-12 8-21-6-18-1,

  21-6-5-6-20-20-6-10.

  18-6-6-18.

  Oh how delightful! A cryptogram. She wished she could work on it right now. She could not, however, not with the ball taking place around her. But surely she could copy the numbers down, to play with later? Carefully, she picked up her programme. No gentleman had dared scrawl his name upon it, and so there was plenty of space for her to quickly jot down the numbers with her pencil. Once done, she surreptitiously folded the note back up and snuck it back into the plant.

  There. No one had seen that, had they? She looked around the ballroom, attempting to appear casual. No, no one showed any signs of having seen her. In fact, most of the heads were craning towards one side of the room, near the garden doors.

  A pair of heads moved slightly, and then she could see what drew all of the attention: the Duke of Eversley had stepped into the room.

  "Heavens, if he isn't just the handsomest gentlemen you've seen, girls," a matron to the left of Georgette said to her daughters.

  "And so very well endowed," a woman on the other side of the potted plant said to her tittering friends.

  "I assume you mean his estates," her friend responded.

  "Why, certainly, whatever else could I have meant?" the woman asked, with a wink.

  And he was. Georgette had forgotten how striking he appeared. Every inch the Duke.

  "But mama," one of the daughters said, "I thought he was in mourning."

  The matron nodded. "He was, dearie. For nigh on ten years. What a tragedy, his young wife dying. We saw neither hide nor hair of him since. But now the on dit is that he is recovered, and in desperate need of a wife."

  "He appears to be coming this way," one of the other daughters said.

  "Oh, so he is! Stand up straight, girls. Look angelic."

  One of the girls let out a muffled snort, but they did as they were told.

  Georgette watched them, hiding her own grin. They were so young and fresh, so terribly eager. She could remember giggling with her cousin Anne in a similar manner, and being chastised by her mother.

  So distracted was she by her musings, that she did not realize where the Duke was headed. Not until he stopped right in front of her. He gave a small bow.

  Georgette's mouth popped open. Her cheeks bloomed with dismay. Swiftly she got to her feet and curtsied.

  "I am sorry, Your Grace," she said. "I was distracted and did not realize you were standing in front of me."

  The corners of his mouth twitched.

  "Please," he said, "do not concern yourself." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I thought that, rather than force people to choose which one of us they want to ogle, we might join forces and allow them to gape at us together."

  Georgette blinked and then grinned. "So terribly kind of you to consider the guests," she said.

  "I would ask you to dance," he said. "But I am afraid I was injured last year, and am not able to move especially gracefully."

  She waved her hand airily. "I would have had to refuse," she said, "as my hip troubles me when I dance."

  "Perhaps we might sit this one out, then?"

  "That sounds lovely," she said.

  ~.~

  Chapter Four

  He gestured at her to sit and she did. He followed suit, flourishing his coat-tails out, before settling down upon the chair corner.

  He had forgotten how pretty she looked. In the garden he had not been able to see all of her, although he had recognized her form and her manner of holding herself. Her hair and eyes were still brown, and she still had a dimple on her right cheek. Still, many of the elements had changed somewhat over time, he realized, which may have been why he initially had some difficulty placing her. She was softer around the edges now. Less coltish, less eager. Fewer calf's eyes, less in love.

  "I must extend my sympathies, Your Grace," she said. "I overheard a conversation just now alluding to your deceased wife. I was unaware Her Grace had passed."

  He gave a wry smile. "I imagine that the reason I had trouble remembering your connection to my sister and friend is the same reason you were unaware of my own tragedy. I believe they happened close together in time."

  Her eyes widened. "So long ago?" she asked.

  He shrugged.

  She shook her head. "I apologize," she said. "I did not intend to pry."

  "Blanche returned to France in August of 1793," he said.

  "Oh," she said understanding instantly. "Oh, no. I didn't realize --I am so sorry."

