How To Distract a Duchess

by Mia Marlowe

  Artemisia found her father in the wind-blown garden, humbly sweeping the first of the autumn leaves from the stone path as if he were merely a gardener instead of a duchess’s sire. The sight gave Artemisia pause.

  Angus Dalrymple had been such a robust man, of penetrating intelligence and full of joie de vivre. To see him now, so reduced by his malady, nearly broke her heart. It was an insult against nature.

  It was tempting to blame the Almighty for her father’s predicament. When Angus came down with a blindingly high fever, at first it had seemed enough for him just to survive the illness. The family was elated when the fever unexpectedly left him. Then, when it became apparent he’d been permanently impaired and would likely continue his downward slide, her mother turned bitter. Even the vicar stationed at their cantonment had been little help. He cautioned against questioning the will of God.

  As if God had purposely struck her father down. The vicar’s version of God seemed too capricious and evil to be named a Superior Being.

  Surprisingly enough, it had been Naresh who’d helped Artemisia make peace with her father’s condition.

  “All life is precious,” Naresh told her. “Your father, he is still one of the happiest of fellows. Surely a merry heart is pleasing to your God. All the time your father was in my country, he worked like a pukka devil, never stopping to enjoy the bounty of his labor. Now he rests. Who is to say this life is less worthy than his previous one?”

  At that moment, Angus must have sensed her presence for he lifted his head and smiled at her. It was a smile of childish simplicity, and her heart constricted at the sight.

  “Hello, sweeting,” he said. “What brings such a pretty lady to me garden?”

  She returned his smile, not certain whether he knew her or not this day, since he used an endearment instead of her name.

  “Good morning, Father,” she said. “I need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. Please, sit with me.”

  Angus obliged and settled beside her on the iron-work bench with a long sigh of contentment. As Naresh had observed, he was clearly enjoying himself.

  “Some weeks ago, a young man visited you in the garden,” Artemisia said. “A tall gentleman, dark hair and eyes. Do you remember?”

  “A young man, ye say. Hmm.” Angus tapped his temple in thought. “We see so few visitors these days, just sparrows mostly. Seems like a body would remember a young man among them. What with him having no feathers to speak of.”

  Despair clawed at her throat, but she swallowed back the sob. “He helped you prune the vines.”

  Angus squinted as if straining to see the young man in his mind’s eye.

  “And he spoke to you.” Artemisia tried to remember the exact words Trevelyn Deveridge had said to her father. “Something about the tigress feeding by moonlight.”

  “But the bear feeds whenever it may,” her father said reflexively. A glint of understanding flashed in Angus’s pale eyes, then faded as quickly as it appeared. He gave her a puzzled grimace. “Aye, I think I mind him. What does the young man want?”

  “He’s looking for a key,” Artemisia said grasping at the hope her father would remember something useful. “Please, Father, try to think. It’s dreadfully important.”

  Angus frowned for a moment; then a smile spread over his wrinkled face. “Beddington’s key!”

  “Yes, that’s it precisely.” Relief flooded her chest. “Where is Beddington’s key?”

  Angus patted her cheek and chuckled. “Why, with Mr. Beddington, of course. Bless me, if ye aren’t a bit simple, lass.”

  Since her father fell ill, Artemisia had borne the weight of her family’s well-being. While she relished taking on the decisions and enjoyed the measure of control her position afforded, suddenly, with Mr. Shipwash’s abduction, she felt the full burden. Now she was even responsible for whether her assistant lived or died and for the first time, Artemisia didn’t know what to do. Her face crumpled in misery.

  “There, there,” Angus said when he noticed her distress. “I didn’t mean that, Larla. Ye mustn’t pay any heed to an auld man’s ramblings. Of course, ye’re a right sharp lassie and I’ll have words with any as tries to deny it.”

  He put a wiry arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Nestled against his chest, she was comforted by his familiar scent, brandy and pipe tobacco with an undertone of hedge clippings.

  “Oh, Father, what am I to do?”

