Chapter Twenty-Seven
“There is a visitor, Your Grace.”
This unwelcome announcement brought forth only a grunt of response from John. His head was bent over papers, reviewing sums and evaluating reports prepared by his father’s secretary. He’d let the man go, as he was not capable of continuing the employ of a secretary complicit in denying aid to a dying woman. Now he found himself acting as his own secretary until the replacement he hired arrived at Brantmoor.
“Shall I send him away, sir?”
John finally looked up. “Whom did you say it was?”
The man coughed. John could not for the life of him remember this man’s name. There had been too many employees and too few weeks to learn them all. “I did not say, Your Grace, but he has given his name as Pritchard—of the Boston Pritchards.”
Damn. John closed the ledger. There was no one from Boston whose visit would bode well, particularly not a visitor with the last name of Pritchard. “I will see Mr. Pritchard here, in my study.”
The man gave a slight bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Mr. Pritchard of Boston walked into the private study of the Duke of Worley with his head held high and enough swagger to fill a gentleman’s club in London. He appeared in worn boots with an untidy shave and clothing that looked as though it had made the entire journey from Boston on the man’s form. He should have had the good sense to understand where he was and with whom he was dealing. He should have been dignified—or at least respectable. Or at the very least, sober. He was none of these things. Therefore, he was on John’s nerves before he had even spoken.
“Mr. Pritchard,” John said, rising reluctantly from his seat and walking round his desk to stand in front of it. Standing was better. He did not want this Pritchard fellow to feel welcome to stay.
“My Lord Duke,” he said with an awkward bow that pitched slightly to the left, “I have come to inquire after the welfare of your sister, Charlotte.”
“You have come a long way just to inquire, Mr. Pritchard. A letter would have been a less troublesome manner of inquiry.”
“Certainly.” The man brought a hand to the breast of his rumpled coat. “But I do not think I could have satisfied myself with only a letter. I feel—responsible—for Lottie.”
John bristled. He’d always hated that particular familiarity—Lottie. He and his mother did not use it. The Pritchards did. John had never met the Pritchard family while he was in Boston, which evidently was for the best. He didn’t like this man. And he didn’t like him claiming responsibility for Charlotte.
“You have made a long journey for naught, Mr. Pritchard. I am responsible for Lady Charlotte.” He stressed the title. “Her welfare, were it any concern of yours, is not in jeopardy.”
“Please understand,” the American said, stepping closer to John, “I never saw Lottie as just our kitchen girl. I always thought we had a special friendship.”
John glared and took a heavy step toward Pritchard. His voice was low and quiet when he responded, but he pronounced each word with careful intent. “Unless you’ve traveled across the sea with a pair of dueling pistols, Mr. Pritchard, do not suggest again that you have enjoyed any manner of friendship with my sister.”
Our kitchen girl. John sneered at the thought. The Pritchard standing in his study lacked the age and the consequence to be the Pritchard in whose kitchen Charlotte had found employment when Mother turned ill. He was the son perhaps. How disappointed the father must be.
“I meant no insult to be sure. I am only concerned for your family. How hard this must be, trying to explain how your sister was plucked out of a Boston kitchen and dropped into the ballrooms of London.”
John felt a small tic begin in his right temple. It seemed connected to his right fist, for that pulsed as well—tightening and releasing on a steady beat.
The man kept talking, unaware of the increasing threat to his person. “It would be much easier for all concerned if instead, you presented a sister who has returned to England after her marriage to the son of a respectable Boston family.”
John’s voice was barely more than a growl when he asked, “And you propose to be that man?”
“Yes.” He nodded gravely as though this offer were a brave self-sacrifice.
The Pritchards, from what John knew of his sister’s employers during her brief tenure as a kitchen maid, were a fine Boston family. This man, Pritchard or not, did not appear even close to John’s expectation of respectable. His bold manner, his loose speech, and his ruddy color were confirmation enough that the man had stopped off for a pint—or more likely several—before imposing himself upon John’s productive afternoon.
“Perhaps Lottie has mentioned me, Your Grace,” he said with a proud grin.
John was finished with this man and this conversation. “She has not. That part of Charlotte’s life is done and left behind in Boston. Your concern is appreciated. My man will show you out.”
For the first time since the American arrived, his bravado faltered. His mouth opened and shut without sound before opening again to squawk, “I’ve come a very long way.”
“And you have a long journey home. There is no sense in delaying.”
“But I haven’t even seen your sister yet.”
“Nor will you.”
Pritchard’s eyes narrowed again. Did the man refuse to understand he’d been instructed to go? John was dangerously close to physically removing the man from his home.
