Rothhaven straightened a crease in his breeches. They fit him exquisitely, though Althea had never before seen black riding attire.
“The whims of your livestock are no affair of mine, Lady Althea.” His tone said that Althea’s whims were a matter of equal indifference to him. “You either retrieve them or the entire shire will be redolent of smoking bacon.”
He was bluffing. Nobody butchered hogs in the spring, for any number of reasons. “Do you know what those sows are worth, sir?”
He quoted a price per pound for pork on the hoof that was accurate to the shilling.
“Wrong,” Althea said, pouring him a cup of tea, and holding it out to him. “Those are my best breeders. I chose their grandmamas and mamas for size and the ability to produce large, healthy litters. A pig in the garden can be the difference between a family surviving winter or starving, if that pig can also produce large, healthy litters. She can live on scraps, she needs very little care, and she will see a dozen piglets raised to weaning twice a year without putting any additional strain on her upkeep.”
The duke looked at the steaming cup of tea, then at Althea, then back at the cup. This was the best China black she could offer, served on the good porcelain in her formal parlor. If he disdained her hospitality now, she might…cry?
He would not be swayed by tears, though he apparently could be tempted by a perfect cup of tea.
“You raise hogs as a charitable undertaking?” he asked, accepting the cup and saucer.
“I raise them for all sorts of reasons.” Not the least of which was to donate many to the poor of the parish.
He took a cautious sip of his tea. “What must I do to inspire you to come get your sows? I have my own swineherd, you know. A capable old fellow who has been wrangling hogs more than half a century. He can move your livestock to the King’s highway.”
Althea hadn’t considered this possibility, but she dared not give quarter when she’d finally flushed Rothhaven from his covert. She put three sandwiches on a plate and passed it to him.
“My sows are partial to their own swineherd,” she said. “They’ll follow him anywhere, though after rioting about the neighborhood on their own, they will require time to recover. They’ve been out dancing all night, so to speak, and must have a lie-in.”
Althea could not fathom why any sensible female would comport herself thus, but every spring she dragged herself south, and subjected herself to the same inanity for the duration of the London Season.
This year would be different.
“So send your swineherd to fetch them tomorrow,” Rothhaven said, taking a bite of a chicken sandwich. “My swineherd will assist, and I need never darken your door again—nor you, mine.” He sent her a pointed look, one that scolded without saying a word.
Althea’s brother Quinn had learned to deliver such looks, and his duchess had perfected the raised eyebrow to an art more delicate than that of the fan or glove.
While I am a laughingstock. A memory came to Althea, of turning down the room with a peer’s heir, a handsome, well-mannered man tall enough to look past her shoulder. The entire time they’d been waltzing, he’d been rolling his eyes at his friends, affecting looks of long-suffering martyrdom, and holding Althea up as an object of ridicule, even as he’d stalked her fortune and made remarks intended to flatter.
She had been blind to his game until her own sister had reported it to her in the carriage on the way home. The hostess had not intervened, no chaperone or gentleman had called the young dandy to account. He had thanked Althea for the dance and escorted her to her next partner with all the courtesy due the sister of a duke, and she’d been the butt of another joke.
“I cannot oblige you with an immediate removal of my sows, Your Grace,” Althea said. “My swineherd is visiting his sister in York, and won’t be back until week’s end. I do apologize for the delay, though if turning my pigs loose in your orchard has occasioned this introduction then I’m glad for it. I value my privacy too, but I am at my wit’s end, and must consult you on a matter of some delicacy.”
He gestured with half a sandwich. “All the way at your wit’s end? What has caused you to travel that long and arduous trail?”
Polite society. Wealth. Standing. All the great boons Althea had once envied and had so little ability to manage.
“I want a baby,” she said, not at all how she’d planned to state her situation.
Rothhaven put down his plate slowly, as if a wild creature had come snorting and snapping into the parlor. “Are you utterly demented? One doesn’t announce such a thing, and I am in no position to…” He stood, his height once again creating an impression of towering disdain. “I will see myself out.”
Althea rose as well, and though Rothhaven could toss her behind the sofa one-handed, she made her words count.
“Do not flatter yourself, Your Grace. Only a fool would seek to procreate with a petulant, moody, withdrawn, arrogant specimen such as you. I want a family. There’s nothing shameful or inappropriate about that. Until I learn to comport myself as the sister of a duke ought, I have no hope of making an acceptable match. You are a duke. If anybody understands the challenge I face, you do. You have five hundred years of breeding and family history to call upon, while I…”
Oh, this was not at all the soliloquy she’d rehearsed, and Rothhaven’s expression had become unreadable.
He gestured with a large hand. “While you…?”
Althea had tried inviting him to tea, then to dinner. She’d tried calling upon him. She’d ridden the bridle paths for hours in hopes of meeting him by chance, only to see him galloping over the moors at breakneck speed, heedless of anything so tame as a bridle path.
She’d called on him twice only to be turned away at the door and twice chided by letter for even presuming that much.
Althea had only a single weapon left in her arsenal, a lone arrow in her quiver of strategies, the one least likely to yield the desired result.
