by Jess Russell
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Jess Russell
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The
Dressmaker’s
Duke
by
Jess Russell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Dressmaker’s Duke
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Jess Russell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-475-6
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-476-3
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Jess Russell
THE DRESSMAKER’S DUKE came in first in the Fool for Love Contest, Golden Apple Awards’ Secret Craving Contest, the Indiana Golden Opportunity Contest, and the Golden Rose Contest (also winning the award for Best of the Best), and finaled in the Great Beginnings, Emerald City Opener, and the Lone Star Contests.
Dedication
To my mother, Doris Rausch,
who was my first gentle reader.
Acknowledgements
It takes a village to write a book. I am blessed with incredibly generous friends and family who shored me up when my doubts threatened to raze my fragile story to rubble.
So, first up, is Mom, to whom I gave the beginning pages, “to check for grammar.” Then to Rita, who can appreciate every nuance and detail in anything, then to my lovely sis, Jenn, and her gals, KK and Meg, and on to dearest friends, Ash, Veronique, Mary, Kris, Margaret, and Jackie.
Along this journey I met new friends. At the top of that list is Amber Belldene who, in essence, took off my training wheels and steered me to tell my story. To Addison Fox for our shared glasses of wine and her unfailing mentorship. To Lise Horton for her hand-holding through contracts, and the Hon. J. Kevin McKay for his litigious insights. To Tina Constable for pointing me in the right direction (several times). To the RWANYC and the Beau Monde Chapters of Romance Writers of America for just about anything a girl could need, from encouragement to how to address a duke. To Collette Cameron for making things better, always. To Cynthia Young for her deep caring and attention to detail. And to The Wild Rose Press, most especially Susan Yates and Nicole D’Arienzo, my editors, for whom no question was too silly and no “adjustment” too small.
Finally, to the men in my life, Patrick and Aidan, my real life Heroes. And to my dad who, I believe, would have been proud.
Chapter One
London, England
Late March 1810
Good God, did she not see the carriage?
Rhys Merrick’s expelled breath fogged the shop window in a silent shout. Heart pounding, he rubbed the glass.
The carriage careened by and—there she was. Intact.
Silly female, she could have caused all manner of damage by her folly. She certainly had ruined her gown, her backside now liberally daubed with street filth and wet. But what was more singular, the woman seemed oblivious to her near escape, still wrestling to close an ancient-looking umbrella. Another gust of wind caught its underbelly, and Rhys was certain this time it would take flight, but the woman held on, only to have the thing turn itself inside out for her trouble. Ribs dangling, it now resembled a large, black, extremely dead bird.
“Mr. Merrick, I will only be a moment longer.” The shopkeeper’s moon like face and bulging eyes appeared from around the door at the back of the shop. Twin shocks of glossy over-long hair lapped his ears, framing his huge eyes and snub nose.
Remarkable. If the man were shrunk and glazed, he would make a very fine Staffordshire dog.
“While you are waiting, you may like to look at that fine temple clock on the table against the far wall.” The shopkeeper’s enthusiasm begged for only a pink tongue and wagging tail.
Rhys turned back to the window, but the woman was gone.
Blasted rain.
Passing the giant Egyptian sarcophagus, which stood as a kind of sentinel to the left of the shop’s door—Horus, perhaps?—Rhys moved to the back of the room and the temple clock.
The front door bell jangled.
A gust of fresh air blew in, carrying a scent of lemon mixed with some smell he could not immediately identify. The aroma rose like a high note over the heavy dank and must of the shop. The door swung shut, sealing out the noise of the street and rain.
Rhys pressed himself into the farthest corner of the long narrow room. Likely he would never be recognized dressed as he was, especially in this part of town, but he did not want to chance the inevitable fawning that would take place should someone recognize him as the Duke of Roydan.
It was the woman with the umbrella—or rather, without the umbrella. She stood frozen, as if now that she had come in out of the wet, she had lost all momentum. Rhys watched for the moment she would notice the huge falcon head of Horus looming above her and pick up her sopping skirts and leave. Then he might have the shop to himself again.
This particular shop was not for the faint of heart. Mr. Crup specialized in the macabre. The window boasted several shrunken heads and the skeleton of some unknown creature with a sign looped about its neck identifying it as a Celtic Dragon.
However, Crup’s oddities appeared to have no effect on this woman. Either she was too numb or too jaded to respond. He could not be sure. A dark lace veil hung limply over the front of her bonnet, obscuring her features.
“Mr. Merrick?” The shopkeeper yapped sharply. Rhys held his breath and pressed further into the shadows. The man emerged a moment later, scanning the shop. “Oh, shite.” He set a small object on the counter. “Your pardon, ma’am, but a chap goes to all this trouble and for what?”
