How to Tame Your Duke, page 9
“No doubt.”
“Of course, it all depended on the railway link. He petitioned for it himself; did you know that? And helped to fund its construction. Olympia assisted him in getting the necessary approvals and so on. You know how well connected my uncle is.”
“Indeed, I do. Good afternoon,” said Miss Dingleby, addressing a waiter who hovered nearby. “Tea, if you please. Do you have a decent Lapsang souchong?”
“Indeed we do, sir. An excellent blend.”
“The Lapsang, then. And the usual complement of sandwiches and biscuits.” Miss Dingleby smiled at the waiter and tented her fingers together on the tablecloth. “I find myself famished after such an arduous journey.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter bowed and left.
Emilie folded her hands in her lap. The unbroken stretch of her skirt felt foreign beneath her fingers. Her chignon rested heavily on her neck, and she resisted the urge to touch beneath the brim and assure herself that some stray lock hadn’t fallen away from its pins to betray her. “Are you certain this is wise? Meeting like this.”
“Well, you can’t simply meet me as Mr. Grimsby, when someone about town might recognize you and ask questions,” said Miss Dingleby. “And nobody here would recognize you as Emilie, particularly without your spectacles, and particularly in tête-à-tête with a young man.”
“But it’s so public. So exposed. Anyone might see us.”
“My dear, if we were to meet furtively behind the inn, or steal upstairs to a bedroom, we would most certainly be suspected. The best place to hide a clandestine meeting”—Miss Dingleby waved her hand, and her signet ring flashed in the bright electric light—“is in plain sight.”
Emilie glanced idly at a nearby table. “Is it necessary, though?”
“Your uncle wishes to assure himself of your well-being.”
“But surely my letters . . .”
“Could easily be forged by some clever agent.” Miss Dingleby picked up her napkin and laid it upon her lap with a practiced and decidedly masculine movement, quite unlike the Miss Dingleby Emilie had known for so many years. “He was not willing to take such a chance.”
Emilie studied the curve of Miss Dingleby’s hair, which had been combed back with pomade and clubbed at the back, in a rather bohemian manner. Clever, she thought, remembering rather wistfully the heavy golden piles of her own hair on the bedroom floor, as Miss Dingleby had shorn her for her disguise. “He trusts you a great deal, my uncle.”
“Yes.” Miss Dingleby exposed her neat white teeth in a smile. “He does.”
The tea arrived; Emilie poured out. “And you seem to know a great deal about clandestine meetings.”
“I read a great many detective stories. Far more than is good for me, I daresay. Ah, that’s lovely,” she said, working her whiskers as she swallowed the tea. “The swill in York station was all but undrinkable. But to work. I regret to say I have very little to relate . . .”
“How are my sisters?”
“They are very well indeed. Settling in nicely, I believe.” Miss Dingleby patted her waistcoat pocket. “I have letters from them for you.”
“But they’re not allowed to tell me where they are.”
“We could not commit such details to paper, of course. The risk would be dreadful. Still, I think you’ll find they’re both as well as could be expected, under the circumstances.”
“And we have discovered nothing more about my father’s murderers?”
“Inquiries are being made, of course.”
Emilie curled her left hand into a fist on her lap. With her right, she gripped the teacup hard and brought it to her mouth. “I wish,” she said, when the tea was safely down the appropriate pipe, “you’d tell me more. I have a brain, you know. I might be able to help.”
Miss Dingleby shook her head. “If you were to help, you’d expose yourself, and I doubt you have any idea how ruthless, how cunning these men can be.”
“But why should anybody want to kill my father and Peter?”
“Any number of reasons. No doubt you’re aware of the political situation in Europe.” Miss Dingleby selected a piece of cake and applied herself with enthusiasm.
“Anarchists, you mean?”
“Perhaps.”
Emilie’s cup fell into its saucer with a clatter that echoed against the genteel marble shell of the Ashland Spa restaurant like a gunshot. “How I do wish you would tell me something.”
