by Allison Lane
He stared, silent, for a full minute, then slammed out of the room, vowing to force Chester to bring her to her senses.
Faith moved to the window, grateful that John had remained at his desk – though he’d started to rise more than once. The last thing John’s reputation needed was a brawl.
Wooden blinds let her watch Reginald’s departure without being seen. But he didn’t leave…
“What’s wrong?” asked John. His hand gripped her shoulders, preventing her from rushing outside.
“He vaulted the fence and is lurking in the park, probably to accost me as I leave. Or perhaps he will follow so I am unguarded when he next approaches. He rarely accepts anything that conflict with his desires.”
“Abduction?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s never been this disturbed.” She turned to face him. “I’ve no idea what he’ll do if he thinks I’m staying here. Tell Chester at the very least.”
“Then we must convince him otherwise.”
“How?”
“You will leave now – temporarily.” He set a finger on her lips. “Mentioning business with the trustees was a stroke of genius. One of them has offices at Lincoln’s Inn. My carriage will drive you there, then remain outside as if awaiting your return.”
“Which I will have to do eventually.”
He shook his head. “I will escort you to the carriage, then watch until you exit the square so Reginald can’t jump on the back. He will follow, of course—”
“He hasn’t the wherewithal to hire a carriage or even a hackney.”
“But he might have a horse. However he travels, my coachman will spot him long before you reach Lincoln’s Inn. He’ll delay Reginald while you lose yourself.”
“Since I’ve never seen the place, I undoubtedly will lose myself.”
“Never. Go in the nearest door, then turn left, take the first hallway to the right, then the second right and finally the first left. That leads to the back door. My groom will be waiting outside with another carriage.”
“Sounds confusing.”
“It won’t be. First left, first right, second right, first left. Very simple.” He smiled. “Trust me. I used to have an office there.”
She nodded, resting her head against his shoulder..
He nibbled on her ear, sending shivers down her spine. She would rather stay in his arms for an hour or two than dash all over town trying to lose Reginald.
But John gave her no choice. He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose and released her. “The carriage will collect you in a quarter hour. You’d best fetch your cloak.”
* * * *
“A message, sir.” Treburn interrupted lunch, salver extended.
John accepted the note, ignoring the sudden trepidation in Faith’s eyes. She’d lost Reginald easily enough, but there was no telling what he would try next.
“It’s from Alex,” he explained, cracking the seal. “He wants us to call as soon as possible.”
Faith’s brows rose.
“Send word that we will join him in half an hour,” he instructed Treburn, cursing her reaction. In her world, investigators would call on her, but John’s lower breeding didn’t warrant that courtesy, even from a friend. She didn’t yet accept the reduced standing that wedding him would produce.
“Are you ready, my dear?” he asked, pushing his unfinished coffee aside.
“As soon as I fetch my bonnet.” She rose. “Can he have found Francine so quickly?”
“It’s possible. He cultivated informants in every part of London during the war. One of them probably knows her, so once he discovers the name she’s using…”
She collected a cloak and bonnet, then accepted his arm for the walk to Portland House.
They were hardly out the door before second thoughts assailed John. Breeding aside, he should have summoned his carriage despite the delay that would cause. Faith was a lady. That had mattered less yesterday, for few from the upper classes were abroad before noon, but today…
In town, ladies walked only in the parks, and not just because streets were filthy and too often dangerous. It was a mark of rank. One more way to set them apart from those, like his mother, who worked for a living. Faith would soon realize that expecting her to walk to Alex’s was a social insult.
Marriage would require adjustments, he admitted. And not just from Faith. Regardless of his own standing, she deserved to be treated like a lady.
He was opening his mouth to apologize when she turned her face into the sun, and laughed. “How wonderful to be outdoors when I needn’t fear being accosted.”
“Really? London air is hardly fresh. Too many kitchen fires, even on warm days.” Light-colored clothing had to be cleaned daily, which was another way to announce social position. Those who couldn’t afford an army of servants wore only dark colors.
“The soot doesn’t bother me, but I hate being cooped up in the house. Watching others enjoy the park makes it worse.”
“So join them. As my guest, you are entitled to make use of the space. Treburn can give you a key.”
She goggled as if he were an especially dim student. “And what do I say when people ask where I’m staying? Your reputation will suffer for housing a female without a chaperon.”
“I can get you a chaperon easily enough. And any suspicion will dissipate once we’re wed.”
“Which won’t happen. It would be better if I left. You heard Reginald. Chester is claiming that you forced me.”
“You aren’t going anywhere. No one will believe Chester once they discover that you came to town to expose his thefts.” He turned onto Alex’s street, cursing her stubbornness. But she was right about the chaperon. He’d expected to have a license by now, but convincing her to accept him would take longer than he’d imagined. To protect her, he must consider it. Not that he wanted some disapproving harridan holding him at bay. How was he to make progress without touches or kisses or—
Mr. Mitchell clattered down his steps and turned in their direction. Mitchell was a jovial man who befriended everyone he met. But not this time. Before John could introduce Faith, Mitchell’s eyes bugged out. Skidding to a halt, he strode off in the opposite direction.