  “Just lay yer head, lass,” he crooned as he patted her hair with a callused hand. “Bide ye awhile. Surely, there’s naught needs doing at present.”

  Artemisia allowed her head to sink into his shoulder. For a few moments, she’d obey him. It would give her time to think. For now, the garden was still a riot of blooms. In a few months, dry leaves would scuttle across the path before them, whispering their dying secrets to the dull grass. Winter is coming, they’d say.

  Winter comes to us all, Artemisia thought bleakly.

  In the winter of Angus Dalrymple’s life, he had no more advice to offer her. But he’d given her plenty when he was able and it was time she put his teaching to good use.

  Logic. That’s what this knot wanted. Someone thought Mr. Beddington was in possession of a key of some sort and, given the object’s obvious significance, would presumably know what key was meant. Since she was Beddington and hadn’t a clue, there clearly had been a misunderstanding somewhere.

  She needed more information.

  The trouble was the only other person who’d ever mentioned a key was Trevelyn.

  She sat bolt upright.

  That’s why he asked so many questions about Mr. Beddington, why he was so insistent about meeting Beddington. Trevelyn Deveridge was looking for the mysterious key as well.

  For a dark moment, the thought that he might have had something to do with Mr. Shipwash’s abduction crossed her mind.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Trevelyn had offered to assist her in any way possible. Even in the heat of rebuffed passion, the offer had seemed genuine.

  Surely the lust he’d stirred in her hadn’t impaired her judgment that badly. At any rate, her father was no help. Trevelyn Deveridge was suddenly her only option.

  “I must be going, Father.” She patted his forearm and stood.

  “And where be ye off to in such an all-fired hurry?”

  “I’m going to visit Tre—Thomas Doverspike. You know, the young man who helped you with the vines.”

  “Och, aye. Fine fellow that.” Angus nodded sagely. “I remember now. Tommy-boy. I liked that laddie.” He snapped his fingers as a fresh thought descended upon him. “Say, a handy lad like that, maybe he’ll help you find that key you’re looking for.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear, Father,” she said as she pressed a kiss on Angus’s high forehead. “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  Chapter 18

  The Golden Cockerel on Tydburn Street turned out to be a clean, well-run public house. The scent of freshly baked bread, meaty stew and the yeasty smell of ale brewing in the back rooms greeted Artemisia when she pushed through the brass-trimmed double doors into the crowded common room. Faces blackened from shifts spent in the nearby mines turned as one to assess her. Then, because time on their meal break was short, the men fell back to eating with relish.

  “Hallo, mum.” The round-faced matron behind the gleaming bar dipped in a bulky curtsey. With flour smudges on both cheeks and an ample waistline, she bore the markings of an excellent cook. “We don’t usually cater to folk of quality, but if you’re for a hearty meal and a stout pint, I reckon we’re the best to be had in London.”

  The tantalizing aroma reminded Artemisia she hadn’t had a bite since her spare breakfast early that morning. Still, how could she think of food when James Shipwash might be under duress for her sake?

  “No, thank you. I’m here to see—” Artemisia stopped short. It didn’t seem likely Trev let slip that his father was the Earl of Warre while he was living among salt-of
-the-earth commoners. Was he Thomas Doverspike or Terrence Dinwiddie or some other incarnation here? Trevelyn failed to tell her what name she should use to inquire after him. “That is, I believe a certain gentleman lives here.”

  “No gentlemen live on Tydburn Street, luv.” The woman eyed her with speculation, taking in the fine cut of her form-fitting bodice and three-flounce skirt. “Leastwise none what your Ladyship might have cause to make acquaintance with. What does your gentleman look like?”

  “He looks like me,” Trevelyn’s voice came from the dark staircase in the corner. His booted tread set the old steps creaking. He was still shrugging on his jacket as he crossed the room toward her. “In which case, you’re right, Mrs. Farthingale. She’s not looking for a gentleman.”

  The matron loosed a belly laugh that set her whole being jiggling.

