“It makes no sense,” Priscilla told Emily as they headed for the Emerson house in Emily’s carriage. “How did Miss Bigglethorpe, Mr. Richmont, or Lord Eustace know about Aunt Sylvia? I haven’t met Miss Bigglethorpe above a few times, and I always keep that knowledge from my suitors.”
“Perhaps one of them has a relative living at the same estate,” Emily guessed, leaning back against the velvet squabs. “Or a country house in the area.”
“And they also know Acantha’s pearls are paste?” Priscilla protested.
Emily shrugged. “Lady Minerva did make that accusation aloud at our ball. One of them might have overhead or talked with someone who overheard.”
Priscilla shook her head. “Too coincidental. Something more is at play, Emily. You may depend on it. But if you must find a way to question them, you could start with Miss Bigglethorpe’s father. He’s a member of the Royal Society.”
Emily’s look darkened. “And a more inveterate gossip you are unlikely to find. Like father, like daughter, perhaps?”
Priscilla felt cold and gathered her mother’s shawl closer for all the day was sunny. “I am doomed.”
“If he’s the culprit, you may be right.” Emily shivered as well. “I’m sorry, Pris. I didn’t mean to sound so dismal. It’s just that the meeting of the Royal Society was not what I expected.”
Priscilla frowned at her. “How so? I cannot believe they would be unkind to the daughter of a duke!”
“As some of them are dukes and duchesses, my rank hardly matters,” Emily assured her, gaze out over the carriages they were passing. “And that wasn’t the problem. All they do is talk, about themselves, about their families, about their friends. I’ve never heard such gossips! I was given an earful at the meeting today, and some of it had to do with your duke.”
Priscilla stiffened. “What about His Grace?”
“It seems he’s the head of a rather large family,” Emily explained, fingers tapping at her plum-colored skirts as if she found it hard to describe something without painting a picture of it. “No siblings still living, but countless cousins, aunts, and uncles of varying degrees. One of them fancies herself a sculptress: mushrooms and toadstools, of all things, out of marble! He supports her and all the rest from what I gathered.”
“You mean he’s actually poor?” Priscilla stared at her aghast. “Aunt Sylvia’s last husband, the late Earl of Brentfield, had that problem, to her everlasting regret. All his funds were tied up in art.”
“I don’t think it’s as bad as all that,” Emily said as the carriage rounded the corner onto her street. “His Grace seems to keep his family members like Miss Fairtree out of generosity. But because of that, they are keenly worried about who he will marry.”
Priscilla nodded, drawing a breath. “His wife could well encourage him to turn them all out and use the money to support her interests instead.”
“Precisely.” Emily’s fingers stopped tapping. “So it seems they’ve provided him with a watchdog, someone who will make sure no fortune hunter gets near him.”
Priscilla jerked upright. “Nathan Kent! Of course! I knew he had too much influence for a personal secretary.”
Emily nodded as the carriage drew to a stop in front of the town house. “Any woman who wants to gain His Grace’s attention will have to impress Mr. Kent too.”
Priscilla leaned back with a smile. “Child’s play. Now that I know the truth, you can be sure that Mr. Kent will be living in my pocket within the week.”
*
“Natty,” His Grace whined as he studied his tall length in the Pier glass mirror of his bedchamber, “when is my new coat to be delivered?”
Nathan kept his face and tone civil. It was only noon, after all. Much too early for an apoplectic fit or to tender his resignation. And their family would approve of neither.
“I believe the tailor said Tuesday next, Your Grace,” he replied, nodding to the valet who hurried forward with a proper navy coat. “And I also believe we agreed that it is Nathan or Kent.”
The duke frowned. “Why? We were Natty and Percy growing up. I distinctly recall our nurse using those names.” He peered at Nathan. “We are cousins, after all.”
“Distant cousins,” Nathan reminded him. “Several times removed. I know you never expected to inherit the dukedom, especially when you haven’t yet reached the age of twenty and five, but some formality is expected.”
“Dratted boating accident,” His Grace muttered. “Whatever possessed my father and brother to go out on the Thames in January? Some maggot about ice fishing, no doubt. Such fascination with a sport is unhealthy. Haven’t I always said so?” He wrinkled his nose at the coat the valet offered. “Don’t I own something happier?”
“Happier, Your Grace?” The valet glanced at Nathan for guidance.
“Try the bottle green coat with the velvet lapels,” Nathan suggested, and the valet hurried back to the dressing room.
Nathan regarded his employer who was now fussing with the crested gold buttons on his waistcoat. “You’re attending Parliament later. You want to be taken seriously.”
