Inevitably a Duchess Read online

  She was going to live. Whether she liked it or not, her body was going to carry on with or without her consent.

  And if she were going to live, she had to find a way to survive.

  She hadn’t known then that Winton would drop dead in a mere four months time, but it had been long enough for Jane to completely slip within herself.

  Except for Richard.

  Richard had always been kept somewhere safe inside of her from the moment she had first seen him. It may have sounded clichéd, but it was the truth. She could remember the day exactly as it was three years ago. She had been younger then and probably a bit more naive, a firm believer in love at first sight. That was what it had been. But it had grown since then, and now it was such a complex and layered thing that she could no longer grasp to tuck away somewhere safe inside of her. Now it contained a life of its own, and she feared it for what it may become.

  She hurried along the street, trying to keep what she thought was a proper distance for pursuing a suspect. Was that what the Countess of Straughton was? A suspect? Jane was not entirely educated on proper spy vocabulary. Perhaps there was a book on the subject that she could find in the libraries of the College. Then again, perhaps not.

  She was not sure where she expected Lady Straughton to go. It wasn’t as if there was anything of particular note occurring on that rather dismal Tuesday afternoon, but if Jane were to report back to Richard, she needed all of the facts. Whatever those might be.

  Her suspect turned the corner, leading away from the park, but as Jane turned the corner herself, she stopped abruptly, ducking behind a lamppost as if it could provide her with shelter. She was slender indeed but not the width of a lamppost. Jane peered around the side of it, hoping her cloak and the dim light of the watery, winter day hid her identity. Lady Straughton was bidding goodbye to her companion. She helped the other woman into a hackney, a most peculiar thing as they had both just come from Lady Vaxson’s tea. If either of them required transportation, the Vaxson butler should have been the one to fetch it for them.

  Jane stayed where she was as the hackney pulled away. Lady Straughton lifted her hand in a solitary wave before continuing on down the street. Jane was not sure how long it was that they walked, but her mind ached by the time they reached their apparent destination as her feet had merely begun to protest. The cold chapped her cheeks faster than she had expected, but she had kept on her pursuit, unable to let her prey escape. Lady Straughton was up to something, Jane was sure of it. Even if she were no spy by War Office standards, Jane was still quite adept at observing, and when Lady Straughton turned into a coffee house on Oxford Street, Jane stepped in moments behind her.

  If it were odd that Lady Straughton should seek out a coffee house after just coming from a social tea, Jane did not think on it. The woman had also engaged in discussion regarding dead bodies in a foreign language at said social tea, so the coffee house seemed rather mundane by comparison. Straughton sat at a table on the fringes of the room, leaving an empty chair across from herself. Jane took a set behind the lady, keeping her cloak up despite the sudden warmth in the heated room.

  She shook the water droplets from her woolen cloak as steam rose about her person. The room was neither packed nor empty, a steady stream of patrons lingered or came and left as seemed to be the normal occurrence for the establishment. Jane ordered a pot of tea when a young girl approached her even though Jane would rather cut off a toe than drink any more tea that day. But appearances were key just then. If Lady Straughton were to turn about, Jane had to at least look like she were a patron of the coffee house. The young girl quickly returned with a steaming pot wrapped in cloth to keep it warm along with a decanter of milk, which Jane turned away. Just a lump of sugar for her. No need to waste the milk. The young girl curtsied before moving on.

  Jane watched Lady Straughton over the rim of her teacup, not bothering to sip. The steam rose into the chapped skin of her face, and she felt her body begin to warm from the core outward. Straughton, too, had a wrapped pot of tea before her, only two cups had been placed on the table instead of just one. Straughton expected company then. Jane waited, and if she held her breath, she did not hold it against herself. It was to be pointed out that this was her first spying expedition. Some leniency was merited.

  When the gentleman arrived to occupy the seat across from Lady Straughton, Jane set down her teacup. She needed all of her mental energy to remember every detail of the man. He was rather tall, perhaps over six feet, with stooped shoulders as if he had been bent by physical labor all of his life. Jane nearly upset the teapot on her table as the image of the man digging up old graves floated into her mind. She mustn’t jump to conclusions. She was certain that rule could be found in that same book concerning spy vocabulary. The man also carried a walking stick, although he did not appear to use it. His clothes were well made but worn as if he had once been able to afford such finery but no longer. Also of note was the scar above his left eye. It was large enough for Jane to spot it across the room, and it made its way from the furthest edge of his eyebrow, disappearing into the hairline above and to the right. It looked garish even in the dim light of the coffee house. Whatever exchange occurred between the parties, it was brief, as the man left only minutes after he arrived, carrying his walking stick in his right hand. Jane did not miss the envelope he tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket before he left the table and bid Lady Straughton a good evening.