  Artemisia shoved down the feeling of relief the sight of him sent through her veins. She must still tread cautiously, she reminded herself, until she could ascertain his motives.

  “Hallo, cousin,” he said loudly for the benefit of Mrs. Farthingale before he brushed Artemisia’s cheek with a chaste kiss. “I happened to see you from my window and thought I’d better come down to meet you. This is something of a surprise. I hope nothing’s amiss. How fares Auntie Florinda?”

  In the blur of events since she spoke with him early that morning, she’d completely forgotten about his betrothal to her sister. Social entanglements seemed much less urgent in the face of Mr. Shipwash’s abduction and the mystery of Mr. Beddington’s key.

  “She’s fine,” Artemisia said, realizing he was trying to shield her from idle gossip. A woman visiting a man’s private rooms without a proper escort would be deemed shockingly fast. A relative was a different matter altogether. “But Uncle James has taken a turn for the worse.”

  “Has he, then?” His brows knit together in concern and, to her eyes at least, genuine puzzlement. He turned toward the proprietress of the Golden Cockerel. “Mrs. Farthingale, send up some of that fabulous stew of yours, if you please, and a jug of your best ale—not the weak stuff you sell to the miners, mind you. This is my cousin, Hortense Doverspike. She’ll dine with me in my rooms.”

  He grasped Artemisia’s elbow and shepherded her toward the stairwell.

  “Hortense?” she hissed. “You couldn’t think of a better name than Hortense?”

  “Hush!” he whispered. “The only thing bigger than Mrs. Farthingale’s waistline is her nose. She’s into everyone’s business, and I don’t think you want her in yours.”

  He didn’t say another word as he showed her into his apartments and locked the door behind them.

  “So this is where an earl’s son comes when he wants to pretend he’s not,” she observed tartly as she looked around the room.

  The furnishings were spare, only a couch and straight-backed chair with a trunk situated between them to act as a serving table. The room was spotlessly clean, but totally without charm.

  Or a woman’s touch, she thought with a flash of relief.

  Through an open door into the adjoining room, she glimpsed his bedchamber. A simple string bed was covered by a well-worn quilt. Artemisia jerked her gaze away. The last thing she wanted to think about in this man’s private rooms was his bed.

  Trevelyn remained silent, waiting for her to tell him why she’d come. Artemisia didn’t need to glance at her brooch timepiece to know that not many hours had passed since she ordered him out of her sight. He must think her changeable as a weathercock.

  He motioned for her to sit on the serviceable couch but didn’t take a seat himself. Instead he leaned against the wall and peered from behind the thick damask curtains up and down the street. Did he think she’d been followed?

  “I presume, madam, your visit has a purpose,” he finally said, raking a hand through his hair.

  “You told me to call upon you should need arise,” she said. A dark curl escaped his attempt to push it back and fell over his forehead. Artemisia was nearly overcome with the urge to smooth his hair back for him. Looking at him, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, something dark flared in her belly. Need definitely arose, but she didn’t think that was what he meant when he offered his assistance. She suppressed her reaction to him with difficulty.

  “Yes, well, I require clarification on one or two points.” Artemisia cleared her throat and removed her velvet-trimmed bonnet, signaling that she was prepared to stay as long as it took for her to be satisfied with his answers. “On the morning you accosted my father in the garden—“

  “I think ‘accosted’ is rather harsh, Your Grace.” Trevelyn sat down on the straight-backed chair and hooked an ankle over the other knee. “Mr. Dalrymple and I simply enjoyed a pleasant conversation.”

  “That’s what I wish to speak with you about,” she said, adjusting her skirt so it spread evenly on both sides of her hips, anything to avoid his direct gaze. “You mentioned a key, I believe.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “We also spoke of roses and before you leaped from behind the pampas grass, I think your father gave me a short dissertation on aphids and assorted other pests.”

  “No,” she said. “You discussed the feeding habits of the tigress and the bear. Rather an odd subject for an English garden, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He shrugged.