Rhys turned away to examine the temple clock.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
The woman’s voice crept into the space right between his shoulder blades. Surprised, he turned to confront her. But no, her attention was firmly on the shopkeeper.
“Filthy weather we’re having,” she said, shaking drops of rain
from her shawl. Her voice was a viola, soft and deeply rounded. It seemed to roll through her, pulling her spine straighter, her shoulders back, and chin up. No longer a bedraggled, bespattered woman, she was a lady.
However, she was definitely one who existed in that dubious state known as genteel poverty. Even in the dim light, Rhys could see her dress was several seasons old—had to be, for him to notice—and slightly short. The hem turned one too many times, exposing her muddy boots.
“I swear I would not be surprised to see mushrooms sprouting from between my toes these days,” she said.
Rhys’s head jerked up, but the woman was still turned toward Crup. A trickle of laughter seeped from beneath her veil, but it seemed forced, like a gaudy ribbon added at the last moment to prettify a gift.
“I must say, Mr. Crup, I have never—” She looked above her and into Horus’s great falcon eyes and then reached up to touch the god’s huge curved beak.
Rhys had the notion she did so as a kind of good luck charm. Absurd.
“You are Mr. Crup, the proprietor, are you not?” she asked turning back to the little man.
Crup nodded, and scratched behind his ear.
She wove her way across the shop to the counter. “Yes, I thought you looked the part. A distinguished man, for a distinguished shop.” She tilted her head charmingly.
She was laying it on a bit thick. No sane person would ever connect “distinguished” with this shopkeeper. Rhys felt certain that beneath her veil, one would see a completely different picture than the one she was taking pains to create. “It is so rare to find someone who obviously knows quality when he sees it.” Mr. Crup’s gaze tracked from the woman’s sodden bonnet and veil down to her muddied hem.
She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “But I fear I have interrupted a sale?”
Crup waved a hand dismissively. “Well, madam, I am known in some circles as having the rarest and finest treasures.”
“I am relieved to hear you say so. Which is why I am sure you will be very interested in what I have to show you.”
Rhys’s weight shifted to his toes as she dug into a small bag and carefully unwrapped some silver items. Only a brush and mirror set. What a show for nothing. Still, she’d even had him craning to see her tripe.
“Looks to be only plate,” said Crup.
“Oh, but note the deep bevel…”
Their voices faded as Rhys picked up the temple clock and turned it over looking for marks. Nothing. And it should be heavier. Likely made of inferior wood and the carvings were crude. He returned it to the table.
What was that combination of smells? It was extremely distracting.
Perhaps he would slip out if the rain had stopped. He glanced toward the pair to determine if escape was possible.
The shopkeeper pushed the items back across the counter. “You might try Leicester’s down the road.”And he turned away.
Rhys started for the door. But not before the woman sagged, as if the shopkeeper’s attention was the only thing holding her up. Undoubtedly she had been to Leicester’s along with most of the other more reputable shops.
Her hand covered her veiled face. She swayed.
Blistering Hell, she was not going to faint? He did not want to reveal his presence, to play the hero. Nonetheless, he primed himself, ready to spring into action.
However when Crup turned back, her spine snapped straight as a flagpole, and her veil fluttered with her breath. Rhys relaxed a degree.
“Very well, sir, you have left me no choice but to bring out the real artillery.” She dipped her hand into her pocket and withdrew something wrapped in a handkerchief, placing it gently on the counter.
“What’s this?” He plucked at the handkerchief and a heavy object clunked to the counter. The woman’s shoulders jerked with the sound.
The meager light fell precisely on the pierced case of a watch as if a stage had been set for its unveiling.
Dear God, it looked to be heart-shaped.
The guts of a rare, late seventeenth-century Tompion watch sat in an ivory box on a shelf in his library at Roydan House. Its case had eluded him.
If only he could see clearly…
Crup took up a loop and held it to his eye covering the watch with his paw. His tongue poked out over his lower lip as he wound the screw. Gently, man.
“Pretty enough, but it don’t seem to work.” And he looked up, straight into Rhys’s eyes. “Ah, Mr. Merrick, you did not leave.”
Too late, Rhys realized he was halfway across the shop. The woman’s hand flew up to her veil as she turned away.
“I have that crystal I was telling you about.” Crup moved down the long counter, the woman now forgotten.
Rhys ignored the man along with his urge to remain uninvolved. “Might I have a look, madam?”
She turned back to him and startled. His eyes. Why could his eyes not be a sensible brown like every other fellow? But after a moment, she nodded.