His Grace frowned. “Whatever for? As it is, you’ve forbidden me to speak. Not that I mind, of course.” He shuddered. “I have no wish to be ogled by half the ton while I prose on about some tiresome subject.”
No, he’d prefer to be ogled for his coat, it seemed. Nathan hid his sigh. Was it any wonder he was having trouble securing the right lady to play duchess?
Oh, he had no doubt Priscilla Tate could have found a charming way to coax His Grace into wearing the proper coat, doing his duty. But he needed more in the new duchess. Whoever became Lady Rottenford would have to navigate the highest reaches of Society while covering the social gaffs of her husband. She’d have to help guide his opinions, shape the sentiments he expressed in Parliament. In Nathan’s mind, the woman would have to be sensitive, selfless, and sincere.
He had seen few of those traits in Priscilla Tate, alas. In fact, he would have laid odds in the famed betting book at White’s gentlemen’s club that if she discovered the duke’s true nature, she would exploit it to her own gain.
So he had to rely on his own skills to extricate His Grace from his boudoir in a reasonably conservative coat. They had reached the ground floor when they met Glynnis exiting the library with a book under her arm.
She widened her already large eyes and curtsied, her lavender skirts brushing the marble floor. “Your Grace. What a lovely surprise.”
Hardly surprising to find the fellow in his own home, but Nathan merely smiled.
So did the duke. “Ah, Glynnis. What are you doing today?”
She held up the book, spine out so he could see. “I find myself curious about the Roman Empire. I thought a history might help.”
His Grace recoiled as if she’d offered him hemlock. “Why would you need to know about a bunch of foreign dead people? Don’t you fear your head will explode with all that knowledge?”
She colored as she lowered the book. “Well, if Your Grace advises it, I will certainly return the book to the library.”
“Education and enlightenment are never unwise,” Nathan said with a warning look to his employer. “I’m sure the duke would not counsel you otherwise.”
His Grace nodded so hard his neck wobbled above his intricately tied cravat. “Course I would. No one likes a bluestocking. Ask Miss Tate. She’s all the fashion. I doubt you’ll find a book in her hands.”
Very likely not. Priscilla Tate would be too smart to be caught. But by her educated conversation he’d overhead in the past, he was fairly sure she’d opened a book or two in her life.
Glynnis lowered her gaze to where her pearl-colored slippers peeked out below her white muslin skirts. “Miss Tate is a great beauty, I know. I will content myself with allowing my inner beauty to shine through instead.”
“Nicely put,” Nathan started, but His Grace cocked his head.
“Oh, I don’t know, Glynnis. A little more curl in your hair, a prettier gown with a few more furbelows, and you could be quite presentable.”
Her smile was wobbly. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace.”
“We should go,” Nathan told him before he could injure the poor girl further. He nodded to Glynnis. “Enjoy your reading.” He seized His Grace’s arm and drew him out the door.
“Have you no sense?” he demanded as they descended the stairs to the waiting coach. “You cannot tell a woman what to read, how to dress.”
His Grace pulled away and patted Nathan’s arm. “That’s the funny thing, Natty. You can’t tell a woman what to read or how to dress, but the Duke of Rottenford can. Haven’t you noticed? They all hang on my every word.” Whistling, he ambled to the carriage, where a liveried footman held open the door for him.
Nathan raised a plea heavenward. He didn’t think it a coincidence that ever since Priscilla Tate had begun spending time with the duke, Nathan’s job had grown much more difficult.
*
Miss Bigglethorpe proved easier to corner than Acantha. Like Priscilla, she was on her first Season, so she participated in the morning calls, the evening balls, just as Priscilla did. And she must have been particularly good friends with Miss Felicity Crandall, for they were most often seen together.
Priscilla spotted them at the opera the next night. She and her parents had been invited to sit in the Duke of Emerson’s private box with Emily and Lady Minerva, His Grace having been called to Whitehall as usual. Priscilla wasn’t entirely sure what Emily’s father did to support the War Office, but it kept him away from home and out of Emily’s life a great deal.
A shame she could not say the same for her own parents. Her mother and father sat with supreme confidence on the scarlet velvet-upholstered chairs, knowing any association with the Duke of Emerson would further their fiction that they ran in the finest circles. If it hadn’t been for Priscilla’s friendship with Emily, they would never have met the duke.
And if it wasn’t for her skill with a needle, they would not be so well dressed now. Only she knew the embroidered silk of her mother’s cerulean evening dress had come from a native outfit from far off India. And her father would never have admitted his top hat had been blocked and brushed into shape after Pricilla had noticed it in a neighbor’s dustbin.