“I don’t think you’ve really considered the situation. Think of how uncomfortable everyone will be when they realize this year’s newest debutante is nothing but a kitchen maid.”
Pritchard’s threats were no longer veiled, so John’s directions ceased to be subtle. “Get out,” he commanded.
The bastard still didn’t move. John strode forward, fists clenched.
Finally, reality registered with the American. His eyes grew round and he leapt to attention.
John glared, towering several inches above him, his face no more than a foot from the other man’s when he bellowed for a footman. He did not yield his position, even when the footman arrived.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Remove this man.” He said it with quiet finality, and the American did not balk this time. He quit the room, with the footman behind him.
“See to it that man leaves the grounds,” John barked. “And summon my sister.”
John fumed. Did that drunkard actually think he would make his fortune by blackmailing his way into marrying a duke’s sister? He was lucky to be allowed to leave unscathed. He needed to be soundly beaten and dragged onto the next departing ship, regardless of its destination. If he wasn’t far enough away by nightfall, he may yet get just that.
John forced himself to sit at his desk and take a deep settling breath, but he felt no calmer than he’d been a moment before. What sort of lion’s den had his sister been forced to work within? Fresh rage for his father ran through him that his sister was made to be subservient to a man like Pritchard, who was no better than vermin
There was a tentative rap on the study’s heavy oak door.
“Yes.”
The door creaked open and Charlotte walked in.
Little Charlotte.
John and a few long-standing servants at Brantmoor were probably the last few living in England with any memory of Charlotte as an infant. She’d been all smiles and gurgles then, with everyone cooing over her. A mere boy himself, John had been disgusted by her. Now, smiles were scarce and she wanted no help from anyone, much less cooing. She was not always contrary, though that might surprise Emma or Brydges. Even after long days of laboring, she could have a sunny disposition, when she chose to have one.
From her mulish expression and wary eyes, he divined she had not chosen so today. She wore a simple, worn dress and her hair in a plain, plaited bun. John recognized the dress because he was tired of seeing it. She’d arrived from Boston in it and, with the exception of the new dress debuted on Market day, she’d worn this and one other even older garment every day since.
“Are there no new dresses yet?” he asked.
“The duchess ordered all sorts, but they’ve yet to be fitted.”
“Hmmm.” He crossed his arms and leaned his hips back against the generations-old desk that had served all the Dukes of Worley before him. “That bit is difficult if you do not attend fittings.”
Charlotte looked down and tucked a stray tendril of dark hair behind her ear. “I thought the duchess was away today.”
“She is. I am referring to fittings on other days,” he said flatly. “Don’t you want new dresses?”
“I have perfectly fine dresses.” Her declaration lacked vehemence.
“You’re being objectionable for no reason. Why on earth would you refuse new clothing?”
Charlotte shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “I don’t like to be poked all over with pins by clumsy seamstresses.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have to meet them first to know if they’re clumsy. And if you are pricked, it’s likely because you are behaving as a brat and the seamstress chooses to prick you.”
Her head snapped up and she smiled. “I am not a brat.”
“You are and it will not continue.” He pointed at her present attire. “You have precisely one week before this dress and its partner will be taken from your room while you sleep and burned on my orders. You will cooperate in fittings or catch a chill.”
Charlotte laughed. It was a light, easy laugh. John was happy to hear the sound. If others could see her smiling and laughing as she was now, perhaps they would not judge her so harshly.
“Fine,” she said. “I will order a thousand dresses and it will cost you a fortune.”
“I’m sure you would.”
Her smiles were so rare these days he was loath to chase one away, but he must. “I had a visitor just now.”
Still laughing, Charlotte leaned dramatically to one side, drawing the fingertips of one hand to her chest and extending the other as though holding an imaginary train. She lifted her chin in exaggerated importance. “Was it the queen? I am a very highborn lady, you know.”
“It was a Mr. Pritchard.”
The laughter died quickly. She pulled her outstretched hand back and clasped her two hands together in front of her. Her shoulders slouched. “Mr. Pritchard? In England. Why would he come here?” she asked, her voice low and fragile.
Did she realize she was doing that? He’d merely spoken the name Pritchard and she’d suddenly taken on the meek, deferential posture of a servant—a kitchen girl. John liked this demeanor even less than the prickly contrarian they’d seen all week.
“What could Mr. Pritchard want of me?” she asked.
“Our visitor was the younger Mr. Pritchard.”
She looked up slowly. Gone was her submissive stance. Her lips curled in a sneer as she asked, “The son? Mr. Randall Pritchard?”
“He was the son, yes. Are there more than one?”
“No,” she bit out. “One is quite enough.”
“You were not friends, then?”
