Son of a Duke

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  SON OF A DUKE

  Jessie Clever

  To Indy.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Published by Someday Lady Publishing, LLC

  Copyright © 2013 by Jessica McQuaid

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9895682-0-3

  CHAPTER ONE

  As she watched everyone enjoying the ball, she stood there and made a list in her head of all the other things she would rather be doing.

  Item 1: Polish the staircase spindles. All 106 of them.

  Item 2: Scrub chamberpots.

  Item 3: Take Lady Gregenden's opinionated pomeranian, Mr. Fitzherbert, for a walk.

  Well, the last one was not all that bad, but it was true she would much rather be doing that than standing there watching some of the most elite members of society pretend they were having a lovely evening when in fact most of them spent every night doing about the same thing, and she did not know how one kept one night straight from the next.

  Item 4: Beat out the hall rugs during a wind storm.

  Item 5: Help Cook dice onions.

  Tonight was turning out to be another success, which she was sure surprised Hawkins to the tips of his well polished shoes. But she was not one to be disappointed in the expectations of a rather dour butler. When in fact, she could not really blame him for his expectations. Hawkins had been at this game much longer than she, and time tended to weigh on people in her chosen profession. But she was also certain Hawkins would congratulate her at the end of the night when this was all over, and she was just as certain when next it came time for her to plan another gala, he would be the Doubting Thomas once more.

  Item 6: Massage Lady Gregenden's feet.

  Item 7: Scrub chamberpots.

  Oh, wait. The last item was already on the list. But she felt it really belonged there twice, because she would rather do the chamberpots twice over before standing where she was at that moment. Women in brightly colored gowns swirled across the dance floors held painfully erect in the arms of unwilling gentlemen who all succumbed to the rules of society because of unique ulterior motives.

  Lord Niles Turning sought after wife number four, whom he knew would finally give him a son to inherit. Lady Fielding was happy to listen to the dowager Duchess of Cornington drone on and on about her crocuses if only to secure an invitation to the next most fashionable night of the season while Lord Fielding purveyed the year's crop of debutantes, wondering how many he could debauch in a single season.

  It was all very tiring for her, and she knew then that she was getting old. Not old. She was turning into Hawkins, and that was a sight worse than just getting old. She would have to rethink her assessment of him and his dour outlook. Perhaps, he was simply just right.

  But she sincerely hoped he was not. She hoped, too, that she could continue to keep the corners of her mouth just slightly upturned thinking about all of the good things that she still had in this life even if she were stuck in the middle of an excessively stuffy ballroom filled with people who had a bit more luck than she had had in life. That sentiment was not fair either. She had been more fortunate than most. She had a respectable position that promised to provide for her security for years to come. The other staff members respected her as housekeeper and Hawkins, well, he at least maintained a kind of civility with her. If they were not exactly friends, she could at least think of them as allies.

  But family was not something she could think herself lucky in. Her parents had died young, leaving her with Aunt Martha. Aunt Martha had already had seven children, and another had just been a burden oft forgotten. Not that she had minded much. Aunt Martha was harder on her than the rest, and she had learned quickly how to polish silver, scrub floors and cook. It would not be until she was an impressionable seventeen, arriving in the big city of London for the first time that she knew those skills would be useful. They would secure her first post as a chamber maid at Gregenden House. And she would never speak to Aunt Martha or the seven children she was supposed to have called cousins again.

  But a kind of family had inadvertently fallen into her lap. A family she had not asked for, but that she now could not have lived without, no matter the consequences. She felt the flinch that always came when she thought on it, but it had dulled with time, molding into something soft and indistinct that no longer left the tang of bitterness in her mouth. And even though it had happened, a part of her could still wish it happened in another kind of way.

  And now she stood in a richly appointed ballroom filled with beautifully dressed people. And suddenly, she felt it easier to keep the corners of her mouth upturned. Hawkins could keep his doubting ways. She had still come a long way from where she had been.

  She would even remove one of the items involving chamberpots for her list.

  "Miss Quinton," came a voice behind her, and she turned a precise quarter turn.

  It was Sophia, a young maid they had acquired from another estate that had a less hospitable reputation than that of Gregenden House.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  Sophia bent her head, the candlelight of the ballroom glinting off hair so blonde it was almost white. The young woman's fine features looked fresh and relaxed in the heat of the ballroom, and she thought of a time when she had been that young and new to this world. But now it just all felt too familiar.

  "Mister Hawkins wished me to tell you the buffet is set, but he is not sure we have enough footmen for the evening. He is quite concerned, Miss Quinton.

  Now her smile came easily. It was not a happy smile but rather one dripping with appeasement.

  "Sophia, you can assure Mr. Hawkins that I have calculated everything precisely, and the evening shall not fail. He need not worry."

  Sophia smiled an equally sarcastic smile back at her.