  Jane looked out the windows of the coffee house and only noticed then that darkness had fallen. A shudder passed through her, but she brushed it off. Making it to the street before Lady Straughton, Jane hurried down the pavement a few steps, treading carefully into a stoop a few doors down. She waited there until her suspect made her way onto the street and hailed a hackney. The conveyance pulled into the traffic, and Jane emerged from her hiding spot.

  Without much more than a passing thought moving through her mind, Jane reentered the coffee house, motioning to the young girl who had brought her tea only moments before. As the girl approached, Jane dug in her reticule, hoping there was currency of some sort left in it or else she would have to bargain with the girl over jewelry of which Jane wore very little.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  The girl was painfully thin with rambunctious hair that spiked from beneath a stained and wilted kerchief, but her eyes were bright and her smile soft.

  “The woman who just left, the one who met the gentleman earlier, do you by chance now the gentleman’s name? The one with the walking stick?”

  The young girl looked momentarily confused, but Jane’s fingers struck something metallic just then. Pulling her hand free from the reticule, she flashed the silver at the girl, whose look of confusion instantly vanished, eyes widening.

  “I’ve heard her call him Morris,” she said, raising a hand to accept the silver.

  Jane held the currency a little higher.

  “Have you heard of what they speak?” she asked.

  The girl blinked, obviously thinking back, but her eyes remained blank.

  “I’ve never really heard much other than his name and hers. She’s got a very lovely accent,” the girl smiled at these words, and Jane flicked the silver into her outstretched palm.

  “Your assistance is much appreciated,” Jane said and left the coffee house.

  Adjusting her cloak, Jane stepped up to the street to hail a hackney. When the driver asked her destination, there was only one place for her to go.

  “Lofton House, please. It’s important, so do hurry,” she said.

  ~

  “I do not care which of you thought of it,” Richard said, glowering at both of his sons, fisted hands on hips as he stood in the middle of the nursery, “I only care that you never think to do it again.”

  “But it would have worked,” Nathan grumbled.

  Richard looked down at the mess of linens the boys had assembled to make a ladder out of the nursery window.

  “Whether or not your e
xperiment would have seen success is not the point. The point is that such an endeavor is elementally dangerous, and you are not to try it again.”

  “Jane would have let us try it,” Alec whispered then, and Richard looked at him.

  “Then perhaps Jane shall not be allowed to play with either of you again.”

  Nathan shoved Alec.

  “Now look what you’ve done.”

  Richard would have stepped in to defend his younger son, but he knew it wasn’t necessary. Alec shoved Nathan back, only harder and with more precision, sending the older boy onto the floor. Only then did Richard step in.

  “Enough. Both of you are to go to bed early and think of what you’ve done.”

  He did not wait to see if he would be obeyed but turned and left the room, shutting the door carefully behind him. He paused in the hallway to let out a breath and wish once more that Emily had not died in childbirth. But as soon as the wish slipped from his mind, he quickly called it back. For it was not Emily he wished were there at that moment. It was Jane.

  And on that thought came another of regret for it was unlikely Jane would ever be there in such moments. Winton’s damage had been great, and Jane was unlikely to ever wed again even if he waited until the end of her mourning period to propose. His stomach clenched on the thought, and he moved, hoping exertion would erase the thought from his mind.

  It had taken so long for he and Jane to be able to be together and thinking of her never truly belonging to him gave him actual fright. He couldn’t bear it, and he did all that he could to pretend it didn’t matter. He reached his study on the main floor moments later, settling in before the fire with a rather full glass of whisky and a copy of Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man, obtained surreptitiously through a source at the War Office. There was concern that the publication was starting something of a radical movement in England, and the Office wanted its agents well versed on the subject should it become necessary to act.

  Richard had only read two pages of the drivel before he felt that the single glass of whisky would not be enough. But before he could turn to the third page, the door to his study burst open, the solid wooden structure colliding with the wall behind it with such a tremendous bang, the glass of whisky shot out of his startled hand as he rose to see who the intruder may be. He was already reaching for the poker beside the fireplace to use as a weapon as he turned to see who it was.

  Jane stood just inside in the door, her chest heaving with labored breaths, her hands frantically pulling at the ties of her cloak.

  “It’s Lady Straughton,” she said as one of the ties came free in her hand. She flung the garment from her body, the woolen cloak falling forgotten on the floor. She ran to him then, her fists grabbing fistfuls of his shirt.

  She was freezing. He felt the cold coming off of her and drew her into his arms, instinctively trying to warm her, but she shook him off.

  “You need to listen to me. It’s Lady Straughton. She’s organized the ressurectionists. I do not know for what purpose or how, but I know it’s her.”

  She shook him with each pronouncement, and his head wobbled on his shoulders. He finally grabbed her by the hands and held her steady.

  “What are you going on about, and why are you so cold?”