  "She was killed," he said. "She did not pass away." He hated when people said that Blanche passed away. As if she had simply drifted off in her sleep. But she hadn't. She had lost her head.

  Miss Quinby placed a gloved hand over his, no doubt without even realizing it. He looked down at it, wondering what her hand was doing there, why it should feel comforting.

  Stop it. Think of something else.

  "And you?" he asked, deciding to turn the tables. "You flung yourself off...a balcony, was it?"

  "Stairs," she said, through gritted teeth. "I flung myself down a flight of stairs."

  He grinned. "I know," he said. "I heard you in the garden."

  For a second her face froze and he wondered if she would slap him. He should not have made jest of her despair. And despair it must have been, for her to have done such a thing. But then she smiled. It seemed irrepressible, her smile.

  "I should cut you direct," she said, "for laughing at my ill-fated attempt to end my life. It was quite tragic, if you must know. I was unconscious for days."

  His hand tightened on hers.

  "Now you have made me feel quite the heel," he said.

  "Good," she said. "Since I have done that, I will tell you something I have not told another soul. I am telling you this because I quite liked Her Grace."

  She took a deep breath and spoke quickly. "I did not mean to fling myself down the stairs."

  He blinked. "Er...," he began.

  "Oh, I did mean to end my life," she said. "I had intended to toss myself off the roof, you see. I was extremely distraught and having a fit, and I declared that I could not live another day without Sebastien. I did not feel I could bear it. I was running up to the roof when I tripped and tumbled down the stairs."

  "You tripped."

  "I did." She nodded. "By the time I recovered the damage was done, the gossip was out. But I learned an important lesson, while I was asleep."

  "Oh? And what would that be?" he asked.

  "I truly believed I could not survive another day without Sebastien's love. But, the fall showed me that I could. Granted, those were days when I was unaware of the world around me, but they were days nonetheless. I had survived, without him. Furthermore, I realized that I had been surviving without his love for quite some time. I simply had not known."

  "And so you decided to remain among the living," he said.

  "Indeed. I decided that I would continue to live, to the very best of my ability. With one tiny resolution."

  He waited.

  "I resolved to never again fall in love," she said. "My heart --and my vanity, if we are being entirely honest-- could not withstand another such tragedy. Never again will I sacrifice my pride for another."

  "Why then, my dear Miss Quinby, the two of us have something in common. I myself made a similar resolution after losing my wife. Never again shall I fall in love."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Meryton, slipping from the room. He had to follow.

  Eversley stood, still holding her hand. Bowing, he brought it to his lips. "I hope to see you again soon," he said.

  "Yes," she said. "Likewise."

  The Duke exited the ball in time to hear Meryton's directions to his driver. He then hopped into his own carriage.

  "St. James's place," he said to Mr. Murphy. "We're to follow Meryton."

  "Very good, Your Grace," Mr. Murphy said.

  Mr. Murphy had been with the Duke for almost twenty year
s, and had followed him to France. It had been Murphy who dragged him, drunk out of his mind, out of clubs and halls in the days following Blanche's death. It had been Murphy who posted lookout in France as the Duke scaled walls and fences. And it had been Murphy who had picked up the Duke, unconscious and bleeding profusely from the wound in his side, and driven him to safety.

  Merry Meryton was not especially difficult to follow. After entering Moneykin's, a gentleman's gambling club, he posted up at a whist table, and did not leave for several hours.

  Eversley, who only gambled when it was necessary, took a glass of wine and prowled the edges of the room. Men nodded to him and bowed. Some stopped to speak, but most kept their distance. He had not been in London for such a long time; no doubt his reappearance after his prolonged absence was unsettling for some.

  Every once in a while, to keep any questioning eyes at bay, he would play a round of faro. It was during one such round that he saw an old friend from school, Lord Simon Brockton.

  "I say, old boy," Lord Brockton said to Eversley as he gave him a hearty pat on the back. "Good to have you in town. We'll be looking forward to seeing you at Lords."

