The Duchess Hunt (13 page)

She stopped speaking. Esme and Sarah
stared at her, speechless. The thirtieth of April was the day after tomorrow.

Finally, Esme asked, “How much is it?”

“Seventy-four pounds, six shillings, my
lady.”

That amount was twice the sum Sarah made
in a year at Ironwood Park as head housemaid.

Esme blew out a breath. “May I see the
document?”

“Of course.” Mrs. French rose to hand Esme
the sheet.

Esme studied it for long, quiet moments,
then she passed it to Sarah.

It was true – the Duchess of Trent had
promised a hundred pounds to the Ogilvy School for the Blind by April fifteenth
to cover the rents and other incidentals – presumably, in this case, the new
teacher. Sarah recognized the flourish of the duchess’s signature at the bottom
of the sheet adjacent to another signature she didn’t recognize.

Sarah slid Esme a glance. Esme was only
nineteen years old, and Sarah knew that she had no access to those kinds of
funds. Her fortune had been held in trust since her birth, and her brother
managed her finances.

Esme surprised her again. “I shall have
the amount promised delivered by tomorrow morning. The duke and I will ensure
your school remains doing its good work, Mrs. French. Please do not spend
another second worrying over it. I am so thankful you came to me.”

When Simon arrived home that afternoon,
Sarah and Esme explained the situation at the Ogilvy School for the Blind, and
Simon arranged for the funds to be sent that very evening. To Simon, this
served as disturbing proof that his mother hadn’t planned her disappearance. If
she had, she would have taken care of details like this before she’d left. His
mother might be flighty, but she was rarely irresponsible in matters such as
these.

Later, as they all sat down to dinner, he
confirmed that the news of the Duchess of Trent’s disappearance had traveled
all over London.

“I am sorry the Stanleys surprised you
like that,” Simon told them. “I would have brought word to you sooner, but it
was a busy day, and I’d no idea you’d be inundated with visitors.” Inwardly, he
chastised himself. He should have thought of that, knowing what he did of the
vultures who inhabited London society.

“Esme handled it beautifully,” Sarah said.

He smiled at his sister, then looked down
at his plate to spear a piece of beef with his fork. “There is more news, or
non-news, I suppose I should say.”

The search for his mother had only
resulted in non-news since he’d arrived in London. It was as though she’d
disappeared without a trace, and his level of frustration increased with every
day that passed with no gains made toward locating her.

“Oh?” Sarah asked. Esme just laid her fork
down and waited.

“I received letters from both Mark and
Theo.”

The two young women watched him, waiting.

“Neither has found any information
relating to our mother.”

The breath left Esme in a whoosh. Sarah
gave a low groan.

“Theo has begun the term at Cambridge,”
Simon continued. “Mark has completed his investigations at Ironwood Park” –
he’d even supervised the dragging of the lake, which had resulted in nothing
but waterweeds, thank God – “and he’s traveling north to continue his search at
Lake Windermere.”

“What about Sam?” Esme asked.

“I haven’t heard from him, but I know he’s
been occupied with his duties for the Crown. I doubt we’ll hear anything unless
he discovers something of note.”

He glanced at Sarah. She was dressed simply,
in one of her old white muslin dresses. For jewelry she wore only a strand of
small paste pearls around her neck. Splashes of color on her cheeks spoke of
her vivacity. Her dark hair, piled on her head haphazardly, with curling locks
tumbling to frame her face, shone under the lamplight. Her blue eyes, fringed
by dark lashes and full of compassion and concern, met his, and he caught his
breath. She was a beacon of light. Of peace.

He wanted to kiss her again. No, he wanted
more. He wanted all of her. To take that sweet light into him and hold it
there.

When it came to Sarah, something inside
him was wolfish. Predatory. Constantly assessing and calculating how to best
conquer her. Reminding him that she seemed willing enough, so conquering her
might be a mere matter of simple seduction.

Ever since they’d arrived in London, he’d
waged a battle against these base needs of his darker nature every single time
he saw her, but she seemed not to fear them. She
embraced
them.

Which only made him want her more.

Chapter
Seven

In late May, Sarah and Esme went to the
modiste’s for their final round of fittings. By the time they left the dress
shop, they’d loaded the carriage with several new dresses along with
accessories: hats, gloves, stockings, slippers, and even hairpins. It was late
afternoon, and Esme was in high spirits.

“Madame Buillard said a gold bracelet
would go nicely with my new opera dress,” Esme said. “Let’s go to the
jewelers.”

They walked side by side, occasionally
having to move aside to make way for other pedestrians – the streets in this
part of London were very busy. The footman who’d accompanied them to the
modiste’s this morning walked a few paces behind.

“I’ve been to this shop with Mama,” Esme
explained, and Sarah was grateful that Esme was able to mention her mother
without a sob welling. “Mr. Lamb is the master here, I believe.”

