Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer

‘I’ve seen some fine work recently, letters posted to my late mother, and am looking for the purveyors of the papers in question. Would you be able to identify things you’ve supplied to others, so that I might know I have found the correct store? I’ve tried several, but have been unsuccessful.’

‘Would it not have been easier simply to ask the senders of the letters to give you direction?’

Marcus responded with a look so cold that the man was immediately sorry he had asked.

‘But of course, if it is my work, I would recognise it. Perhaps … if I could see the letters?’

Marcus fanned the pack of blackmail notes on the counter before him.

His eyebrows arched. ‘All the same signature and ink, and all different papers.’

Marcus said, ‘The contents of the notes need not interest you. It is the paper I am wondering about.’

The man cleared his throat. ‘The words, of course, do not concern me. But I find the ink interesting. Not a particularly good brand for the paper. And the writer could have done with a new quill. May I?’ He reached for the letters.

Marcus nodded.

The man held them up to the light. ‘Three different watermarks. I know these two. They are clients of mine. The third is from a shop in Bond Street, but I recognise the coat of arms of the client. The fourth?’ He shrugged. ‘It does not match the others. It is a good grade, but a common paper, available in most of the shops in London. As it happens, I recognise the pressed monogram, which has been rubbed flat here at the top of the page. The writer seems to have been trying to disguise the origin of the paper. This was sold by our shop to a cit. A factory owner, I believe.’ He laid the papers back on the desk. ‘Is this sufficient information, your Grace? I would do nothing to jeopardise the privacy of my customers.’

Marcus smiled in a slow, expansive way that hinted of gold to come. ‘Of course. I would not want anyone jeopardising my own. Should I choose to shop here, I would want to know that my business remained secret.’ He fanned the letters, then stacked them and folded them, making them disappear into the pocket of his greatcoat. ‘But I am curious on one point. Do these customers live in the vicinity of your shop?’

The man shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact, they don’t. Not frequent customers. If you give me a moment, I could perhaps find addresses for them. If you care for references?’

Marcus smiled more warmly. The man had hit on a more convincing lie than he had been able to create. ‘References. That would be most helpful. And while you are gone, if I might see a sample book, I will begin making my selections.’

He left the shop, having placed an order for more paper than he and his new duchess could use in several years of industrious writing.

And a map of east London and outlying villages, where the homes of three minor lords and a cit lay within a three-mile radius of each other. It was not much. There was no guarantee. But it gave him a place to look for the mysterious Cecily 101.

Chapter Nine

The staff stood before her, terrified. Clearly, they had heard the contretemps below stairs, and were all hoping that the next sacking would be someone other than themselves.

She tried to return a gaze that was cool and indifferent. ‘By now, you all know the fate of Mrs Clopton. This will, of course, cause a certain amount of disarray below stairs, but …’ she paused to run a hand along the woodwork and wipe the smudge into her handkerchief ‘. I care more for the state of things above stairs, and doubt that anything I’ve done could create greater disorder than was here already.’ She smiled. ‘My difficulties with the previous housekeeper were based solely on the errors in the accounts and the state of the house. I assume that these problems are now solved. If I am mistaken, I wish that you will come to me and that we can reach a solution. I will be replacing Mrs Clopton shortly, and we will manage as best we can until that point. In the mean time …’ she presented a list of tasks ‘… I would have you begin in the entryway and continue through the house, with a thorough cleaning. I’ve written the procedure I would have you follow and a few of the cleaning formulas I wish you to use.’ The looks of wariness on the faces of the maids were replaced by a grudging respect.

‘And since it has been so very long since things have been done properly, I believe more help will be needed. Jenny?’ She gestured to the chief parlour maid. ‘Do you know anyone in the village in need of work? Older sisters? Aunts?’

Jenny allowed as how she might know a few girls and was sent to the village to fetch them. The rest of the women were divided into teams and began conquering the tasks on the list in each of the reception rooms. Once things were underway, Miranda felt it safe to retire to the study and hope that she could find some means to pay the expenses she was about to incur.

She sat down at the desk. Her husband’s desk, she thought nervously, then willed herself to relax. The chair was imposing but comfortable. Fit for a duke. She let an imagined sense of power envelope her, and pressed her hands flat against the mahogany surface in front of her, surveying the room. It was cleaner than the rest of the house. Perhaps Mrs Clopton was unable to defy the duke in such an obvious way. The desk was clear of paper, the ink well filled, the pens clean and of good quality. It was an orderly and comfortable workspace. Her husband must spend much time here, when he was on the estate.

On an impulse, she reached for a drawer pull, expecting to find it locked. It slid open easily, and she peered inside. Resting at the top of a stack of papers, as though hurriedly discarded, was a sheet of paper covered with notes.

The hand was clear and firm, not rushed. Miranda had heard that it was possible to tell the soul of the writer by the way he formed his letters. If so, her new husband was—she studied the paper—strong. Decisive. There was no trace in the writing of the anger she’d seen in him.