“My dear! What a fuss. Look,” Miss Dingleby went on, a little more kindly, “if you must know, we have heard a few vague clues. A group of men dissatisfied with the pace of political liberation in Europe. We are investigating.”
“We. You and Olympia, do you mean?”
“No, no. I’m merely a messenger, you understand.” Miss Dingleby slipped the last of her cake into her mouth. “As a trusted retainer of the family. But I did not come here to speak of His Grace’s investigations, of which there’s little to tell. I came to assure myself that you’re well, and to offer my ear and shoulder. I imagine you must find it difficult, playing a part at all times. And Ashland’s household, so I understand, is not the most convivial. You must be dreadfully lonely.” Miss Dingleby’s eyes regarded Emilie steadily.
“Not so much as I feared,” she said. “Lord Silverton is lively and intelligent. Amusing company, really, when he’s not sulking. And the servants are quite nice. Far more familiar than I’ve been accustomed to, though perhaps that’s only because I’m one of them.”
“Not quite, my dear.” Miss Dingleby smiled. “And His Grace, the Duke of Ashland? A difficult man, they say.”
Emilie had just begun on a rather large piece of cake, which gave her time to consider her reply. “I don’t think so, really. He’s only lonely.”
“Lonely?”
“He’s had no one to talk to, until now.”
“He talks to you?”
Emilie’s cheeks began to warm. “We meet in the library sometimes, in the evening. Chess and that sort of thing. We don’t speak much. He’s not talkative. The current news, the weather, a bit of politics. How Freddie’s getting on.” Even saying those meager words, Emilie drew the scent of sherry and leather into her head, saw the glow of the flickering candles. He did not come every night, of course. She would sit in her leather chair, reading and waiting, pretending that her heart didn’t quicken at the sound of his heavy tread in the hallway, or that her limbs didn’t lighten as the footsteps grew louder and approached the library door. She always left it cracked open invitingly, always laid a few extra coals in the fireplace and lighted another candle or two as the usual hour drew near.
Hoping, and hoping not.
Most nights, the footsteps went right by the door. Occasionally, Emilie felt a pause, a gentle hesitation in his pace, as if he were considering whether to go in. She would shift her seat, turn an unread page, grip the leather binding to stop the quivering of her fingers.
Usually, the footsteps resumed, and the Duke of Ashland climbed the stairs to his bedroom. But every so often, perhaps once a week, the heavy door would creak open and he would fill the empty space, his giant form outlined against the darkened hallway, his face lit into splendor by the golden glow of the candles, his bleached hair cropped against his head, a tiny smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. “Good evening, Mr. Grimsby,” he would say, in that sonorous voice. “Studying late again, I see.”
Somehow she would remain calm. She would close her book around her index finger and say something like, Yes, Your Grace. I find the reading steadies my mind before bed, and of course the word bed would ricochet like a rifle about the room and she would hope that the candles weren’t bright enough to reveal her blushing cheeks beneath her whiskers.
Ashland would saunter in, all economical grace, and select a book from the shelves, or drop down on a chair and make a few lines of conversation, or offer her a glass of sherry. “Do you play chess, Mr. Grimsby?” he’d asked, just the night before, and she’d said, Why, yes, I do, though I’m sadly out of practice, and he’d brought out a chessboard and played with her for nearly an hour, mostly in silence, but occasionally offering observations and even once an anecdote about a chess match during a wretched storm on the steamer out to India.
He had won the game last night; Emilie had been too nervous to play her pieces well. But she had put up a good defense, she thought proudly. She had not disgraced herself. And when at last Ashland had risen and stretched, had put away the chessboard and bid her good night, she had sat there and remembered all the moves she should have made, and thought that perhaps she could have taken him, if she’d really tried.
“And how is Freddie getting on?” Miss Dingleby asked, smiling.
Emilie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Freddie. Your charge, my dear. How is he getting on?”
“Oh, yes. Very well, in fact. He’s terribly undisciplined, but having watched you with Stefanie all these years, I am quite prepared to deal with that sort of thing.”
