The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3)

by Christina McKnight

  Rowan scoffed. “Marce told Mother there was a family emergency in London that needed her immediate attention.”

  “Simple and effective.”

  “Yes, but now Mother questions me every day—sometimes several times a day—about why I didn’t accompany my wife to London.” Each morning, he’d been summoned by the duchess and questioned about Marce: had she written yet? Would she return soon? Shouldn’t Rowan attend to her to remedy the emergency? It took much energy to waylay his mother’s insistent questions. “She went so far as to try and convince her physician that she is able to travel.”

  “Travel where?” Tobias asked. “Leona hasn’t left Hadlow in nearly ten years.”

  “London, of course,” Rowan sighed.

  “I suppose you convinced the good doctor that it would be unwise to take pity on the duchess and agree to the journey?”

  “I didn’t need to,” Rowan confessed, staring into his empty glass. “Miss Pearl talked my mother out of her plans. I think the old dragon knows Marce called an end to our farce.”

  “If Leona’s companion knows, then the entire staff at Hadlow is aware.”

  “I do not doubt that.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  Rowan narrowed his glare on Tobias. “Because I am not expected in Scotland for some time. I won’t have Marce sending me fleeing from England.”

  “Not England, you fool,” Tobias expelled, exasperation lacing his every word. “In Kent. What are you still doing in Kent? Why are you not on your way to London to make things right with Lady Marce?”

  Rowan still had trouble accepting the fact that it was Lady Marce, not simply Miss Marce. It shouldn’t make any difference. A gentleman should treat every woman with the utmost respect. That Marce was nobility shouldn’t matter in the slightest. And did it truly matter now?

  “She left, Tobias.” Rowan sat forward, his head spinning slightly. “She wants naught to do with me, and I do not blame her. It is over. There is no reason to hurry to London in an attempt to mend the mess I’ve made. If we are both lucky, society will never get wind of any of it.”

  “When do you plan to take back Craven House?”

  “I do not want the place.” He’d stepped foot in the house only once, and that was more than enough. The place reminded him of everything he loathed about his father. It was the reason he’d abandoned his family and turned his affection elsewhere. It was where the duke had been when his wife nearly perished giving birth to the duke’s twins—babes who hadn’t survived. It was the place he’d remained after sending Rowan’s mother to live alone at Hadlow. Craven House highlighted the failures of his family. He wanted nothing to do with it.

  “So, you are resigned to break your mother’s heart?”

  “Of course not,” Rowan retorted. “I’m remaining at Hadlow to make certain she learns nothing of what transpired.”

  “And it will not strike her as odd that she never sees your charming wife again?” Tobias chuckled. “While I don’t claim to know the duchess as well as you, I will remind you that she is a very perceptive woman. She will certainly notice when Marce isn’t at your side when you next come to Hadlow.”

  Tobias was correct. Even if Rowan were able to keep his mother from finding out about his deception, it was in no way a long-term solution. He was saving her heartache today and postponing the inevitable only to cause greater hurt when she discovered the truth.

  “You need to tell her. The sooner, the better, before she overhears a servant speaking of it.”

  “I cannot.” He was being a coward. He knew it, and from Tobias’s frown, his friend knew it, as well. “Besides, it has been so many years already with Mother becoming none the wiser. I cannot bring myself to wound her so brutally.”

  “Then you have only one option.”

  “Do tell.” Rowan sucked in a deep breath, awaiting his friend’s response, certain he would offer the answer to all his problems.

  “You must go to London and beg Marce to forgive you.”

  “She would likely spit in my face—”

  “Then you will wipe it from your chin and ask the woman to wed you for real.”

  Rowan’s heart hammered in his chest. Wed Marce? The idea should not shock him so. And Marce agreeing to any such thing would be beyond surprising. “I have no designs on Marce, or on wedding any woman for that matter,” he stammered, the only sign that his motives lay not in his wedding a woman but one certain woman rebuffing his proposal.

  “At this point, you need to save your own arse, and Lady Marce Davenport is your only option.” Tobias slammed his tumbler on the small table to his right and pushed to his feet. “Saving your own hide means avoiding injury to your mother, as well. Either we go to London and fix things with Marce, or you return to Hadlow alone to confess everything to the duchess.”

  Rowan’s head fell into his hands, and he scrubbed at his face, his eyes gritty from his disturbed slumber over the past two nights. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly. Or more likely, he was thinking plainly for the first time.

  Everything he’d said and done made him worthy of being nothing more than his father’s son. He’d lied, not only to his mother and Marce but also to himself. He’d believed for so many years that his actions were justified and that they were righting the wrongs of his past. That one day, when his life was not in shambles, he’d be faced with the decisions he made and know that he’d done right by his mother.

  In turn, he hadn’t done right by anyone. He’d cheated Marce, deceived his mother, and made Tobias go along with it all.

  He had no right to forgiveness; however, that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try. Even if she turned him away, he needed to tell Marce how he felt. Confess his transgressions and throw himself at her mercy. It was ironic. Only a few days before, he’d have rather thrown himself to a pack of hungry beasts than humble himself before the woman he wronged.