A forgotten appointment?
It wasn’t likely, and the fingers suddenly digging into his arm proved that Faith knew a cut when she saw one. Chester had been busy. Perhaps it was time to start some tales of his own. He’d counted on news of Chester’s defalcations leaking out by now, but the trustees were being discreet. He should have realized that with their own reputations on the line, they would keep their staffs in check.
Alex could help, he decided, rapping on the door. If Alex dismissed Chester’s rumors, people must question them.
The moment they entered the library, Alex handed Faith the duchess’s diary. “Your information was very helpful, Miss Harper.”
“Did you find the duke, then?”
“Not yet, though I’ve made considerable progress. Francine’s newspaper posts indicate that Montrose was alive and well when the duchess died in 1792.”
Faith nodded. “I know that much. She would have no reason to lie once she escaped Westcourt. Did the messages continue after the duchess’s death? If Francine moved to the country, she might not have heard right away.”
“She knew. She had to read the paper herself in case the duchess sent her a message. Francine posted hers every six months on Montrose’s natal days and half-natal days. No one at the newspaper office recalls the ads, of course, but records indicate that each was placed in person rather than through the post.”
“By whom?”
“No name was given. Payment was in cash, so there is no account information that might help us. Deliberate, of course. Francine would not have left so clear a trail. Frankly, I am surprised to learn this much. I checked the papers between the last posted message and the next scheduled one in case Francine used one of the other codes, but nothing appears. There was no need to continue the practi
ce once the duchess was gone. And once she no longer needed to insert advertisements, she could have left town.”
“How do you know she lived here at all?” asked John. “She couldn’t be sure Chester didn’t force a confession from the duchess – even men reveal secrets when pressed hard enough.” He knew just how hard Chester had pressed. “Granted, London is a large city, but caution should have pushed her to settle elsewhere. It is not difficult to travel up to town twice a year on business.”
“But doing so would draw attention from her neighbors. Few from her class can afford travel. Even if she established herself as a gentry widow or a French émigré, people would question regular journeys. There are few business matters ladies can attend to themselves. Thus she probably lived either in town or very close to it.”
“But this only tells us that Montrose was alive in 1792. If he died later, she might have suppressed that knowledge so Chester could not claim the title.”
“True. Fourteen more years passed before anyone expected his return. Anything might have happened. But since he survived infancy, there is a good chance he lived to adulthood. The problem is figuring out what Francine did after the duchess’s death. If it had been me, I would have left town to escape disease, if nothing else. And establishing herself as a gentry widow would make it easier to educate Montrose without raising suspicion. She had enough money to live quite comfortably.”
“How much?” asked Faith.
“Twenty thousand. She emptied that secret account within days of leaving Westcourt. I’ve not found where she moved it.”
“Is it likely you will?” John asked.
Alex shook his head. “There are too many banks, and we’ve no idea what name she adopted. I suspect she deposited the draft under the same false name, then transferred the funds in cash to yet another account in a different name. But there is no chance to trace those transactions without knowing which bank she used.”
John nodded. “She hid herself well. So where does that leave us?”
“Closer.” Alex smiled. “I found her family.”
“What?” Faith straightened. “John said you would, but I didn’t believe anyone could work so fast. How did you manage it?”
“Your tobacco clue. The first tobacconist I spoke with sent me to Dingle’s, a tobacco shop on Haymarket.”
John knew it. Fogel liked their special snuff. John often collected his orders when in the neighborhood.
Alex grinned. “The current proprietor is Francine’s nephew – or so I believe. Francine was born Molly Dingle. When she went into service, she borrowed Henri DuBois’s family name – he lived next door.”
“Did her family know that?” asked Faith.
“No. Molly’s father was a footman before he wed the tobacconist’s daughter. He often regaled his children with stories of the great houses he’d seen and the baron he’d served. Molly drank in tales of fabulous parties and elegant gowns, then vowed that she would one day live in a great house, too.”
“Did she expect to wed a gentleman?” asked John.
“Hardly. She knew her place well enough. Her dream was to be a lady’s maid. She learned about clothing care from her father and studied hair care with another neighbor – a hairdresser and wigmaker. When she thought her skills would pass, she forged a reference, added three years to her actual age, and took her first job, abandoning her family without a backward glance. French maids were all the rage, so she adopted the speech and gestures of Henri’s wife and became Francine DuBois.”
John shook his head, but in admiration. He knew how difficult it was to rise above one’s station and could only admire someone who had successfully managed it. Upstarts his mother had called such girls, though a hint of envy usually warmed her voice.
“Did her family know where she went?” asked Faith.
“No. She left a note saying that she was taking a post, but included no specifics. They heard nothing more until she appeared on the doorstep twenty years later, accompanied by a child she claimed was hers.”
“The duke.”
