A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  “Relax, gentlemen,” Margaret said. “Bancroft can’t hurt anybody except himself now.”

  Hawthorne smiled, the most pleased, contented, proud smile Margaret had ever seen on an adult male. “My dearest darling Mrs. Dorning, I believe my brothers rose in order to intervene if Bancroft needed protecting from you.”

  Valerian winked, Oak smiled, Sycamore shot his cuffs, and Casriel looked bored.

  “Oh.”

  “We will send the appropriate legal documents around, Bancroft,” Hawthorne said as Sycamore scooped up the notes. “You will sign them before witnesses, and then, as far as I’m concerned, you may go straight to perdition. My love, it’s time we took the children home.”

  The gentlemen waited for Margaret to precede them from the parlor. No queen had ever felt more esteemed by her courtiers, and no mother had ever hugged her children with greater joy or relief.

  Adriana chattered the whole twelve miles back to Summerfield, Greta sat beside Hawthorne, listening to his pocket watch, and Margaret fell in love with her husband for the third time that day.

  Epilogue

  The summer lull had arrived, a sweet time when Margaret saw more of her husband and more of the blooming countryside. She took Greta and Adriana with her on her shorter walks, pointing out interesting plants when the girls were between rounds of Brave Explorers or Questing Queens. Hawthorne occasionally joined them, and picnics by the stream figured into every week’s schedule.

  This quiet mid-afternoon hour in the estate office had also become part of Margaret’s routine with her husband. They dealt with business matters and correspondence, caught up on issues relating to the property, and exchanged the casual bits of information that made a marriage both real and intimate. “Valerian needs more arnica salve,” Margaret said, setting his note aside. “Miss Pepper’s dancing lessons are taking a toll on his toes.” Hawthorne had moved a second desk into the room, so Margaret sat facing her spouse while he gently pried the housing from a new music box.

  Hawthorne looked up, chisel in hand. “Miss Pepper is taking a toll on his sanity, but I hear she’s doing wonders for Pepperidge.”

  She’d purchased Summerfield outright—or Mr. Pepper had purchased it for her—changed the name of the estate, ensconced her papa in a first floor apartment, and set up regular appointments for him with Hannah Weller. Two days after the sale had concluded, and one week after Hawthorne had been appointed as successor to Bancroft as co-guardian of the girls, Bancroft had disappeared with the proceeds of the sale on a fast packet to Calais.

  A host of disgruntled merchants—and gentlemen—were still sending dunning notices down to Dorset. Miss Pepper returned each one with a polite note that Mr. Summerfield could likely be found in Paris.

  “Do you think Bancroft is truly in Paris?” Margaret asked, slitting open another note.

  “Casriel says he is, which means Beatitude has consulted with her various friends and confirmed the theory. Hand me that pen tray, would you?”

  “You aren’t merely removing the case from that one.” Margaret passed over the elongated silver dish, and Hawthorne deposited a tiny screw in it.

  “It’s time Greta and I built a music box. Adriana can be our amanuensis, documenting our efforts. When Greta has mastered music boxes, we can find a simple clock to start on.”

  Margaret put down her mail and came around the desks to hug her husband. The children had been delighted to learn he was to be their uncle, and had nominated his brothers as honorary uncles as well.

  Hawthorne hugged Margaret back, kissed her cheek, then pulled her into his lap. “To what do I owe the honor, Mrs. Dorning?”

  How she loved being called that. When she’d communicated her joy adequately, she resumed her seat at her own desk. The estate office had seen its share of connubial bliss, but Hawthorne was intent on his music box, and talking with him was in its way as great a pleasure as the lovemaking.

  “I wandered the fields and lanes around here for years, Hawthorne, but nobody saw me. They noticed that odd Mallory girl out wandering again, but they didn’t really see me. You see Adriana and Greta and that makes an enormous difference.”

  Hawthorne dropped another screw into the tray. “Greta has such a hearty laugh for such a little person. Who would have guessed?”