She had the truth. “While I need your help,” she said. “I haven’t anywhere else to turn, and I am tired of being a laughingstock, an outcast who’s nonetheless greeted cordially at every door. I need your assistance if I’m ever to comport myself in a manner appropriate for a lady of my station.”
Copyright © 2019 by Grace Burrowes
About the Author
Grace Burrowes grew up in central Pennsylvania and is the sixth of seven children. She discovered romance novels in junior high and has been reading them voraciously ever since. Grace has a bachelor’s degree in political science, a bachelor of music in music history (both from the Pennsylvania State University), a master’s degree in conflict transformation from Eastern Mennonite University, and a juris doctor from the National Law Center at George Washington University.
Grace is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who writes Georgian, Regency, Scottish Victorian, and contemporary romances in both novella and novel lengths. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America and Novelist, Inc., and enjoys giving workshops and speaking at writers’ conferences.
You can learn more at:
GraceBurrowes.com
Twitter @GraceBurrowes
Facebook.com/Grace.Burrowes
PRAISE FOR GRACE BURROWES AND THE ROGUES TO RICHES SERIES
“Grace Burrowes is terrific!”
—Julia Quinn, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Sexy heroes, strong heroines, intelligent plots, enchanting love stories…Grace Burrowes’s romances have them all.”
—Mary Balogh, New York Times bestselling author
“Grace Burrowes writes from the heart—with warmth, humor, and a generous dash of sensuality, her stories are unputdownable! If you’re not reading Grace Burrowes you’re missing the very best in today’s Regency Romance!”
—Elizabeth Hoyt, New York Times bestselling author
WHEN A DUCHESS SAYS I DO
“An unusual pair of smart and worldly but reticent lovers; a modern sensibil
ity about themes of consent, class, and disability; and a surprising and adventurous plot make Burrowes’s latest Rogues to Riches Regency satisfyingly relatable nerdy escapism…will warm readers’ hearts to the core.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“A romance of gentle yearning and fulfillment balanced out by a suspense plot and a fast-paced third act.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Readers will root for these two wary people as they learn to trust each other with their foibles and their truths. With revealing dialogue, games of chess and subtle sensuality, this romance sings.”
—BookPage
MY ONE AND ONLY DUKE
“Skillfully crafted and exquisitely written, Burrowes’ latest is pure gold; a brilliant launch to a promising series.”
—Library Journal, starred review
“Burrowes is a writer of towering talent.”
—USA Today Happy Ever After
“A delicious read. Best of the Month pick.”
—Apple Books
Also by Grace Burrowes
The Windham Brides Series
The Trouble with Dukes
Too Scot to Handle
No Other Duke Will Do
A Rogue of Her Own
Rogues to Riches Series
My One and Only Duke
When a Duchess Says I Do
A lady with secrets, a man with a burning desire, a love that breaks all the rules…
Lady Charlotte Beaumont has spent her whole life being ignored, even though she possesses artistic talent that well exceeds the Royal Academy’s standards of admission. When she gets a chance at her dream commission, she’ll do whatever it takes to make it work, including disguising herself as “Charlie” and fighting an attraction for her classmate, the inspiring and charming Flynn Rutledge.
Please turn the page for a bonus novella,
THE LADY IN RED
by RITA award-winning author Kelly Bowen.
For my readers.
Chapter 1
London, 1818
The forgery was flawless.
Or at least Charlotte hoped it was. It would need to be to fool the man currently examining the painting. From the canvas, a young girl clutched a fan and gazed back at her with an enigmatic look far beyond her years, offering no reassurances.
A bead of icy sweat slid down Charlotte’s spine.
“Van Dyck did not paint many children,” the man said, straightening slightly, his fingers drumming against the silver head of his ebony walking stick. He turned his unsettling pale blue eyes back in Charlotte’s direction.
“He did not,” Charlotte agreed smoothly, relieved her voice didn’t shake.
“That fact would make this painting very valuable.”
“It would.”
“And where did you say you acquired it?”
“I didn’t say.” Charlotte was treading carefully. It had taken all her courage to request an audience with this man, known only by the name of King. A man whose origins were murky at best, though there were rumors that his control of the underworld stretched far beyond the limits of London. A man whose knowledge of fine art was eclipsed only by his reputation for being able to secure anything. For a price.
And Charlotte had come to bargain.
King tipped his head slightly, and had his gaze not been so remote, Charlotte would have believed the man had almost smiled. “What is it, exactly, that you wish to do with this painting?” he asked.
And there was the crux of this entire matter. “I was told that you were a purveyor of fine art,” she said slowly. “The best in England. I wish to…sell it.” Not entirely true, but a starting point.
“Ah.” The man wandered to the far side of his desk, and Charlotte was once again struck by the stealthy grace in which he moved. He had red-gold hair and aristocratic, austere features, and if she were to paint the most infamous Tudor king, before age and excess had ravaged his appearance, this is how she imagined he would have looked. This man was almost too beautiful to possess the dark reputation that cloaked him.