“Yes. The current Mr. Dingle recalls her return, though he was but ten at the time. She told them her son’s father had been a visiting coachman who had forced her. Her mistress had kept her on despite the child, but the lady’s son was less tolerant. When his mother died, he cast Molly off without a reference. So she returned home. Since her brother’s wife had recently died, she took charge of his household.”
“I’m amazed that she dared return to her family,” said Faith.
“It was a reasonable risk – different name, ready-made position, four other children so Montrose was lost in the crowd. She stayed two years. When her brother remarried, she disappeared.”
“I suppose his new wife objected to sharing the house,” said John.
“Mr. Dingle claims not. They were hurt by her defection, but not unduly surprised given her history. She’d always put her own wishes ahead of theirs and had always dreamed of a better place than the one to which she was born. I will interview neighbors today. One might recall something, though it is not likely. It’s been twenty-eight years, and Molly is obviously good at keeping secrets…”
“The duchess was still alive,” said John slowly. “If you’re right that she remained in London, why would she abandon so perfect a situation?”
Faith shrugged. “I assume the family lives above the shop. Does Haymarket draw custom from the upper classes?”
Portland nodded.
“Then perhaps she spotted someone she recognized. Someone who might know her as Francine DuBois. Or someone asking Henri DuBois if he knew a Francine. She couldn’t protect Montrose if anyone suspected where he was.” Her voice cracked.
John covered her hand. “Chester?”
“It is possible, for he has lived in London since leaving school. He would not have recognized her, though, as they had never met. But seeing him in the shop might have terrified her into flight.”
“She never worked in the shop,” said Portland.
“Fear is not rational. If she saw anyone who knew the duke or duchess, she might have run to a place no aristocrat would go.”
“So you think her brother’s marriage had nothing to do with it?”
“I doubt it, and perhaps I’m wrong about her reason. The eighth duke’s friends had likely been in Haymarket many times in the two years she stayed there. But Montrose was four by then, an age when boys ask questions. The duchess would not want her to lie more than necessary, but she couldn’t tell him anything that contradicted what she’d told her family. Not while they lived there. Montrose also needed to learn skills a merchant does not use. Such training would have raised questions. Inciting any suspicions was dangerous.”
“But where could she go that would avoid aristocrats, be close to London, and be safe?” demanded John. “She must have known how dangerous London is. There are places where even the hardiest soul dares not tread.”
“How can I answer when I don’t know the area?” She shrugged. “Maybe she had friends unknown to her family. Or maybe she found a cottage nearby. That is what I would have done. There must be a dozen villages within a mile or two of town,” she finished. “Montrose was still young enough that she could adopt a new surname without raising his suspicions – she probably addressed him by a pet name anyway. But that was her last chance to do so – the duchess wanted him to live in ignorance until he was twelve.”
“Good point,” said Portland. “I can only hope a neighbor might know something. Otherwise, I’ve little chance of finding her. Hundreds of widows with young children appear in London every year. No one will recall an unremarkable pair from so long in the past.”
“What did she look like?” asked John. “I grew up in Spitalfields, which would be well-suited to her needs – a dozen widows with children lived on our street alone. I could ask questions without drawing attention. That would let you concentrate on the countryside, which is more likely in any case. Hampstead, perhaps, or Kensington.�
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“I wish I did have a decent description,” said Portland with a sigh. “Bernard remembers her fondly, but his powers of observation are limited, and his ability to describe what he sees is worse. He claims she was about five-two and slender, with brown hair and eyes. Much of that could have changed by now, though. She was skilled with hair and may have dyed hers. She may have gained weight or developed a dowager’s hump. Even the eye color doesn’t help much. It’s too common.”
John sagged. “His description fits half of England. How old is she?”
“Seventeen when she took her first post, so she would be sixty-seven now. But she gave various ages to her employers, so she might claim anything from sixty to eighty. Assuming she lives at all. She may well have passed on.”
John turned to Faith. “You described Montrose as sickly. What did he look like?”
She shrugged. “Small for his age, according to the servants. And according to the duchess.” She opened the diary and showed him a passage bemoaning the boy’s poor health and seeming clumsiness. “But he was barely two, so that might mean nothing. His hair was light, but both the duke and duchess were dark, so I would guess at least medium brown by now. As for eyes, I’ve no idea. She only mentioned his eyes when he was born, but true color comes out later. They could be anything. The eighth duke had brown eyes, but his father’s were blue. The duchess had grayish green eyes. Other Willowbys display every possible color.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” said Portland. “Thank you for offering, John, but there is nothing you can do at the moment. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“I don’t suppose Bernard can draw,” muttered John, helping Faith to her feet.
“Afraid not.”
“We are grateful for your efforts,” said Faith. “If Montrose is alive, I am sure you will find him.”
* * * *
Faith left John at his office door and headed upstairs. At least she had books to keep her occupied for the remainder of the afternoon.
It was hard to believe how much progress Portland had made – and in only one day. The duke might actually live. If Francine had moved to the country after the duchess’s death, there was no reason to think he’d died. And if she’d kept him in ignorance to protect him from Chester…