“Grateful to be of service.” The teacups were empty, the cake in crumbs on their plates. A faint whistle threaded through the air: the late afternoon train from York, arriving at the station. Miss Dingleby took out her watch and a few sealed envelopes from her waistcoat pocket. “I fear I must go. I believe it turns around in twenty minutes. Here are your letters.” She replaced the watch and motioned for the waiter.
Emilie placed the letters next to her plate and tried to quell the desperation that surged through her movements. Miss Dingleby was settling the bill, preparing to leave, and nothing had been said. She’d been looking forward to this meeting for over a fortnight, this scrap of familiarity from her old life, and yet it hadn’t felt familiar at all. Miss Dingleby had changed; she wasn’t the quietly firm governess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof anymore. She was someone else, someone in confident disguise, someone who clearly harbored secrets she wasn’t about to relate. “Must you go?” Emilie asked, rather ridiculously, since they both knew this was the last train to make the connection to London until the next morning.
“I must, I’m afraid,” Miss Dingleby said kindly. “But I’ll return next month, of course, unless something happens in the meantime.”
Something happens.
“You’ll keep me apprised of anything you learn, of course. Anything at all.”
“Anything at all,” Miss Dingleby said, and her voice was empty of even the pretense of sincerity.
Something went cold inside of Emilie’s chest. She reached inside the pocket of her dress and pulled out her own envelopes. “For Stefanie and Luisa,” she said, pushing them across the table.
“No identifying details, of course.”
“None. As you instructed.” Emilie’s voice sounded flat and cold, even to her own ears.
“Very good.” Miss Dingleby rose. “I am so glad to find you well, Emilie, my dear. You look flourishing.”
“I am not flourishing,” Emilie said. “I want my sisters back. I want my life back.”
“Believe me,” Miss Dingleby said, and this time her expression was full of sincerity, “that is my constant aim, waking and sleeping.”
* * *
Emilie sat a few minutes at the table. There was still a little cooling tea left in the pot; she poured it out and read her letters.
Her sisters seemed well, but then a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof never complained, at least on something so permanent as paper. There was evidently some overbearing daughter of the house in Stefanie’s case, and Emilie smiled at the image of her heedless sister forced into the necessity for meekness. Luisa was more vague; she seemed to be a personal secretary of some kind, and the household was not a happy one. But she closed with an eager wish to hear of Emilie’s safety and happiness, and to be reunited soon in better circumstances.
Somehow, Emilie had been hoping for more. She and her sisters were so close. She had shared a bed with Stefanie almost from infancy; this person who had penned the few lines before her seemed almost a stranger.
She folded the letters back in their envelopes, tucked them into her pocket, and rose from the table, just as a familiar voice carried across the air from the lobby.
A deep voice, patient and commanding.
The Duke of Ashland.
For an instant, she could not move. Her feet seemed to have frozen to the marble floor; her brain locked into place.
He was speaking to some member of staff, it seemed. His voice was low and discreet; she couldn’t pick out the words, but she would recognize that vibrating tone anywhere. She cast her eyes desperately to the archway leading to the lobby. Miss Dingleby must have swept right past him on her way out.
The back entrance.
Emilie’s brain fastened on the thought, and came gratefully unstuck.
She turned, and with great calm and dignity—the dignity for which a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof was famous—walked toward the rear of the restaurant, as if she were simply bound for the ladies’ retiring room.
The floor here was covered with carpeting. Emilie moved soundlessly down the corridor, past the ladies’ retiring room. Somewhere here a hallway came off, leading to the rear of the building; she had come through on her journey in, but the way had been obvious in that direction. She had been led by the abundant light in the electric chandeliers. Coming from the restaurant, any number of blurry hallways might be the one she sought, while the others only led to the service rooms.
Voices ahead. She whipped around a corner and flattened herself against the wall.
“. . . know what to do,” a woman was saying. “She ain’t come, that’s for certain. The passengers is all off, and never a sign of her.”
“What’s His Grace being to say?”
“He won’t be fair pleased.”
“Well, if ye asks me, he can ride on back to his grand estate and swive one of t’girls there, if he has to have it,” said the other voice, a man’s voice, quite hardened.
