Would I Lie to the Duke

by Eva Leigh

  Dedication

  To Zack

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Eva Leigh

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Eton College, 1797

  “This is bollocks,” Noel Edwards, Lord Clair, muttered. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

  He glanced at the four other E Block boys who, like him, had to spend the entire half holiday trapped in this infernal library as punishment for various misdeeds. Everyone sat at different tables scattered through the library, with sheets of foolscap spread in front of them.

  Noel’s gaze met the glowering eyes of Theodore Curtis.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” Curtis demanded.

  “It makes sense that you’re stuck here,” Noel fired back. “Not so sure about him, though.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Duncan McCameron, who leaned back in his chair with the perfect ease of an accomplished sportsman. “Or him,” Noel added, nodding at Sebastian Holloway. The tall, bespectacled boy looked at him with alarm, as if terrified to be singled out.

  “What about me?” William Rowe’s voice was raspy, as if seldom used, and barely audible like it came from a great distance.

  Noel turned his attention to Rowe. The pale, sharp-featured boy sat in the farthest corner of the library, either as a means of isolating himself or perhaps Rowe thought he might infect everyone with his peculiarity.

  “I have no idea what you do with yourself all day,” Noel answered candidly.

  “But I know what you do,” Rowe said with a strange little smile. “I know what everyone does. I’m a watcher. I watch everything.” He tapped his temple.

  Well. With remarks like that, it was no wonder that everyone gave Rowe such a wide berth.

  “What the deuce was Eddings thinking?” Noel grumbled. “Write an essay on who I believe myself to be? It’s perfectly obvious who I am.”

  Curtis said with a sneer, “Oh, yes. We know. Everyone knows because you damn well shove it in our faces.” He pitched his voice into an exaggerated aristocratic accent, and flapped his hands in the air. “La, look at me, I’m a duke’s heir.”

  “I don’t do that with my hands,” Noel shot back. “And that’s not how I talk.”

  “Meaning’s the same, though, innit?” Curtis drawled, then he slipped back into the caricature of genteel pronunciation. “Be my friend, do. We’ll have all sorts of jolly fun. Good-time Clair, that’s me. Now, who’s up for a round of Who Loves Me Best?”

  “Shut your goddamned gob.” Noel curled his hands into fists.

  “Easy,” McCameron said, his voice rolling with a Scottish burr. “Curtis is only trying to rile you up.”

  “He’s having me on,” Noel said. “Right? I’m not like that.” Of the boys being punished today, he and McCameron were the most alike, and though McCameron was merely an earl’s second son, his athletic ability had earned him tremendous popularity at school.

  But when Noel looked pointedly at him, McCameron only shrugged.

  “I see all sorts of things,” Rowe said in his crow’s voice. “Like the chap in the middle of a circus—getting folk to do whatever you like. Dancing horses and trained bears, all of ’em, performing at your command.”

  Noel stared at the strange boy. “Just having a few laughs. No harm in that.”

  “’Course not.” Rowe smiled eerily at him. “But you’re here, aren’t you? Because of what happened with Master Garlow.”

  Scowling, Noel jutted out his chin. “The prank didn’t hurt anyone.”

  It was harmless. All Noel had done was convince a group of boys to splash ink on the teacher’s garments in the clothespress whilst Noel distracted Garlow outside his rooms, using some nonsense questions about Latin verb declension.

  When they’d been caught, it had come out that Noel had been the one to come up with the prank. The other boys had been flogged, but this special punishment had been given to Noel, who lost a half holiday to languish in this infernal library.

  “Do you know how much togs cost, Clair?” McCameron asked.

  Noel snorted, then— “I . . . don’t, in truth.”

  “It’s at least three months’ wages.” This astonishing statement came from the usually timid Holloway. A flush stained Holloway’s cheeks, but he continued. “Master Garlow’s clothes were already threadbare—I, uh, noticed his cuffs and collars are frayed.”

  “So it’s a benefit the beak has to buy new things,” Noel said, though uncertainty wound down his back. It was a new sensation, and he didn’t care for it. “A few months’ pay is a trifle.”

  “When a man’s got almost nothing,” McCameron said, “every ha’penny matters. I know this—second son, remember?” He tapped his chest. “That’s why it’s the army for me.”

  “Don’t bother with your prattle,” Curtis jeered at McCameron. “We’re nothing to him. He won’t remember a damned word we say. If it’s not flattery, he’s got wool in his ears.”

  It felt as though someone had hit the back of Noel’s head with a shovel. Everyone, even his father and younger siblings, continually praised him.

  Not these four boys.

  “I don’t understand.” Noel got to his feet and looked at each of the boys in turn. “Why are you saying this to me? Don’t you want to be my friends?” Like everybody else?

  McCameron surprised Noel by grinning at him. “If you’re looking for arse-lickers, seems like you won’t find any here.”

  “Every society has a r-ruler,” Holloway stammered. “And every ruler needs honest counsel.”