  Greta’s laughter had been a surprise, one of many. With Bancroft gone, the children safe, and Hawthorne to share both estate matters and the business end of the botanical products, Margaret had emerged into an emotional springtime. She’d cast off worries that had grown heavier than she’d realized, and embraced hopes and dreams for the first time in years.

  Not merely plans, but dreams too.

  “How much longer do you think we’ll have Fenny at her post?” Hawthorne asked. “Mr. Hartley has a certain determined gleam in his eye.”

  Hartley had begun walking Fenny home from services the same week he’d accepted employment at Dorning Hall. Miss Pepper had hired one of the Wellers as her steward, though Margaret and Hawthorne made it a point to drop by Pepperidge regularly. Thorne divided his calls between Mr. Pepper, who’d proven to be a godsend regarding London’s mercantile habits, and the new steward.

  Margaret also called upon the neighbors, often in the company of Lady Casriel. Margaret knew everybody, and everybody wanted to claim acquaintance with her ladyship. The result was a gradual easing of resentments that Margaret had once again married above herself—and to one of the handsome Dorning men, too—and an easing of Lady Casriel into local society.

  “Fenny has two sisters who are governesses,” Margaret said. “She will likely stay on until one of them can join our household. Hawthorne, I know not why this should be, but I am overcome by an urge to nap.”

  The lassitude was more than just a summer afternoon’s drowsiness. Margaret felt as if she could close her eyes and nod off in her very chair.

  “Then let’s nap. You’ve been in the herbal morning, noon, and night when you aren’t calling on neighbors or consulting with Hannah. If anybody deserves a little respite in the middle of the day, it’s you.”

  Hawthorne wasn’t a hovering sort of husband. He still had half a hand in the running of Dorning Hall. He’d made two trips up to London to look at properties Mr. Pepper recommended for the botanical business, and he’d taken the time to become thoroughly acquainted with Summerton’s land and tenancies.

  But he made time for Margaret too, and insisted she make time for him. He’d show up in the herbal with a picnic lunch, join Margaret as she explored the specimen plots at Dorning Hall, and occasionally declare a holiday for two.

  “Hawthorne, I mean I truly want to nap.” Could barely keep her eyes open in fact.

  “That’s what you said last week.” He rose and came around the desks. “And we did nap—at first.”

  He was reminding her that this sudden fatigue had happened previously, about five days ago. A notion formed in Margaret’s mind as to the cause, but she would wait to be sure before sharing her suspicion with her husband.

  “Then let’s to bed,” Margaret said, taking Hawthorne by the hand. They climbed the stairs hand in hand, and they did, indeed, nap—at first.

  Author’s Note

  I was surprised to learn that we still make medication to slow and more powerfully contract the heart using the actual foxglove plant. The molecules with the medicinal effect are apparently hard to replicate synthetically, and thus we have another example of the old ways still being the best ways.

  English physician William Withering FRS (1741-1799) in the course of his medical practice in Shropshire came across an herb woman’s recipe for treating dropsy (edema, often resulting from congestive heart failure). Patients claimed the recipe yielded significant relief of symptoms when other interventions were unavailing. Withering took it upon himself to investigate, and realized that foxglove was the active ingredient.

  Withering kept careful notes from more than 150 cases, and soon concluded that a toxic dose and an effect dose could
vary by a slim margin. He advised using a dilute mixture made from a dried powder of the leaves, and administering small, frequent doses until symptoms abated. He learned that London physicians were administering the drug without reference to careful dosing, and in 1785 published An Account of the Foxglove and Some of Its Medical Uses, which in essence summarized his many case histories. You can find that document online, and it makes for interesting reading, in that Withering was absolutely honest about his successes and his failures, patient by patient.

  In 1776 Withering published the first widely read English language flora, The Botanical Arrangement of all the vegetables naturally growing in Great Britain, which earned him the epitaph, “The English Linnaeus.”