  "I told him that, Miss Quinton, but it seems he will not listen to me. I assured him no one would get the better of Miss Eleanora Quinton, but he did not take that to reason either."

  She nodded.

  "Very well, I shall speak with him myself."

  Sophia looked quickly behind her, turning back to Nora with a look of worry.

  "But you cannot, miss. Mr. Hawkins is below stairs. You cannot leave the ballroom. What will happen?"

  She smiled with affection now for the young woman, remembering when she had been such a novice.

  "Fear not, Sophia. The ballroom shall still be here when I return."

  Sophia nodded, the worry sliding from her face.

  "If Miss Quinton says it is so, then it is."

  The maid nodded once and slipped into the crowd.

  Eleanora turned back to the ballroom, taking in the couples still dancing, the women still gossiping, and the debutantes still preening.

  Item 8: Assuring Hawkins that nothing would go wrong.

  She turned her back on the dancing couples and moved into the crowd.

  ~

  She watched the inf
allible Eleanora Quinton from her place beside the refreshment table. Everything was going according to plan until that young maid had come out of the crowd and whatever she had said to Miss Quinton had caused the housekeeper to leave her post. She was certain she could do her part of watching the vigilant housekeeper as long as she remained in the ballroom, but if she left to go below stairs, it was anyone's guess as to what trouble the young woman could cause.

  The events of the night had been meticulously planned. The man to complete the necessary, if rather heinous task, had been carefully selected. His movements in and about London were carefully orchestrated so as not to arouse suspicion. Even the supporting players, including herself, had been chosen with care to support tonight's attempt at assassination.

  For that really was what this was all about. The more elite gentlemen of the War Office could label it whatever they liked, but in the end, a man was to be killed for treason. It was all really quite simple.

  But too much effort had gone into the affair for a mere housekeeper to foil the plot. Even one as robust as Miss Quinton.

  She looked across the room, and her eyes easily found his. He stood at his post by the exit to the card room, lazily sipping on champagne. A smile played at her lips as she took in the sight of him in his crisp evening attire of black jacket and snowy white cravat. Even after all these years, she could still find herself drooling over him. But now was not the time for such things. Perhaps later she could enjoy some mindless drooling.

  But now she waited for some kind of signal from him. He only watched her, his eyes dark and unreadable in the soft light of the chandeliers. But she knew he had seen the housekeeper move. She knew that he knew said housekeeper would be far more trouble outside of the ballroom than in it. Because if anyone were to notice a person who was not to be there, it would be the infallible Eleanora Quinton.

  Jane Black, the Duchess of Lofton had spent the last few weeks in town getting close to the housekeeper as was her task, so she could ascertain just how much trouble the woman would be if a murder were to occur in the house of which she was in charge. And she had finally drawn the conclusion that the housekeeper could be very much trouble indeed. If the woman had known, she should have been quite proud that not one but three agents had been assigned the task of watching her.

  Not even Guy Fawkes had been watched this closely.

  But now he gave her a signal. He reached up at touched his hair ever so briefly. She did not hesitate.

  The Duchess of Lofton moved from her place and stepped directly into Eleanora Quinton's path.

  "Miss Quinton."

  She saw the skin tighten around the housekeeper's eyes, if that was even physically possible. The maid was thin, too thin. Her cheeks dipped ever so slightly in her face, and her neck stretched delicately from the collar of her dress. Her eyes appeared larger than they were in her too thin face, and her elbows pointed out like the knobby branches of a tree in her starched black uniform. But the housekeeper's lips never twitched as she looked up to face the woman who had stepped into her path.

  "Yes, your grace?" she pronounced with a polite dip in recognition.

  "Your presentation tonight is quite lovely as always. Lady Gregenden must be quite brilliant to think up such themes for these galas."

  Not a muscle moved on Miss Quinton's face as she calmly replied, "Yes, indeed. Brilliant is exactly the word I would have chosen as well."

  Lady Lofton knew that to be as accurate a fact as the one in which she herself appeared to be the Queen of England. Lady Gregenden was a dreadfully dull woman of even equally dull fortitude when it came to things such as entertaining. The woman only got where she did on the arm of her husband. But Miss Quinton was not one to face any sign of degradation. Even if it was coming from a duchess.

  "I see then."

  For weeks now, she had been working to gain closer entry into this young woman's world, and the duchess liked to think she had been successful. She tested her theory as she swirled the champagne in her glass, catching it with the light so that it reflected directly at Miss Quinton's eyes.

  "Why are you doing that?" Miss Quinton asked, her voice never fluctuating from its low monotone cadence.

  "To see if you flinch."

  "Oh bother, you still have not given up on that?" her voice changed then, slightly softer and mischievous. Something flashed in her eyes, and the duchess knew for a brief moment that she had relieved the housekeeper of some boredom, even if it was but a moment.