“T’poor fellow. He’s too decent to plow his own soil, is what. Oh, t’poor fellow.”
Emilie’s mind flew. Good God. Could it be? Ashland’s monthly night of recreation, in a discreet back bedroom of his own hotel, with a woman who came in from elsewhere. Was this the date for it? It was a Monday, not a Tuesday. Was it the third or the fourth one?
Her throat stung. She could almost taste the bile rising up. Ashland, in some other woman’s bed; some other woman, knowing Ashland’s body, his lips, his voice saying her name. Not knowing, probably, how fortunate she was. Perhaps not even caring.
Or perhaps she did care. Perhaps she came because she loved him; perhaps she wasn’t a whore at all. Perhaps he loved her but was too discreet to keep a mistress in the regular way.
Except the woman hadn’t come this month. Hadn’t even sent word, apparently.
The shadows seemed to darken around her. Emilie brought up her arm and bit down on her sleeve. She ought to feel pity for Ashland’s disappointment tonight. Lonely Ashland, with no wife for comfort. He would have to wait another month for . . . well, for whatever relief this woman gave him.
What did they do in that discreet back bedroom? What might it be like, to be in bed with the Duke of Ashland?
“She were badly, maybe,” said the male voice. “Lots of women are badly.”
“Then they would have sent another, wouldn’t they?” The woman’s voice was growing louder. In a moment they might be upon her, find her lurking in the hallway like an eavesdropper. What would she say? Oh, I beg your pardon, I was only looking for the retiring room. Emilie looked down the dark hallway, leading Heaven knew where. Should she try to slip away? Or would that lead to even greater risk of discovery? A lady deep in the bowels of the hotel: Even if the hotel staff didn’t call the police, the incident would stick in their minds. They would remember her face, her nervousness.
“They might have mixed up t’date,” said the man. Emilie heard the footsteps now, making soft and hurried thumps along the carpet. Lord, he was nearly here. In another instant she would be caught. “It’s never His Grace’s usual date.”
“Because of Christmas Eve tomorrow,” said the woman. “I don’t know what I’m being to tell him. I hazard . . .”
Better to brazen it out. Emilie drew a deep breath and turned around the corner.
“Oh! I beg your pardon. I must have gotten lost,” she said, with an almost panicked breeziness.
The woman nearly thumped into her, a slender, middle-aged woman with severe dark hair and a housekeeper’s aspect. “Oh! Thank t’Lord, madam! There ye are!”
Emilie started back, horrified. “What? No, I . . .”
The woman’s hand closed around her arm. “New, are ye? Well, that’s all right. Ye gave us quite a turn. We thought ye weren’t coming altogether. I’m Mrs. Scruton, but of course ye knows that.”
“No, there’s been a mistake . . .” The blood whirled in Emilie’s ears.
“Go tell His Grace she’s here. He can come straight up,” said Mrs. Scruton, with an air of authority, and the man—leering, of course—disappeared from the corner of Emilie’s vision. “What sort of mistake, dearie?” the woman asked kindly, tugging Emilie down the hall with astonishing speed and strength. “Didn’t they never instruct ye where to go?”
“No, I . . . Oh, please, I . . .” Emilie’s self-possession had deserted her. She could not do this, she must fly away, and yet her limbs allowed themselves to be tugged around the corner to the back staircase.
“Now, don’t never be nervous. It’s yer first time here, isn’t it? He’s a fair good man, Mr. Brown. He never would hurt a fly, I tell you.”
Mr. Brown?
Mrs. Scruton led her up the stairs, and Emilie’s feet lifted instinctively, while her heart pumped madly, while her brain told her she must turn around, because she could not possibly go into a bedroom with the Duke of Ashland and pretend to be a whore, because he would surely recognize her and everything would be ruined, broken to bits.
But Mrs. Scruton. If Emilie told the woman she wasn’t Ashland’s monthly appointment, then the woman might ask questions, mightn’t she? Might wonder what Emilie had been doing, lurking in the back hallway like that; she might remember Emilie’s face, and if someone were to come looking . . .