  Withering’s medical education was completed at the University of Edinburgh, where botany was part of every medical student’s training. His uncle was a physician, and his father an apothecary, while his wife was an amateur botanist who did many of the illustrations for his Botanical Arrangement. He was well educated, well mentored, and well partnered for his profession, but the spark of curiosity that eventually led to a medical breakthrough we still benefit from today belongs to him.

  That said, do not EVER allow a pet to drink from the water in a vase that’s held foxgloves. Margaret was telling the absolutely truth that it’s a dangerous plant in careless hands!

  * * *

  Happy reading,

  Grace Burrowes

  To My Dear Readers

  To My Dear Readers,

  I hope you enjoyed Hawthorne and Margaret’s story. For me, this tale was a particular treat to write because Dorsetshire is an absolutely gorgeous place to research. Why is it, my bucket list gets longer the more books I write?

  I hope to have another True Gentlemen ready for publication soon, (Ash and Della, can you hear me now?) but I’m also adding to the Rogues to Riches series with the November release of Forever and a Duke (excerpt below). If you don’t want to wait until then for your next HEA, in June I’m releasing How to Ruin a DukeHow to Ruin a Duke, a duet with writin’ buddy Theresa Romain. I hesitate to call that story a novella, because it crossed the finish line at about 40,000 words (excerpt also follows below). Somebody kept moving the goal posts, which often happens when I’m having fun with a story.

  If you want a quick email alerting you to my new releases, sales, and pre-orders, follow me on Bookbub. If you’d like a few more details, my newsletter is a good option. I will never sell or share your personal information if you sign up for the newsletter, promise, and I only publish when I have something newsworthy to say.

  Until our next HEA, happy reading!

  Grace Burrowes

  * * *

  Read on for an excerpt from When His Grace Falls, in How to Ruin a Duke, coming out June 11, 2019.

  Excerpt from How to Ruin a Duke

  Thaddeus, Duke of Emory, is the butt of a satirical novel, How to Ruin a Duke, a tale reminiscent of Lady Caroline Lamb’s Glenarvon, aimed at Lord Byron. His Grace suspects his mother’s former companion, Lady Edith Charbonneau, authored How to Ruin a Duke. He has confronted her over a meal, but she’s clearly not enjoying the financial security the author of such a successful tome ought to be enjoying… Nor is Lady Edith enjoying Emory’s company.

  * * *

  A pot of strong tea and some real victuals had taken the edge off Edith’s foul mood, enough that she could make a dispassionate inspection of the man across the table.

  His Grace of Emory carried a vague air of annoyance with him everywhere, a counterpoint to his luscious scent and fine tailoring. He doubtless had reason to be testy. His mama was a restless and discontented woman by nature, given to meddling and gossip. His younger brother was the typical spare waiting to be deposed by a nephew.

  “Perhaps your mother didn’t write the book herself, but a co-author bears thinking about,” Edith said. “The duchess’s circle includes the set at Almack’s, and they’ve all but banished Lady Caroline for her literary accomplishments. If Her Grace wrote How to Ruin a Duke, she could hide behind the skirts of a collaborator or hack writer.”

  His Grace next began slicing up the uneaten portion of Edith’s steak. Perhaps he was one of those people who had to keep his hands busy, though in two years of sharing meals with him, she’d never noticed that about him.

  “Lady Caroline had worn her welcome thin in polite society long before she took up her pen,” Emory observed, “and for the viciousness of her satire, she deserved banishment. At least whoever decided to lampoon me left the rest of my friends and family unscathed.”

  “Which again suggests your mother, a cousin, or a rejected marital prospect. The author’s ire is personal to you, Your Grace.”

  He finished slicing the meat and set down the utensils. “Sir Prendergast made a scene at Tattersalls.” This recollection inspired Emory to a slight smile, more a change of the light in his eyes than a curving of his lips. The only time Edith had seen him truly joyous was on the occasion of becoming godfather to some new member of the extended family. No man had ever looked more pleased to have his nose seized in a tiny fist. No baby had ever been more carefully cradled in his god-father’s arms.