  Eversley blinked. "Right," he said. Lords. He had duties in Parliament. Neglected duties, if he was honest about it.

  When Blanche had died, he had been so intent upon exacting revenge on those who had betrayed her that he had ignored his many duties back home in England. To be sure, nothing was ruined. There were no estates lying in disrepair, no tenants starving. He had very capable stewards and secretaries tending to his estates and business. But he had been sadly uninvolved. When he had been injured in France and brought home after his convalescence in Austria, he had realized just how lost he felt. What was he to do? He prowled his rooms as if he would see Blanche appear, but she was sadly lost, and so was he.

  And then he had received the note from Mr. White, requesting his assistance, and he had felt relief. This was something he knew how to do: espionage. But it was one thing to do it in France, undercover. It was another to roam a gambling hall in London as a Duke. Everyone was bowing at him; men were speaking of horse races and boxing matches they assumed he knew about; and Simon Brockton was asking when he would be appearing in chambers.

  He nodded to Brockton and returned to his cards. The dealer was cheating; he was sure of it, but he was not inclined to draw attention to it. He had learned how to avoid attention, over the years.

  Not that he had avoided it tonight. He grinned into his cards. He had known exactly what he was doing when he had walked over to Miss Quinby. She had looked so solitary, so alone. He remembered when she was young and first out. She had always been surrounded by people --by cousins and friends. By Sebastien and his ilk. He could still picture her, laughing gaily as Sebastien kissed the inside of her wrist, Judith looking on unhappily.

  Blanche had known. "Careful, Sebastian," she had said. "You play with that one's heart."

  "I don't wish to play with her heart," Sebastian had said. "I wish to play with her pocketbook."

  He should have seen; he should have put a stop to it. It was so simple in retrospect. He should have granted his sister more freedom. Instead, he had told her that he would not be allowing any offers of marriage until she was eighteen. Sebastian, desperate for money, had landed Miss Quinby. But Judith, determined to not let him marry another, persuaded him that her brother would relent once they were married.

  And he had. Overwhelmed with worry for his wife in France, Eversley had not spared a thought to the note he received regarding their elopement to Gretna. His secretary had stood nervously in his office, wondering what he would like to do, whether he would allow his friend to ruin his sister.

  "Settle the debts," Eversley had said. "Put them on an allowance." And then he had left for France, pretending to be a commoner, hoping to smuggle his wife and her family back to England. But Blanche was already dead.

  Meryton was within his sights, still playing whist. The man hadn't even stood up to use the chamber pot. At this rate, it was going to be a very long night.

  ~.~

  Chapter Five

  Merry Meryton visited two more halls before the night was out. Daylight was breaking by the time Meryton returned to his bachelor's digs in the Albany apartments and the Duke was able to walk the short distance to his mansion in Mayfair.

  "Ah, James," he said, as he entered his London home. He could hear the sounds of a house just awakening, clatter in the kitchens, the chambermaids scrubbing out fires. "If you could be so good as to stand guard outside the Albany, I am going to attempt some sleep."

  "Yes, Your Grace," James said.

  Once given a description of Meryton and orders to alert Eversley and Murphy the moment there was sign of activity, James departed.

  The Duke made his way up to his chambers. Dawn light was just breaking through the windows, hitting the high bed and the elaborate furniture which decorated the room. He waved off his valet's offer to help him undress, and stood alone, looking about, thinking of his dead wife.

  "There you are," he said at last.

  Blanche was lying on a settee near the fire. One of her hands hung limply at her side, still holding a novel. The other rested on her stomacher. She had dozed off reading her novel, waiting for him.

  He stared at her, so lovely in the early morning light. Her blonde hair was loose, a cascade of ringlets along the back of the settee. Her lips were softly parted, until they closed as she suddenly woke up. She smiled, stretched, and rubbed her eyes, letting the book fall to the floor, where it disappeared into the air.