Her own outfit was equally pieced together; the green velvet bodice and Circassian sleeves were from a masquerade costume her aunt had once worn, the white satin skirts from a gown with a stained sleeve. The gold lace trimming the daring neckline had been pulled off an old court dress. And Emily had given her the emerald satin band that held back her curls. No one would guess the emeralds at her throat were paste.
Except perhaps Emily. Priscilla had come to realize that little escaped her. Her friend sat beside her in a satin gown the color of melted chocolate, eyes narrowed as she glanced about the other boxes around and across from them. Priscilla had never understood why Emily favored the dark, dreary colors. With her dramatic coloring, curly sable hair and pale complexion, she could easily have pulled off something more bold.
But Emily’s mind did not run to fashion. She had found her talent for uncovering secrets was nearly as great as her ability to paint, and that was saying something.
“There she is,” she murmured to Priscilla as they waited for the first act to start.
Priscilla glanced around with an exaggerated sigh, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, and let her gaze pause on the box across the way a second longer than necessary. Both Miss Bigglethorpe and Miss Crandall had also dressed for the evening, the former in a soft blue that complimented her fair coloring and the latter in a spring green that made her dark curls shine and brought pink to her round cheeks. Or perhaps she had indulged in a pot of rouge.
“We can rule out Miss Crandall,” Priscilla whispered to Emily. “She has not the face, figure, or fortune to command a duke.”
“All the more reason for her to be jealous of you,” Emily countered. “And if not that, she may be helping her friend.”
Priscilla raised a brow. “You are very good at this.”
Emily smiled. “I’m learning. Jamie’s given me advice in several areas. Do you know there’s a way to tell if someone is lying by the way they move?”
Priscilla chuckled. “Only if the person is unused to playing a role. Veteran liars learn to school their faces, their movements.”
“You can be scary sometimes, you know that?” Emily said.
Priscilla smiled.
The lights flickered, then dimmed, and she lost sight of the pair. That didn’t mean she forgot them. Opera had never been her favorite theatrical, so she let the sweeping arias float over her as she considered this strategy and that. When the lights flared to life again, she touched Emily’s arm.
“I’m going to speak to them. Keep my parents busy.”
Emily’s eyes widened a moment, then she turned gamely and asked the Tates about their plans for the summer months. As her parents angled for an invitation to spend August at the Duke of Emerson’s countryseat, Priscilla slipped out the back of the box. She’d barely taken two steps before a voice called out.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” Emily’s aunt strode up to Priscilla, dark skirts flapping. Like Emily, she was small and sharp, from her pointed noise to her grasping fingers. Now she affixed Priscilla with such a look she might have thought Lady Minerva was her blackmailer.
“I saw friends across the way,” Priscilla replied, keeping her voice and face pleasant. “No need to trouble yourself.”
“Your parents may be dim, but I am not.” She squinted at Priscilla. “You’re out to meet a boy. Admit it.”
Priscilla allowed herself a gossamer giggle. “Oh, Lady Minerva, how you go on.” She patted the woman’s hand. “Please don’t concern yourself. I’m not out to cause a scandal.”
“Only for someone else,” Lady Minerva insisted, pulling away. “What will you give me to keep silent about seeing you?”
Well! Priscilla opened her mouth, then shut it again and leaned closer. “Listen, you harridan. I’ve dealt with far more difficult spies, and I’m not about to be put off my game by you. Tell my parents; they’ll applaud my initiative. Tell Emily; she’ll assure you I know what I’m doing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if I should tell Rottenford?”
Priscilla stiffened. “I’ll deny it to my last breath.”
Lady Minerva cackled. “You see? I knew you were sweet on the fellow. But you’re going the wrong way.” She tipped a thumb over her shoulder. “His box is back there, two doors down from ours.”
Priscilla hesitated. In truth, from the situation of Emily’s box, she hadn’t been able to see into the ones nearest her, and she hadn’t considered the fact that His Grace might be attending tonight. Should she do as she’d planned and accost Miss Bigglethorpe, or find a way to ingratiate herself with him?
“Tick tock, tick tock,” Lady Minerva sang out. “You have a choice to make, girl, and intermission only lasts so long. What will it be?”
Priscilla pulled the gold-colored ring off her gloved finger and handed it to Lady Minerva. “Tell the Duke of Rottenford that you saw me in the corridor on the way to greet my friends Miss Bigglethorpe and Miss Crandall. Be sure to mention I was unescorted and appeared to be in distress. If that doesn’t bring him to my side, nothing will.”