  The ceremony had gone forth, with the duke caught variously by the nose, the chin, or the gloved finger, and Edith feeling oddly enchanted by the sight.

  “Perhaps Sir Prendergast is your culprit.”

  “He found another fortune to marry. Once his bruises healed, I made it a point to introduce him to a few cits who wouldn’t mind seeing their daughter on the arm of a gallant knight.”

  Edith’s lemon cake was half gone. She stopped eating, lest she regret over-indulging. “Generous of you.”

  “Prudent. He dwells in the north now, far from Cousin Antigone’s notice.”

  “Which does not rule him out as your nemesis.”

  His Grace raised a hand and the serving maid scampered over. “If you’d be so good as to wrap up the rest of this food, I’d appreciate it.”

  A common request, but the maid looked as if she’d never been given a greater compliment. “Of course, sir. At once.”

  “All of it,” he said. “Every morsel, and some plum tarts and cheese wouldn’t go amiss either. You know how hunger can strike two hours after a decent repast, and good food shouldn’t go to waste when a man of my robust proportions is on hand to enjoy it.”

  “Quite so, sir. Exactly. Ma says the same thing at least seventeen times a day. Eighteen, possibly.”

  The maid gathered up the plates while Edith tried not to watch. This was the best meal she’d eaten in ages, and Emory wasn’t having the leftovers boxed up for himself.

  “Thank you,” she said, when the maid had bustled off to the kitchen.

  He looked at her directly, something Edith could not recall happening previously. Emory stalked through life, intent on pressing business. At the ducal residence he’d often been trailed by a secretary, solicitor, footman, steward or butler, all of whom followed him about as he’d lobbed orders in every direction.

  At table, Emory tended to focus on the food, the wine, the appointments in the room.

  On the dancefloor, he was so much taller than most of his partners, he usually gazed past their shoulders.

  The full brunt of his gaze was unnerving. His eyes were brown, the deep, soft, shade of mink in summer. They gave his countenance gravity, and Edith well knew those eyes could narrow on the deserving in preparation for a scathing setdown.

  His gaze could also, apparently, be kind.

  * * *

  Order your copy of How to Ruin a Duke, and read on for an excerpt from Forever and a Duke…

  Excerpt from Forever and a Duke

  Eleanora Hatfield, who excels brilliantly as a financial auditor, is trying to impress upon Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore, all that a thorough review of his books will involve. Rex needs to get his ledgers in order before somebody suspects accounts gone amiss, but just at the moment, he’s a bit pre-occupied…

  * * *


  Rex took up one of the pencils from the silver tray and drew a sheet of blank paper near. He crossed an ankle over a knee, used a ledger book for his easel, and began sketching the woman who boldly lectured him on the topic of petty domestic graft.

  Corrected him, rather.

  “Do you know the insult my butler will suffer if I impugn his integrity?” Rex paused to take another sip of tea rather than launch into a lecture of his own. Mrs. Hatfield could not possibly grasp the delicate workings of a large, wealthy domicile. “An affronted butler can set off a cascade of burned toast, sour wine, feuding housemaids, and warring footmen. The upheaval would rival the English civil wars.”

  Mrs. Hatfield’s eyebrows were her most interesting feature. Most people’s eyebrows were not perfectly symmetric. Hers were two exactly matched swoops that added elegance to the intelligence in her gaze.

  Why had such a woman—competent, well mannered, even pretty—no husband? She hadn’t said she was widowed, simply that she had no husband.

  “Your Grace, please attend me.”

  He glanced up to find her gaze had grown quite severe. “You have my undivided attention.” And you have eyes that should not be hidden behind a pair of spinsterish spectacles.

  “You observe that you have no privacy, and yet, if I asked you which clubs your cousins belong to, could you tell me? If I asked you which tailors, modistes, or bootmakers they use, would you know?”

  “Not in the usual course.” Howell and James favored Hoby boots, but then, most of fashionable London did. Rex had sponsored James for membership at some club or other—the Explorers, or was it the Charitable Knights?