“Friends?” Her laugh this time was barely more than a bitter exhale of air. Young innocents did not yet possess this sort of laugh. It was reserved for those whose illusions had been dismantled by the realities of their lives.
John hated that his pretty young sister possessed such a laugh.
“Randall Pritchard and I were never friends. I was the lowly kitchen girl. He was the drunken sod who shamed his parents and menaced every member of the household staff.”
John’s heart began to thud more heavily in his chest. It seemed to be reverberating in his ears. His jaw tightened. His chin lowered. His voice lowered. “And you?”
“What of me?” she asked.
He stared hard at her because her response to his next question was of pivotal importance. “In what way, exactly, was he menacing to you?”
She paused and bit her lip. “He did nothing I wasn’t capable of handling on my own.”
She had paused. That was answer enough. The man had better be on a boat by morning, or he’d be dead by the afternoon.
“What did he do to you?” John growled.
Charlotte lifted her chin. “He didn’t do anything. He tried to kiss me. Kitchens have knives—large, sharp knives.” Her eyes glinted with ferocity that belied her size. “They also have small, pointy knives—the kind you can hide in the fold of your skirt, so no one knows it’s there until it’s needed.”
John’s rage unfurled. If this bastard Pritchard was the sort to prey on household servants, he wasn’t going to make the trip all the way to England and be content to go home empty-handed.
Which meant he would be lurking about.
Which meant he would not be far enough gone to escape John’s wrath.
“You won’t have need for a knife here,” John said. He’d have a man following Pritchard within the hour. “I will take care of Pritchard.”
“What did he want?” Charlotte asked shrewdly. “If he followed me all the way here, he wanted something.”
“He wanted to elevate his station in life,” John said, “by marrying the daughter of a duke.”
Charlotte gasped. “He knows I hate him. What could he possibly believe would induce me to consider marriage to him?”
“Blackmail.”
“Blackmail? What sort of blackmail?”
“He suggested we might prefer presenting you to society as my sister who married into a respectable Boston family, as opposed to my sister, the former kitchen maid.”
It was not an idle threat. Duke’s sister or not, if society knew Charlotte had actually been a kitchen maid, she would not survive the social ruin.
Charlotte swallowed. “But…I was a kitchen maid,” she said, her voice losing much of the force her ire had given it.
“Yes, but we are not going to share that information. There are many here who would deem you beneath them simply because your circumstances required you to earn a wage upon which to live. Those people could make your entrance into society difficult. We will explain you are my sister. We will explain you were raised in Boston. We need not provide all the unnecessary details. I won’t have people looking down their noses at you.”
“What about the duchess?” she asked. “Does the duchess know?”
“The duchess knows you lived modestly in Boston. She does not care.”
“But does she know I was a servant?”
John looked steadily at his sister. “She does not.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together. She nodded her head slowly in acceptance of this admission.
It was not possible to make her understand. He had not intentionally hidden it from Emma. He simply hadn’t seen a need to share it.
“Will you tell her?” Charlotte asked.
“I believe I must. With Pritchard lurking about, she should know.”
“I thought you were handling Mr. Pritchard. You said I needn’t worry. Why should the duchess be in danger if I am not?”
“She will not be in danger. I will have my man following Pritchard every moment. He won’t be allowed to come near either of you.”
“Then she doesn’t need to know.”
John looked at Charlotte. “There is no reason to keep it from her.” He said it, but he could not have sworn to it. Emma’s frustration with Charlotte was high. Her frustration with him was higher still. Did he believe knowing Charlotte’s occupation as a servant would matter one whit to Emma?
No.
“I don’t want her to know,” Charlotte said. “Please.”
John considered his sister’s request. Charlotte needed Emma’s help. Emma was perilously close to denying that help already, due to Charlotte’s poor behavior. Perhaps he could satisfy both women in one exchange.
“All right,” he said. “I will agree to keep Mr. Pritchard and your past between us. But you must agree there will be no more missed appointments. You will cooperate with everything the duchess requests and be an apt pupil.”
Charlotte released the frustrated sigh of one who has been outmaneuvered. “Agreed.”
“You will attend all of it, Charlotte. I will know if you do not.”
“Yes. All of it,” she said, crossing her arms with a huff. “But not until tomorrow. The duchess is gone today.”
“Tomorrow, then. You may go back to whatever you were doing.” He, on the other hand, would not be returning to his ledgers. He had an American to hunt down.
Charlotte turned to go, but stopped when she reached the door. She turned back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry that he’s followed me here and for the trouble that’s caused.” Her eyes were bright.
“No, Charlotte, I am sorry. You should never have suffered through so many of the trials you’ve experienced. I will make it right, I promise you.”