She read the words. There was a short list of supplies—for the estate or the tenants, she knew not. Neat rows of figures, totalled accurately and without hesitation. And nearer the bottom of the page a reminder to call on the vicar first thing in the morning. She smiled and traced the line. He’d written it the night she’d arrived. And below it was a single word: MIRANDA?

She could almost hear it, as though he were there, speaking to her. And how strange, because the tone she imagined was not one she’d heard from him in life. The voice she imagined was soft and inviting, and full of promise.

A soft cough from the direction of the doorway indicated the presence of Wilkins. ‘Your Grace?’

She slid the drawer closed and looked the butler in the eye. ‘Yes, Wilkins?’

‘I have something I …’ He dropped his hands to his sides in defeat. ‘I’m afraid I must give notice, ma’am.’

Oh, dear. She had been afraid this might happen, but could she stand the loss of both main retainers? ‘I’m sure his Grace would be most disappointed to lose you, Wilkins. What is the reason for this sudden decision?’

‘I rather thought, your Grace, that once you got the lay of the land, you would be asking me to leave. I’m just saving you the trouble.’

‘I appreciate your honesty. And your coming to me, like this. Despite what I told the staff just now, the problem with Mrs Clopton …’ she sighed in exasperation ‘… was not so much the crime—which was bad enough, certainly—but her unrepentant attitude. How can I run a house when the house-keeper thinks me such a fool as to be bullied into accepting her flimsy excuses out of hand?’ She looked steadily at the butler. ‘Is there something you would like to discuss, Wilkins?’

‘Ma’am, when you get around to inventorying the cellars, you will find that there is much I have to account for.’

‘And is there no way to make up the difference?’

‘None that I can think of, ma’am. May I speak frankly?’

‘Please.’

‘The wages in this house have long been the talk of the district. You’ll find it hard to replace the housekeeper, once they hear what is offered, and what is expected. And my own wages, even supplemented by the occasional stolen brandy bottle, are insufficient to meet my needs and repay his Grace.’

She held up a hand to him. ‘Let us say no more about your leaving at this time, Wilkins. It is certainly not a problem that needs to be dealt with before my husband’s return.’

There was a polite knock and a chambermaid poked her head around the doorframe. ‘Your Grace? Something awful’s happened in the dining room. Come quick.’

Had the first day of her new regime been marred by an accident? Had someone fallen off a ladder? She’d forgotten to check on their stability before sending the footman to bring down the chandeliers.

When she entered the dining room, she saw that the problem was far worse, at least in the eyes of the maids.

‘We tried the formula you suggested for the walls, but look what happened.’ They were lined obediently up at the end of the room, waiting to be sacked.

She glanced up at the silk covering the walls and stood mesmerised in shock. The sheep that had been grazing on the green of the hillside were either totally obliterated or oozing towards the wainscoting. The shepherd who had been looking in adoration at his shepherdess was still largely extant, but his smile had been replaced by a runny leer before the maids had given it up as a bad job and run for help. ‘Hand painted,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘It would have done well for regular paper. Even for patterned silk.’

‘We only did what you requested, your Grace.’ There was no trace of sarcasm in the comment, only fear. The poor girl was waiting for her to explode.

‘Yes, of course you did. It was my fault for not thinking of the surface to be cleaned before making that suggestion. There is nothing to be done for it now. We will have to replace the wall coverings. Please continue cleaning the windows, the floors and the fireplace. But do not worry about the walls until I can think of what is to be done.’

She trudged down the hall to her room. What was to be done was to have a megrim, alone in her room. Surely that was allowed. She would have to order new silk from the shops in the village. She doubted they would have anything appropriate. Something could be brought from London. And she had not a penny in her pocket, or any idea how to get one.

She smiled to herself. If she was a duchess, then perhaps she no longer needed money. She could not remember, on outings with her mother, ever seeing a coin change hands. Even after the money was gone, the shopkeepers extended them credit because of her father’s title, lowly though it was. All she need do was ride into town surrounded by the Haughleigh livery, find an appropriate sample and point. It would be delivered in all due haste, and might be hung on the walls before her husband returned to find her mistake.

He would, of course, be angry. But in the two days she had known him, he had been angry about so many things that she doubted one more would make a difference.

Supper that evening was a very different affair than breakfast had been. After a short nap, she had composed herself and returned to the kitchen to confront the cook. The woman had been wary at first, but when she was told that she might choose her own ingredients and order what was needed to undo the artificial famine created by Mrs Clopton, she seemed most happy with the change.

Miranda, at Polly’s insistence, allowed her hair to be dressed and changed into her only decent gown for supper. The gown was a burgundy satin that had been much more fresh fifteen years ago, when it had been one of Cici’s ball dresses. They’d cut down the puffed sleeves, removed large amounts of skirt to hide the worn spots and managed, by cannibalising the train and adding some lace from another gown, to create something almost presentable.

St John met her at the dinner table and kissed her hand. ‘Enchanted as always, my dear. You look lovely this evening.’ He looked over his shoulder at the destruction on the walls. ‘Dear God, what happened in here?’