  “Horses? Or should we take your coach?” Tobias asked, his brow rising in question.

  Chapter 19

  Marce glared at the stack of bills and piles of coins on the desk before her. It was a startling amount of money; however, she could not allow herself to ponder all she could do with it. It was the funds amassed to make her next payment to the Duke of Harwich.

  Not Rowan. She never thought of the man by his given name now. It lulled her into a false sense of familiarity with the duke. She needed to remember that they were little more than strangers, despite their years of forced association.

  With the funds before her—plus the money she’d been able to hide away—Marce had collected enough to purchase a plot of land with at least a modest cottage with several rooms, perhaps close to the sea with a fishing village nearby, or in a meadow with a garden fertile enough to provide food all year long.

  A hint of a smile crossed her face before Marce pressed her lips tightly together. She couldn’t allow herself even a moment of elation at the fact that she, and those who depended on her, would not only survive but also thrive.

  In the week since she’d returned to London and her home, she’d tried to remind herself that Craven House no longer belonged to her, that detaching her emotions from the place was in her best interest. She’d slowly started collecting all the possessions that meant the most to her. But as the days passed and no one came to cast her out, Marce had begun to pack with less urgency. Could it be that the duke was in no hurry to throw her to the streets?

  Marce pushed the coins into the velvet, drawstring bag before stuffing the stack of notes in next. No matter what his plans were, Marce was not paying him another shilling of her hard-earned money. She’d need every note and coin to set up her new household—once she found a suitable residence, that was. But she would be ready when he did arrive, even if that meant renting several rooms in a lodging house closer to Drury Lane.

  If there was one thing Marce knew for certain, it was that she could—and would—do all that was necessary and in her power to protect everyone who depended
on her. She would let no one down…not her siblings or the women who’d come to her for help.

  Rowan could go to the Devil if he thought to get any more money from her or if he thought she’d leave before she was damn good and ready.

  Upon returning to London, Marce had consulted with Lady Chastain, one of her few friends—and her husband—gaining the name of their family solicitor: a Mr. James Adams, Esq. The man was, at the moment, scouring the countryside for an appropriate and fitting home for Marce that would give her the space she needed but also a modicum of privacy and seclusion. With the number of women who came and went from Craven House, it was no wonder rumors still continued that her house was one of ill repute. Thankfully, Ellington and her husband, Alex, were well aware of the work Marce did and had very graciously offered their assistance.

  It was an odd turn of events—Marce being the one to depend on Ellie—as Marce had raised Ellie alongside her own siblings after Ellie’s mother, a working girl at Craven House, had expired shortly after Ellie’s birth. Ellie had maintained that she owed Marce much for the many years of kindness she’d shown the girl, even during her hellion years, but Marce knew the woman’s indebtedness was misplaced. It had been survival they’d all worked so tirelessly toward, and that they were able to wage war together had been beneficial to them all. It wasn’t as if Ellie hadn’t done everything in her power to help Marce with Jude and Sam once it was time for them to take their places in society. Without Ellie’s sponsorship, neither of Marce’s sisters would have met and wedded the men they love.

  Marce pulled the drawstring tight and slipped her savings—meager as it might appear to others—into the bottom drawer of her desk. The lock clicked into place just as a knock on her study door sounded.

  Her entire body tensed.

  She wasn’t expecting anyone, nor did she have anywhere to go. The meal for the evening had already been agreed upon, and the money for the market given to Cook the previous night.

  Marce smoothed her hands down the front of her gown and swept her long curls back over her shoulders. She hadn’t bothered to fuss with it that morning and decided to allow her long locks to do as they pleased.

  “Enter,” she called, sitting a bit straighter in her chair.

  Darla, the Craven House housekeeper and cook, pushed the door wide and stepped aside to allow a young, delicate girl to enter the room. She couldn’t be more than sixteen, at most, with her ebony hair pulled back in a severe knot, and her pale skin highlighting green eyes with high cheekbones and a straight, if not a bit too pointy, nose. Images of Rowan with his dark hair and green eyes sprang to Marce’s mind, but she pushed them away and locked them up tightly.

  As she stared at the girl, Marce noted her torn gown, as if the hem had been caught on something and she’d pulled it free. A bruise marred her jawline, and her hands—where they were clenched before her—were stained with soot and filth. She kept her stare focused on the floor, and her shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

  Marce eased slowly from her seat in an attempt to not startle the terrified girl as she brought her hesitant stare up from the ground.

  “My dear girl.” Marce reached forward with a gentle touch, but the girl stepped back out of reach as her alarmed gaze darted about the room. “What is your name?” Marce spoke low, holding her hands up in surrender—or at least to show the girl she wouldn’t invade her space again until she was settled.

  “Abbigail, madam,” she uttered in a thin, reedy voice with the undeniable hint of aristocracy. She was of noble birth, or at least part of the upper gentry. “I was told you could help me.”

  “Of course, of course, Abbigail.” Marce moved back to her seat, lowering herself gradually as she gestured for the girl to sit, as well. “Please.”

  Abbigail lowered her head once more. “I will stand, but thank you for the kindness.”