  “Or else he finds himself with a knife in his back.” Curtis guffawed. “How about it, Clair? You going to take the batting out of your ears, or are you going to—” He mimed getting stabbed from behind, gurgled, and slumped over his desk.

  Rowe snickered, and Noel got to his feet and looked at the boys.

  He hadn’t realized it when he’d walked into the library this morning, but perhaps these very different blokes might be precisely what he needed.

  Chapter 1

  Wiltshire, England, 1817

  Jessica McGale didn’t thrive on chaos, but she certainly knew how to manage it.

  “Be sure to let Powers know that her ladyship will overnight at the Three Graces Inn in Basingstoke,” Jess said to Penny, Lady Catherton’s maid, as they walked down the length of the portrait gallery. “And make certain that her ladyship doesn’t order the roast pheasant. Pheasant never agrees with her.”

  “Yes, Miss McGale,” Penny said breathlessly as she trotted next to Jess.

  With an apologetic smile, Jess slowed her stride. She forgot, sometimes, that other people didn’t move as quickly as she did, or with the same intensity of purpose.

  “The stay in
London will be brief,” she continued without consulting the small notebook she kept in her apron’s pocket. The notebook was merely insurance that she didn’t forget anything important—but Jess’s memory was as reliable as an iron lockbox. It had to be. “We’ll only need a dozen gowns.”

  “With the rest accompanying her on the Continent. Does that dozen include dresses for the daytime?”

  Stepping into the corridor that led to the back chambers of the manor, Jess resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. Honestly, one would think that the lady’s maid to a young and influential widow such as the Countess of Catherton would already know what her mistress required. Jess had been four months in her ladyship’s employ, and was already considered, in the countess’s words, “irreplaceable.” Within two weeks of beginning her work for her ladyship, Jess advised the cook on what to prepare for meals, directed the gardeners’ activities maintaining the estate’s substantial grounds, and ensured that every moment of her ladyship’s day was planned to the quarter of the hour.

  Focusing on Penny’s anxious face, Jess said, “It doesn’t. She’ll need day and evening ensembles. I’ll take them with me when I leave for London tomorrow. The rest will come with her a week later when she journeys to the city.”

  “Elegant gowns with you,” Penny repeated, twisting her hands together, “and the rest with her ladyship.” She nodded but didn’t look particularly confident.

  “Don’t fret so. You’ll be with her the whole time.” Jess patted Penny’s arm, even though she was impatient to move on to her next task. Lady Catherton had entrusted Jess with the preparation of her London town house in advance of her ladyship’s arrival, and there was still so much to do before Jess departed the following morning. “I’m certain you can figure out whatever comes your way.”

  Jess had very little confidence in Penny, who often wore her cap inside out, yet for some reason, Lady Catherton seemed to entrust the maid with the appearance of her person.

  “Yes, Miss McGale. Thank you, Miss McGale.” Penny curtsied before rushing off.

  There wasn’t a single ha’penny of her salary that Jess didn’t earn. Yet, in a particular way, she enjoyed being useful. Solving problems. Managing chaos.

  She checked the timepiece pinned to the front of her dress and saw it was a quarter past the hour. Which meant she had an important appointment.

  Jess went quickly to the back stairs and hurried up, up, up to her room just beneath the manor’s roof. The door stood open, so her visitor was already within.

  Jess rushed into her room and threw her arms around the woman sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “How bist, big sister?” Cynthia said, returning the embrace. Jess pulled back enough to gaze at her with golden-brown eyes that were the mirror image of Jess’s own, as well as their late father’s. She and Cynthia also had the same dark blonde hair and jawline—a legacy from their late mother. “I know we said to meet today, but if you’re busy getting ready for the trip—”

  “I’ve time for you. I always do.” Jess stroked her hand down Cynthia’s cheek. “Besides, I’m leaving tomorrow, and if I’m to get everything ready before Lady Catherton and I leave, it’s got to be now. But do you mind if I pack whilst we talk?”

  “Whilst?” Cynthia snorted. “Aye, now you’re talking like a toff, too. The Wiltshire’s gone from your voice.” Cynthia’s own words were spoken in the broad vowels of the West Country, the same accent Jess had heard and spoken most of her life.

  “The more Wiltshire in my voice, the less I get paid.” Jess had listened closely to the way in which Lady Catherton and her friends conversed, and had spent many nights practicing talking to herself in the mirror, until only a hint of the West Country was left. “So . . . do you mind if I pack?”

  “That’s our Jess,” her sister said with a fond smile. “Can’t do only one thing at a time.”

  “There’s just so much to do.” After hugging her sister, Jess pulled her battered bag out from under her bed.

  “Still reading the papers, too.” Cynthia held up one of the half-dozen newspapers that were spread across Jess’s bed. She peered at one sheet of newsprint. “Marking up the Money Market section, just like always.”

  “Lady Catherton gets them from London. No need to sneak them from the public house like I did back home.” This was one of the advantages to working for a wealthy peer—access to daily newspapers that contained not only the latest goings-on politically and socially, but, most significantly for Jess, financially.