His fingers ached to brush over the enameled case—a fantasy of scrolled flourishes in various shades of blue—but he made himself painstakingly pull each finger of his gloves and then lay them precisely, one on top of the other, on the counter.
A bit of enamel was worn away near the left side of the heart’s deep V. He carefully thumbed open the case. Yes, the minute hand was intact, and the gold illuminated numerals clear as the day it was made. He flipped it over. There was the mark, a conjoined ND.
He mentally opened its back and imagined his Tompion works nestled within this beautiful shell. However, the rest of his body was entirely focused on the woman beside him.
She must have moved closer, her spicy scent stronger. He would swear he could feel her breathing. His skin prickled.
“Pity it don’t work.” Crup’s pudgy fingers drummed on the counter. “Still it’s a pretty little trinket. I’ll give you three quid for the thing.”
The woman was still too close, her arm but a whisper from his own. His heart migrated higher in his chest, far too close to his throat. Likely from the thrill of the hunt.
Ballocks. As fine as the case was, it was useless to believe certain stirrings in his body were simply the result of a watch—one that did not even work.
Rhys made himself release the watch, setting it back on the counter. “I am sorry to interfere; I will leave you to your dealings.” He stepped away, restoring the space she had invaded, if not his breathing.
“So little?” she turned toward Rhys as if he might provide some small miracle.
“Look here.” Crup’s odor of onions and mackerel overwhelmed her delicate perfume. “The thing don’t work. How am I to sell a bauble that don’t work? Three quid is my final offer.”
She reached for the watch to take it back. Rhys almost hoped she would, she seemed so distressed. But her hand stopped, then fisted, and finally she tucked it beneath her paisley shawl, leaving the watch on the counter.
It was not his place to interfere. He had a strict code of ethics when dealing with these shops, and he never deviated from his rules.
“Mr. Crup, I believe the gold itself is worth five pounds.” Rhys clenched his teeth.
“Look here, Mr. Merrick—”
Rhys raised an eyebrow, one of his surest weapons, and gave the man his most ducal look. It never failed him and didn’t now as the shopkeeper blinked, his mouth gapping open. Besides, Rhys was going to buy the thing, at a reasonable profit, just as soon as the woman left the shop. No one would be cheated.
Rhys turned back to the woman. What was beyond that cursed veil? Only a tease of her lips and the line of her nose. Nothing of her eyes. Her neck was very long and white. Was that a wisp of dark hair? He needed to get out of this shop, but his foot was in the stirrup, so to speak, and he could not cede the field until the woman was satisfied.
“Would five pounds be acceptable, madam?”
Her lips parted beneath the lace; only a hint of white as she caught her bottom lip with her teeth. She touched the wor
n bit of blue on the watch, tracing the left curve. A final farewell? The bump of a ring under her glove on her third finger had Rhys imagining the man who had been attached to that watch, and to this woman. What kind of man could command such reverence?
“Very well, sir,” she said. Rhys released his breath. She clasped her hands together and turned to Mr. Crup. “I will accept your offer at five pounds.”
The little man’s eyes darted to Rhys as if needing his final approval. Rhys gave the shopkeeper a nod and the man turned back to her. “That’s a fine paisley you’re wearing. I might be willing to pay something for that as well.”
“Oh no, I will not part with this.”
Crup shrugged at the woman’s sudden vehemence.
She pulled the shawl about her like a shield and turned away to the window. Streaks of weak sun hit a few last drops of rain that hung from the eaves.
“Now, Mr. Merrick. I do have that crystal you was asking about—”
“How much?” Rhys scarcely recognized her voice; it had diminished from warm fervor to breathless nothing.
“How much for the shawl?” she repeated.
Mr. Crup sniffed and shook his head like a dog with a flea. “I’ll only be a moment, Mr. Merrick.” He gestured to her to come nearer. Lifting the edge of the shawl, he rubbed it between his blunt fingers. She stiffened but endured his fondling. Rhys put his own hand behind his back to be imprisoned by the other. He could almost feel the soft wool brush his cheeks and nose.
“Eight guineas.”
Her head snapped up. “It’s worth at least twenty.” The woman didn’t know a thing about watches but obviously knew the worth of fine wool.
“Naw, eight is all I can give,” he said, squaring off to her.
Dash it all, at this point Rhys would give her fifty guineas to save her bloody shawl and his peace of mind.
“Then I will only sell the watch, sir,” she said firmly.
“As you please. If you would sign your name to this receipt, madam.”
She dipped the pen and briskly wrote her name. Her long neck arched, exposing the nape. Yes, definitely dark hair. Rhys swallowed.
“Very good, Mrs. Weston.” Crup blotted the paper and handed it to her.