King was examining a painting that dominated the wall behind his desk. “Judith Beheading Holofernes,” he said, and Charlotte wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. “A woman driven to extreme measures.” He gestured at the maiden, her wickedly curved blade buried deep in the neck of a man whose eyes bulged in terror. “Tell me, what do you see in her expression?” King asked.
Charlotte hesitated, looking for pitfalls to his question but unable to find any. “Determination,” she finally answered. “Maybe a small measure of desperation.”
“Indeed.” He turned around again, and now his cool eyes were fixed firmly on hers. “Similar to what I see on your face. So I must ask what extreme measures have driven you to try and sell me a forgery.”
Charlotte felt her stomach plummet to her toes and bile rise in her throat. She focused on keeping her breathing even. “How can you be so sure that it’s a forgery?” she asked with every ounce of bravado she still clung to.
King’s lips twisted, and his eyes became positively glacial. “I would advise you not to insult me further. Just answer my question.”
“Perhaps I should go,” Charlotte murmured, chilled to the bone. “Perhaps we’re done here.” She had risked everything coming to see this man. No one knew she was here. Only the bored hackney driver she had paid to bring her here, who had agreed to wait for twenty minutes and no longer. She was utterly on her own, and if she were to disappear, there would be no trail to follow. Which was probably just as well. At least they wouldn’t carve fool on her headstone.
“I think not, Lady Charlotte,” he said, moving with a lethal grace to block the door. “For I am not done with you at all.”
Charlotte’s heart stopped before it resumed again. “How do you know my name?” she whispered. She had not given it to King. Only identified herself as Miss Hawkins, using the surname of one of the kitchen maids. She didn’t look like a refined lady—she was too tall to be elegant, too broad shouldered to be sophisticated. And she had twisted her plain brown hair into a forgettable plait. Left every trapping of wealth at home in favor of homespun wool and worn leather purchased in Petticoat Lane to cover her unremarkable figure.
“I asked you not to insult me further,” King repeated coldly. Which told Charlotte nothing. But then, that was probably the idea. “The forgery,” he said, leaning over his walking stick. “Tell me who painted it.”
Charlotte swallowed hard. Should she lie? Tell the truth? Would it matter at this point, or would she simply become a footnote in history either way? A woman who had badly underestimated a very dangerous man and didn’t survive to tell the tale. “Me,” she finally said. He wouldn’t believe her, but at least she wouldn’t meet her demise as a liar.
“Good.” King nodded like she had just passed some sort of test. “And the original? Where is it?”
Charlotte blinked, trying to find her voice. The sneering censure and mocking disbelief she’d expected at her declaration were absent. “Um…”
“The original,” King repeated as though he were talking to a half-wit or a panicked filly. “It must be somewhere where you had access to it to execute a forgery of this quality. Where is it?”
“Jasper House,” Charlotte blurted. “In Aysgarth. North of York.” One of the many estates that her father, the Earl of Edgerton, owned. Her solitary prison every summer and every winter for as long as she could remember. And one that she would be returning to within a fortnight unless she did something drastic. Like this.
“I know where Aysgarth is, Lady Charlotte,” King replied, sounding pleased. “Can you be more specific?”
“Specific?”
“Where is the painting? In a drawing room? A ballroom? A gallery—”
“The attics.”
King’s expression flattened. “The attics,” he repeated, his lip curling.
“It’s been there for generations. No one in my family has ever believed th
at portraits of children are worthy of wall space. Or have any value at all, really.”
“Except you.”
“It’s a Van Dyck, for pity’s sake,” Charlotte retorted, forgetting herself.
“It is indeed.” King took two steps closer to her.
Charlotte steeled herself against the urge to take two steps back. If these were her last moments, she would live them no more a coward than she would a liar. King had been right. Extreme measures had brought her here, and determination and desperation would see this out, come what may.
“Tell me, Lady Charlotte, why not just bring me the original?”
Because here in London, she didn’t have access to it. Because time had been of the essence and a lengthy journey up to Aysgarth and back would have taken too long. “This was in my possession,” she said honestly. “The original was not.”
This time, the beautiful man smiled, though it fell short of his eyes. “And what, exactly, is it that you need money for so desperately that it would be worth your attempt to defraud me?”
And now they had come full circle. Because this wasn’t about money. It never had been. It was about her life and the way she was watching it crawl by from the confines of the empty, gilded cage she resided in.
She raised her chin a notch and met his gaze directly. “I don’t want money.”
Something shifted in his pale eyes. “Indeed? Well, you certainly have my attention, Lady Charlotte.”
She wiped her damp palms on her plain skirts. “I want a job. St. Michael’s. Coventry. The Renaissance-styled murals that have been commissioned for the church.”
King regarded her coolly. “Hmm.” He turned abruptly and wandered back behind his desk. “I’ve always felt a rather odd affinity toward that particular saint. A great warrior, vanquishing those who deserve it. Yet descending at the hour of death to offer each soul a chance to redeem itself.” He stopped. “Redemption is highly underrated, don’t you think, Lady Charlotte?”
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