  Then a great bloke of a gentleman smashed into her backside and sent the housekeeper careening directly at the duchess. Caught off guard by the unexpected movement, Lady Lofton had not been prepared for the housekeeper to come falling toward her, and so she could do nothing to stop them both from falling directly into the Earl of Stryden.

  The earl caught them both quite neatly, tipping the duchess back up gently with a quick grab but holding onto Miss Quinton's shoulders a slight touch longer than may have been appropriate. The duchess doubted anyone else noticed the entire affair, but concern for the rest of the evening's plans at the forefront of her mind, she did a quick check of those around them. They all looked ready to impale themselves with the nearest frond from one of the ghastly potted ferns that littered the room. She returned her attention to the little scene playing out before her.

  This was not at all a part of the plan, but neither had it been a part of the plan for Miss Quinton to leave her post. If she were quick enough to improvise, surely Stryden was as well.

  "Are you all right, Miss Quinton?" the Earl of Stryden asked the woman.

  "Quite, thank you." She was straightening the ties of her apron when the earl stepped behind her and very simply spun around the bloke who had knocked into her.

  The startled man looked absolutely bewildered at the dark look on the earl's face. Of course, the stupid man had to look up about a foot to see the look, which made it all the more intimidating.

  "I believe you owe the lady an apology." Stryden said, ever so softly and deadly.

  And it reminded her that if anyone could sound deadly, it most certainly was the Earl of Stryden with his chiseled features, nearly black hair and piercing green eyes. A much younger version of a man the duchess was happy to wake up next to every morning, and she could not help but smile.

  The bloke stammered, "My apologies, your grace." He bowed slightly toward Lady Lofton, shaking too much to bend any more than he did.

  "Not that lady," the earl growled.

  The man looked around him, his gaze moving swiftly past Miss Quinton as if she were not there.

  Lady Lofton cleared her throat a little and batted her eyelashes at Miss Quinton just to give the man a hint. He was up against Stryden, and well, he was definitely dim-witted, which meant he had a very large disadvantage. The duchess had to help a little. She was not that impolite.

  Miss Quinton, however, remained quiet as ever looking straight ahead with her lips curving at the tips, jaw square and chin up.

  The man stammered some more, "I do beg your pardon, my lord, but I do not see any other lady around whom I might have bumped."

  Sweat was starting to pool along the ridge of his collar, streaming down to his intricately knotted cravat. He was tugging nervously on the lapels of his jacket, leaving the fabric, an awful coral color, all wrinkled and stained with the cold sweat from his beefy palms.

  "Miss Quinton nearly fell to the ground from your clumsiness. I would not call that a bump." Stryden stepped between the man and Miss Quinton before the bloke could form even a stammer. "See that it does not happen again."

  The duchess sipped her champagne in silent salute. Stryden had the man simpering without even a threat of fatal violence to the man's bloated body. Well done, indeed.

  Stryden turned his back on the man and bent to look at Miss Quinton.

  "I am terribly sorry about that, miss," he said, "Some members of the ton were simply born to their status and did not earn their titles. Are you sure you are all r
ight?"

  She gave a quick nod. "Yes, my lord, quite all right. I do thank you for your trouble."

  "It was no trouble." He bowed to the duchess. "Jane, I hope you are all right as well?"

  "Fine, thanks, lad." The duchess saw his lips tighten at that. Oh, how she did love to call him lad still.

  He smiled slightly before replying, "I assume you are having a lovely time tonight?"

  "Oh yes, quite lovely. Except for that fat-"

  "Oh yes, I am sure there's something fat around that displeases you, Jane. But let's not share it with the world, shall we?"

  The duchess hid her smile as she sipped her champagne. It was so fun to annoy the boy.

  "I was not planning on telling the world, just you, Alec," she cocked her head and pursed her lips.

  He laughed right in the duchess's face. He was the only one who ever did. Even her husband, the Duke of Lofton, would not laugh in her face. Oh, she was sure there were many times when her dear husband would want to laugh in her face, but he never did. Jane Black, the Duchess of Lofton, had a reputation that quelled laughter where it formed.

  "Miss Quinton, the décor is quite lovely this evening. You have outdone yourself yet again." Alec smiled that smile that had made a thousand women swoon, often right into his bed. But Miss Quinton did not flinch...again. The chit was getting annoying herself.

  "Thank you, my lord. I am pleased you are enjoying your evening."

  "Oh, I never said I was enjoying my evening. Just your décor."

  Miss Quinton actually wet her lips. It was a habit Jane had observed. The housekeeper did it when she was hiding a smile. The Earl of Stryden had made her smile? The duchess determined that she could probably safely die now, because she had most likely seen it all.

  "Perhaps you will find more pleasure in the gaming rooms, my lord." Miss Quinton pointed discreetly in the direction of the parlors that had been set up with tables of whist or some other such barbarous game.