  “Then my father directed you to seek out Mr. Beddington, though I believe that was your intent from the first,” she said, not wanting to divulge more than she must. “Mr. Deveridge, you know something about this key. Why are you seeking it?” She leaned forward in her seat. “Please tell me what you know. It’s of vital importance.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why?”

  They were interrupted by a light rap at the door.

  “That’ll be our stew,” he said as he went to let the matron in.

  His landlady had brought more than stew. A fresh loaf of brown bread, still warm from the oven, with a saucer of clotted cream and pot of gooseberry jam, a jug of ale, rich and dark as ordered and “a spot of tea for the lady.”

  The aroma of the food was heaven itself. When Mrs. Farthingale set the heaping tray before her, Artemisia decided it would do Mr. Shipwash no good if she fainted dead away from hunger. She thanked the good woman and joined Trevelyn in sampling a mouthful. The taste did full credit to the delightful smell.

  “I assume you hail from Wiltshire, same as your cousin here. You know, I’ve an old maid aunt as lives in Amesbury,” Mrs. Farthingale said. “What part of the shire will you be coming from then, Miss Doverspike?”

  “I’m sure Hortense will enjoy visiting with you after she’s had a chance to refresh herself,” Trevelyn said as he stood and maneuvered the woman to his door. “She’ll see you later, then, Mrs. Farthingale. Thank you.”

  After he closed the door behind her, he put an ear to the crack to listen for his landlady’s lumbering tread.

  “About the key—“

  “Shh!” he ordered with upraised hand.

  Artemisia waited for him to rejoin her. “You were telling me about the key.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” He sat back down and spooned the piping hot stew into his mouth. Artemisia restrained a smirk when he was forced to wash it down with a liberal swig of ale. “I was asking why you wanted to know about it.”

  “Very well,” she said. “If you must know, Mr. Beddington’s assistant, Mr. Shipwash, has been abducted and is being held until some key is delivered in exchange for him.”

  “The devil you say.” Trevelyn put his bowl and spoon down and started pacing. “Any idea who’s done this thing?”

  “No, I hoped perhaps you might know.”

  “Me? How could I know?” Trevelyn asked.

  “Since you are obviously seeking this object, you might know who else has an interest in it?” She raised an inquiring brow at him.

  He brushed off her question. “Why don’t you ask Beddington? He must have a clue.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”


  He covered his mouth with one hand for a moment, clearly pondering the matter. “Whatever he may have told you, I have good reason to believe Mr. Beddington has the key. Allow me to offer my assistance. I will be happy to deliver the item for you and retrieve Mr. Shipwash. When is the exchange to take place?

  Artemisia gave a short laugh. “You must think me simple. Why should I trust you to give up an object I know you’ve been seeking yourself?”

  “Flawlessly logical.” He conceded her point with a half smile. “However, if you’ve come to me for help, you must realize that you have to trust me.”

  She looked into his dark eyes and, with everything in her, she wanted to trust him.

  “How can I?” she whispered. “You lie as easily as you breathe.”

  He sat back as abruptly as if she’d slapped him. He stared at her for the space of several heartbeats, then down at the floor, his brows wrestling with each other.

  “Very well, madam,” he said. “It appears I must trust you.”

  Chapter 19

  “I’m sure you realize the things one reads in the newspaper are not always the whole story,” he began.

  “Assuredly.”

  “So it is with people. Sometimes, they are not what they seem. Your father, for instance.”

  “I fail to see what my father—“

  He reached across the low chest between them and placed his fingertips on her lips. Her mouth tingled beneath his touch.

  “Let me finish before you rush to judgment. The world knows Angus Dalrymple as an astute businessman who made his fortune in India.” Trevelyn slowly removed his hand as if loath to sever the brief connection. “However, he was much more than that.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.” She set her tea cup down and looked away to regain her composure. The last thing she needed was to further muddle the situation by giving in to the sparks that leapt between them. “Angus Dalrymple was, I mean, is also a wonderful father.”

  “No doubt,” he said. “What you didn’t know is that he was also an operator in the Great Game.”