And the man, nearly bald except for a tuft
of white hair puffing out from the back of his scalp like a bird’s tail,
recognized Esme right away and hurried over to them from behind his counter.
“Good day, Lady Esme,” he said with a bow. “How may I be of service?”

“I’m looking for a bracelet,” Esme said.
“Something gold, but simple and delicate. Nothing too ostentatious.”

“Of course. I have several pieces that
might suit your needs. Follow me, if you please.” Mr. Lamb turned to a table
covered with golden jewelry. Esme perused the bracelets, but the adjacent table
that contained necklaces of rubies and emeralds and other rare gems caught
Sarah’s eye.

She gave a wistful sigh. It was all so
lovely.

And then her gaze snagged on one of the
necklaces, and she turned her focus to it. The voices of Esme and Mr. Lamb
faded as she stared at the lavender-colored gems for long seconds, the thudding
of her heart the only discernible sound.

“My lady?” Sarah’s words came out in a
choked murmur.

Esme hurried over to her. Sarah didn’t see
her so much as feel her presence.

Slowly, she lifted her heavy arm to point
at the one-of-a-kind piece of jewelry lying so innocently in its little bed of
pink silk. “It’s the duchess’s amethyst necklace,” she whispered.

Esme’s gasp was audible. Finally, Sarah
looked at the younger woman. Esme’s eyes were wide and filled with tears, her
hand flat on her chest as if to contain her own pounding heart.

She turned her wild-eyed gaze to Sarah.
“What…? How…?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is it, miss?” Mr. Lamb was all
proprietary concern, the wrinkles on his face deepening.

Sarah swallowed hard and answered for
Esme, who was clearly incapable of speech. “That necklace… where did you get
it?”

“I purchased it.”

“When?”

“Why, just last night.”

Sarah felt sick. “Who sold it to you?”

Mr. Lamb’s lined face darkened. “What’s
this about?”

Sarah glanced desperately at Esme, not
sure how much to reveal, but Esme was still staring at the necklace as if she
hadn’t heard a word of what they’d said.

Sarah straightened her spine. “We know
that necklace, sir. It belongs to the Duchess of Trent.”

The old man’s eyes went wide. “What? But
that’s impossible.”

“It would seem so,” Sarah said, a dry edge
to her tone, “and yet here it is. So if you’ll tell us who sold it to you…”

A light sheen of sweat covered the man’s
face, and at her words, his face seemed to clam up.

“Please, sir. Where did this necklace come
from?”

“I cannot say, miss.”

“All we need to know is —”

“I’m sorry, but that is proprietary
information.”

“This is extremely important.”

He just shook his head at her, his lips
pressed together, his expression closed.

Sarah ground her teeth. “If you won’t give
us any information, perhaps you’ll give it to the Duke of Trent.” She took
Esme’s arm. “Come, my lady, let’s go find your brother.”

An hour later, Esme and Sarah were back in
the jeweler’s shop, but this time Simon stood between them.

“Where is it?” he asked as he strode in.

Sarah led him to the display containing
his mother’s amethyst necklace. Simon stared at it for all of two seconds
before turning hard green eyes upon Mr. Lamb, who was already hovering beside
them, twisting his hands.

“You will inform me as to where you
obtained this necklace, sir,” Simon said by way of greeting.

Lamb dropped his hands. He looked
furtively to the necklace, then back to Simon, not quite meeting his eyes.

“I purchased it from an independent
supplier.”

Simon raised a brow. Sarah could not help
but notice how much larger Simon seemed than the other man. He towered over
Lamb. And not only in stature. In
presence.
Lamb simply shrank before the duke.

“He is here in London,” Lamb blurted.

“You will tell me his name and address.”

“Of course, sir. The name’s John Woodrow.”
He rattled off an address in London.

Sarah marveled at how easy it had been.
Lamb hadn’t been about to tell her and Esme anything about the necklace’s
origins earlier, yet Simon had hardly had to ask.

He is a duke, after all, she reminded
herself. Sometimes she did forget. Most of England’s population would bow and
kiss his toes because he was the Duke of Trent. Sarah would do so as well, she
acknowledged, though not because of the title, but because he was Simon. There
was a marked difference between the two.

“You will remove that necklace from your
display,” Simon said. “After I speak with Woodrow, I will inform you as to how
we shall proceed.”

Lamb bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. I
shall remove it immediately. It will go into my safe until this matter is
resolved.”

“Very good,” Simon said.

As they turned to go, Lamb had already
removed the necklace from the table and, clutching it in both his hands,
scurried into the back room.

Outside, Esme turned to Simon. “Could Mama
be in London?”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t know. The
address he gave is in the East End. I can’t quite picture our mother in that
part of town.”

None of them voiced the greatest worry –
that the necklace had been stolen. That whoever had taken the duchess from
Ironwood Park was a violent criminal. But if that were the case, why hadn’t she
or the servants left signs of a struggle? Could it have been someone she knew
and trusted but who had turned on her?