  From her manners and the quality of her gown, the girl was certainly a part of society. “Abbigail, please tell me what you need, and I will do everything I can to help.”

  “A place to stay—”

  “Of course, we have plenty—”

  “Just until word arrives from my aunt in Dover.”

  “You may stay at Craven House—err, with me—for as long as you need.” Marce fell into silence as the girl eased into the chair, wincing when her backside touched the red velvet covering. Even if Rowan arrived that very day to toss her from Craven House, Marce would make certain all her charges were well taken care of. There was space at Lady Chastain’s home or at one of her siblings’ empty residences. “Are you injured? Should I send for a physician?”

  “No, madam.” She gave her head a solid shake. “I do not need a doctor.”

  “May I ask a few questions before Darla shows you to your room?”

  “Yes.” It was a simple reply, but the way Abbigail’s shoulders slumped told Marce that she’d need to be selective and quick with her inquiries lest the girl decide to flee.

  “Is someone looking for you?”

  “No.” There was a deep sense of surety in her tone.

  “Does your aunt know to write you here?”

  “Yes.”

  “If your aches and bruises worsen, you will tell me immediately?”

  The girl’s eyes snapped to Marce and searched her blue depths. Marce did her utmost to appear open and poised as she folded her hands before her on the desk. Seeing women beaten and bruised never grew easier and always filled Marce with a deep sense of sorrow.

  Finally, the girl whispered, “Yes.”

  “Very good.” Marce grabbed the list that always sat on the corner of her desk and read down the page. “Are you agreeable to sharing a room with another woman?”

  When Abbigail simply nodded, Marce went back to her list. She had only six women staying at Craven House at the moment, with only one who remained all hours of the day. The others were working toward stable employment and gaining their own accommodations. “You will room with a woman named Natasha. She is quiet and reserved, but friendly when coaxed from her silence. You will get on very well.”

  “I will endeavor not to outstay my welcome, madam.”

  “When was word sent to your aunt?”

  “My maid—errr, a friend, sent a letter via the post yesterday.”

  “Then it will be at least a week before we can expect to hear anything back,” Marce said with a small smile of reassurance. “Until then, you can settle in. We eat at eight o’clock, two o’clock, and seven o’clock each day. Everyone is to be in their rooms from nine o’clock each night until the morning. That is my only rule, and no one is to disobey it.”

  In the back of her mind, Marce prayed she had a week’s time before the duke—or one of his associates—arrived to take possession of Craven House. Ellie’s solicitor thought it would take at least several weeks to secure a new house.

  Now Marce could add Abbigail to the list of people who’d suffer if Rowan made good on his threat. Never had she fully reconciled the far-reaching effects of her decision to end their arrangement. It was not just she and the duchess who were gravely injured, the women under Marce’s care would be impacted, as well. With any luck, a new home would be secured with all due haste, and things would progress as normal. Or what was to become her new normal.

  “Can you abide by that rule?” she asked.

  “Yes, madam,” Abbigail said with a confident nod.

  “Last question before you retire to rest,” Marce said, her voice softening. “May I ask what happened?”

  The girl glanced over her shoulder to the open door, but Darla was wise enough to have moved out of view.

  “It is just us, Abbigail,” Marce coaxed.

  “My father…he thought I’d ruined myself, but I didn’t, I swear to it. I never—”

  “You needn’t explain anything to me.” Marce stood and called Darla back into the room. “Please see Abbigail to her bedchamber—with Natasha—and have a bath brought up for her.” She paused, turning her attention bac
k the girl. “I will have Darla procure two gowns and underpinnings for you. Are your shoes suitable for the time being?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Please let me know if you need anything else.”

  “There is one other thing…”

  “Of course,” Marce said.

  “I do not have enough coin for the coach to Dover,” Abbigail confessed, her cheeks coloring with shame. “My aunt, she is old, and I do not want to burden her…”

  Marce thought of the stash in her drawer…barely enough for a new home and to keep Craven House going until the move. “Do not fret over the funds. I will see that you have the fare and some coin to take with you for emergencies.”

  “You are too kind, madam,” she said, her voice thickening.

  “It is what another did for my family once, long ago. I am more than happy to help you, Abbigail, and any other woman—or family—that comes to me for assistance. Now, find your room, bathe, rest, and be ready to join us for our meal when the clock strikes two.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She gave Marce a quick curtsy and followed Darla from the room.

  Alone once more, Marce glanced about the red and gold office.

  She’d be lying if she said she wouldn’t miss this room—and every other space in the large house. Running her hand along the smooth, wood surface of the desk, Marce thought back to when her mother reigned over Craven House. She was a fair, kind, and compassionate woman. Someone who’d known the struggle of wedding above one’s class, gaining a taste of high society, and then being cast back down just as quickly. During her brief years as a marchioness, her mother had met many people, but not one remained at her side after Benton threw her from her home. No one offered her and her two young children lodging during the harsh time. Not one individual had come to call on her once she settled at Craven House. But, oh, how the men of society had flocked to Madame Sasha. Her richly adorned brothel, her parties held once a year at the home of whichever lord offered his country estate as a gathering place, her bed…