  At the end of her day with Lady Catherton, after her employer had gone to bed, Jess would pore over the papers and dream of other things for herself and her family—bigger things.

  She shook her head. Now was about staying a step ahead, not brooding over fantasies of what might be. She opened the minuscule clothespress that held her equally minuscule collection of garments, and deposited a stack of clean shifts into her bag.

  “Soon,” Cynthia said in wonderment, “you’ll be living in Paris, and Berlin. Rome, too?”

  “Possibly. Her ladyship said she wants to keep her dance card free to go wherever she pleases, whenever she pleases.”

  “Ah, the excitement of it! You don’t seem glad about it, like.”

  Jess paused in her packing. “I’d be more pleased if I knew I was leaving the business in a better state. If only she’d given me more notice about this plan to live abroad.” She clicked her tongue. “I’d have gotten McGale & McGale back on its feet.”

  “You, me, and Fred are all trying to do that.” Cynthia’s reproof was gentle.

  “But I’m the eldest,” Jess pointed out. “When Mother and Father passed, it fell to me to look after you and Fred. Me, to keep McGale & McGale going. And what a fine job I’ve done of it.” She threw up her hands.

  “Firstly,” Cynthia said as she rose from the bed, “Fred and me weren’t in cradlehood when they died. It was but a year ago, and last I checked, we’d left our leading strings long behind us. So the burden’s all of ours. Secondly,” she continued, placing her hands on Jess’s shoulders, “you didn’t light that fire that turned a third of the farm to ash. None of us could have known of that disaster.”

  Jess exhaled. Vivid memories of the blaze flashed, how she’d awakened with a sense of something profoundly wrong, and how out her bedroom window the flames had turned the night sky a sickly red. She’d sent Fred into the village to summon the fire engine, but by the time it had arrived, some of the farm’s buildings had completely burned. The heat from the flames seemed permanently part of her now, no matter how cold the day or room might be.

  In the wake of the calamity, the three McGale siblings had been forced to seek outside work, with the hope that they’d earn enough to rebuild.

  Jess’s employ as a lady’s companion had been the most profitable. Then Lady Catherton suddenly decided to live on the Continent for the foreseeable future—taking Jess away from the family’s efforts to make repairs. Jess could try to find another position, but the countess paid well, and it would be foolish to leave this one.

  “We couldn’t know, but now we do,” Jess said darkly. “If we don’t fix the farm up and soon, we’ll lose everything. The business, the land—our home. And without the farm and the house, you, me, and Fred become rootless. We’ll drift apart like so many salsify seeds on the wind.”

  “We won’t lose each other,” Cynthia said, though her words were tinged with uncertainty.

  “Without the house, where would we go? Off in separate directions to earn our bread, never united beneath a single roof.” Jess rubbed her forehead. “How can I hie off to Paris when we’re in such desperate straits? The task is mine. And I’ll make everything right. I swear I will.”

  McGale & McGale had been part of the lifeblood of their family for a generation, when Jess’s parents spent the months between growing seasons making and selling high-quality soap from their home. The soap itself used honey produced from the McGale beehives. For over two decades, the family enterprise had b
een limited by its size, selling in shops within a thirty-mile range.

  “That bloody fire,” Jess muttered. “I’d been right in the middle of formulating how to expand, thinking perhaps we could even sell in London and Manchester if we could meet the demand.”

  “Then the fire,” Cynthia said glumly.

  “It leveled all my plans.” The family’s dream of supplying luxury soap to Britain’s hardest-working citizens was on the verge of collapse. “But we’re not giving up. It’s not over. I’ll fix everything.”

  “How will you do that?” Cynthia asked. “Forgive me, Jess, but what we need is a miracle, and they’re in short supply.”

  Jess took purposeful strides to the little cupboard that held her books and other essential items. She pulled out a stack of fragrant, paper-wrapped McGale & McGale Honey Soap, which she’d brought from home to use for her own toilette.

  Holding up the soap bars, Jess declared, “Tomorrow, McGale & McGale conquers London. I’ll pound on every Bond Street shopkeeper’s door and introduce them to the wonders of our honey soap. I’ll require an up-front deposit so we can make enough repairs to meet the initial demand. Then orders will come pouring in and we’ll renovate the whole farm.”

  She never permitted herself the luxury of uncertainty. Even when her parents had been alive, Jess had been the one they turned to if something needed to be done. She balanced the ledgers, she negotiated the prices of crops and raw materials for soap production. She did whatever was required, and she did it well.

  “Oh, Jess.” Cynthia grasped her hands. “If anyone can make that happen, it’s you.”

  “I keep my promises, Cyn.”

  Jess’s plan had to work. Her family counted on her, and she couldn’t let them down.

  Chapter 2

  London

  Over the years, Noel had learned a very important lesson: there was no better test of a friend’s loyalty than a bout inside a boxing ring. Only members of his closest circle would ever attempt to punch him. The hangers-on, the lackeys, and the sycophants would never be so bold.