“There are so many things I don’t
understand,” Sarah said softly, “but chief among them is that if the duchess is
being ransomed, why have we received no word?”

Simon glanced at her, then opened the door
to the carriage, handing Esme in first. “Exactly. It doesn’t add up. It’s why I
find it difficult to believe she was taken against her will.”

“Unless they took her, somehow preventing
a struggle…” Sarah glanced into the carriage, where Esme was settling herself,
turned away from them. “But she ultimately fought, and something horrible
happened…”

A muscle twitched in Simon’s cheek. “My
mother isn’t one to meekly submit when she feels as though she’s been wronged,
so it is a possibility.”

They stared at each other for a second,
then he held out his hand to help her into the carriage. She took it. Through
their gloves, she could feel the strength of his grasp, in each finger, and a
small shudder of awareness trembled through her. She could feel the heat of his
eyes on her, too, but she kept her own averted. Her lips responded, though, an
instinctual tingling in anticipation of another kiss.

She mused over this as the carriage jolted
into motion.

Men were the aggressors. Miss Farnshaw had
drilled that lesson into her and Esme. Miss Farnshaw had also given them a
plethora of suggestions on how to divert masculine aggression in order to
maintain one’s reputation and purity.

Sarah watched Simon out of the corner of
her eye. He would not be the aggressor, though she knew that it was in his
nature. No, his notions of honor and protectiveness of her virtue were
strangling his aggressive tendencies.

She wished Miss Farnshaw had taught her
how to be an aggressor. She chewed on her lip, wondering if she could do it. Find
a way to try…

Esme, who’d been gazing out the window,
suddenly turned to Simon. “We’re heading home?”

“Yes,” Simon said. He didn’t offer any
further explanation.

Sarah shared a quick look with Esme before
saying, “I thought we were going to the East End to inquire about the duchess’s
necklace.”

“No,” Simon corrected. “We’re going home
to Trent House, where you will be safe, and I’ll be inquiring about the
necklace on my own.”

“Your Grace, I can hardly see how going to
someone’s lodgings in the middle of the city should be dangerous —”

“Have you ever visited a residence in the
East End?”

“No,” Sarah admitted.

“Well, then.” Simon focused on a point on
the carriage wall between Sarah and Esme. “I’ll not put either of you in
danger. Do not waste your breath arguing, Sarah. You will
not
be accompanying me to the East
End this afternoon.”

Sarah and Esme waited all afternoon in
suspense for Simon to come home. A foggy dusk had wisped hazy fingers over
London when he finally returned.

With no news.

The three of them sat in the drawing room
drinking tea as Simon told them about his venture into the East End.

Esme let out a frustrated breath. “So you
discovered absolutely nothing?”

“Nothing at all,” Simon confirmed. “John
Woodrow was nowhere to be found. The landlord said he was at home yesterday,
but only briefly, before departing again. Evidently the man is seldom in
residence and unpredictable in his habits.”

“Where is he, then?” Esme asked.

“That is the question. No one seems to
know where he goes.”

“How will you ever find him if he’s rarely
at home?” Sarah asked.

“I’ve hired a youth to watch the
neighborhood, specifically Woodrow’s rooms. We’ll know the moment Woodrow
returns home.”

That evening, Simon sat at the long dinner
table in Lord Stanley’s house. The table had been cleared for the dessert
course. A servant had removed the many-footed, monstrous bronze epergne, and
for the first time all night, Simon could see his old acquaintance, the Duke of
Dunsberg, seated across from him. However, good manners kept his attention on
the lady next to him, Georgina Stanley, precluding him from opening any topic
of conversation with Dunsberg.

A servant refilled his champagne, and he
took a sip. Champagne wasn’t his beverage of choice, generally speaking, but it
was close in the dining room, what with the body heat of the twenty-eight
people seated around the table, the hearth behind his back, and the assorted
servants milling about, and he was thirsty.

“Isn’t this champagne wonderful?” Miss
Stanley asked, watching him drink. “It is my papa’s favorite.”

He smiled at her. “Is that so?” He took
another sip, and only now realized it had an exceptional flavor, as champagne
went. “You’re right; it is excellent.”

“I don’t know how he obtains it.” She
leaned toward him and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s all very secretive,
but somehow he has it shipped from France.”

Simon carefully set down his glass.
Everyone involved in politics knew of his long-standing outspokenness against
the practice of smuggling. It disgusted him that even the lawmakers of the land
turned a blind eye when it meant they could acquire the French spirits they
couldn’t seem to live without. Interesting that Stanley should choose to serve
illegally obtained spirits tonight.

Miss Stanley took a small bite of her ice
and gave a decadent sigh. “It is like I have died and gone to heaven. First the
champagne, and pineapple is my favorite kind of ice in the whole world.”