  "You were gone all night," she said. "I waited."

  He grunted. He itched to reach out to her, but he knew he couldn’t touch her. Instead he let his hands run along the edge of the brocaded chair that stood in front of him.

  She sat up and looked at him. She cocked her head. "You met someone," she said.

  "Yes, Mr. White had yet another task for me. Don't know how he does it. The man is always exactly where he needs to be. Do you remember that time in Marseilles? How on earth did he find me on a roof?"

  She smiled. "You know very well that wasn't what I meant, mon Chéri."

  He strode over and stirred the fire. "I saw Sebastian's former betrothed. She's aged."

  "So have you." She sat back against the settee. She stared at him, lightly biting her thumbnail, and yet still managed to flirtatiously grin at him. It was a pose he had seen a thousand times --assessing, cool, and yet there was the tiniest bit of doubt as she worried her thumbnail.

  "She tried to kill herself when he threw her over for Judith," he said. "Or, rather, she thought she wanted to, but she tripped during the execution of it."

  "She was so passionate," Blanche said. "Always so very full of life, non?"

  "She was young."

  "So were we, once."

  "No longer," he said.

  She laughed. "You, perhaps. But not me. I will forever be une jeune fille."

  "You were not," he retorted. "You were married, to a Duke, I might remind you. You were a Madame."

  She waved her hands. "We were children. Les enfants. Playing at Duke and Duchess."

  "It was real," he said. "It wasn't play."

  Her thumb was back, teasing her lip. "No," she said. "It was real."

  He wanted to move to her, to take her hand, to slip it up to his mouth, to kiss her knuckles. To touch her and tell her how much he loved her.

  "Blanche," he said. "Oh, Blanche."

  How can I live without you?

  She smiled; her eyes sad. She shrugged, ever the Frenchwoman. Because you must.

  "Go to sleep, Charles," she said. "You must rest."

  And then he watched her, disappear into the morning light, no novel left on the floor, no imprint left in the settee, no lingering scent of her upon the air.

  Gone, always and forever. Gone.

  He drew a deep, shaky breath. He had to sleep if he wanted to be alert as he trailed Meryton. He stripped off his
clothes and fell into bed, pulling the curtains closed, blocking out the world.

  There he dreamed of Blanche, laughing and smiling and leaning forward to share a secret with a brunette with a dimple and eyes alight at the shared confidence.

  ~.~

  Chapter Six

  20-6-8-1-21-21-12 8-21-6-18-1.

  21-6-5-6-20-20-6-10.

  18-6-6-18.

  Georgette stared at the numbers she had scrawled on her programme. A thrill of anticipation swept through her.

  After she had recovered from tumbling down the stairs at the age of seventeen, she had decided to devote herself to only reasonable pursuits. Mathematics, Latin, and the sciences were allowed. Poetry and painting and novels forbidden. Music she also allowed, because she could not quite bring herself to give it up. But really, when one considered it, music was positively mathematical. More logic than passion, to be sure. And yes, over time she dabbled in a spot of poetry and read a horrid novel or two, but that was long after she was quite recovered and not nearly so overwhelmed by her former sensibility. She could not help it: sometimes Herodotus was just too much of a bore.

  Somewhat to her surprise, over the years she had developed a true love of mathematics and logic. Puzzles, number games, tricky problems, she loved them all. Fortunately, the curate of her parish shared her passion, and they had developed a habit of exchanging cryptograms and timing one another.

  She looked at the last word. 18-6-6-18. Novice mistake, she thought. There were few four letter words that began and ended with the same letter, and shared the middle two letters as well. She suspected it was not "peep" or "elle". The most likely possibility was N-O-O-N. This meant that the penultimate word was 21-O-5-O-20-20-O-10. Considering that "noon" (a time) was the last word, there was a strong chance that this word would indicate the day.

  T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W.

  On her cipher, she filled in the corresponding numbers to match the letters she had used, looking for a pattern.