  “I was outside this afternoon for longer than I had expected, but that is not the point right now. You need to follow Lady Straughton.”

  “Whatever for?” Richard asked, running his hands up and down Jane’s shoulders.

  The fact that she was not trembling despite the apparent chill that gripped her body did not seem to penetrate his consciousness. He coddled her even as she clearly did not require it.

  “Because!” she cried, and she pushed against his chest hard enough to knock him back a step.

  Jane’s hands dropped to her sides momentarily, and even he stood motionless as they both took in what she had just done. Jane had never been very physical in their relationship. He had always been the one to start something more, and the current physical expression Jane was exhibiting was uncharacteristically vibrant.

  Richard dropped his hands to his side and waited for her to continue, his curiosity piqued.

  “Lady Straughton is leading the ressurectionists. The ones you have been tailing,” Jane said when she finally regained her compsure.

  But Richard was already shaking his head before she finished.

  “Lady Straughton is..well, she’s a woman,” he said plainly.

  Clearly, Jane must have experienced a lapse in good judgement. A lady would never organize and lead a band of body snatchers. Women did not have the acumen or the ability. It quite simply was impossible.

  Jane stared at him. He felt the need to swallow but thought it would be too great a sign of weakness.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jane finally asked. “She’s a what?”

  Now he did swallow.

  “She’s a woman?” he tried to say again, but it came out as an unintended question.

  Jane took a step toward him, and he would have taken a step back. But such a move would have ended with him stepping into the flames of the fire at his back, and he did not care to be set aflame just then.

  “And why is that an important fact, Your Grace?” Jane said, but her voice was much too quiet for his liking.

  He swallowed again.

  “Pray you continue with your story, my lady, and I will think of why it’s important that Lady Straughton is a woman,” he said.

  Jane continued to stare with narrowed eyes, but her breath had evened out, and she stood rather calmly before him, her hands loose at her sides. He noticed her dress then, or rather, the unremarkable quality of the black gown.

  “You are not dressed for evening excursions, my lady,” he said.

  He did not know much about ladies’ fashions, but he knew enough to notice the fact that Jane quite clearly wore a day gown. It was now nearly eight o’clock, and Jane should have been wearing proper evening attire if she were adventuring about the city at such an hour. The fact that she was not had him stepping forward, thankfully away from the fire behind him, and gripping Jane’s hands.

  “Perhaps you require a drink for this,” he said.

  “As long as it’s not tea,” she replied, and he quirked an eyebrow at her.

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll explain along the way. A glass of whisky, please,” she said, moving to take up the chair he had just vacated.

  “Perhaps a glass of brandy would be better,” he said, moving to the cabinet that held the liquor.

  “Whisky, Richard. You know if I am going to imbibe, I prefer the strong stuff.”

  “Right,” he said, although he watched her carefully as she took a seat and picked up his discarded copy of Rights of Man.

  “Are you truly reading this?” she asked.

  “War Office issued.”

  He poured a finger of whisky in a glass and held it out to her.

  “More,” she said without looking up from her perusal of the text.

  He raised an eyebrow that she didn’t see and poured more of the spirit into the glass.

  “Would you mind if I borrowed this from you when you are finished? It is quite the talk at the College,” she said, setting down the text in exchange for the glass he offered her.

  He blinked once, but replied, “Of course. Now then, what were you saying about Lady Straughton? And who is Lady Straughton?”

  He moved to retrieve his own glass, carelessly forgotten on the floor when he had been startled by her abrupt entrance. He retrieved a fresh glass, filled it, and assumed the seat across from hers.

  “The Countess of Straughton. I believe her given name to be Necole. French, of course. Married the earl some time ago, although not long enough to have assured the passage of title yet.”

  Jane spoke clinically, and Richard thought it likely the only way Jane could speak of such a topic.

  “I overheard Lady Straughton speaking to another unknown companion today about de
ad bodies in cemeteries and something about providing much wealth.”

  Richard watched Jane, enjoying the way the firelight seemed to add warmth to her even as her dark widow’s garb pulled it out of her. The contrast was so startling that Richard lost the trail of conversation for a moment. He blinked and quickly picked it back up.

  “Where did you overhear such a thing?”

  “Lady Vaxson’s tea. The one she holds every month.”

  “Even in Novemeber?”

  Jane nodded.

  “Lady Vaxson will hold tea regardless of whether or not people are in town. Lord Vaxson is so committed to his town life that I doubt he ever visits his country estates. Fashionability be damned. Lady Vaxson makes the most of it.”

  Jane paused long enough to take a sip from her glass.

  “But it was at tea this afternoon that I overheard Lady Straughton. I thought the conversation odd considering what we had just discussed regarding your recent assignment from the War Office. I couldn’t help but listen, and well, I…”

  She trailed off long enough to give Richard a start of concern.

  “And what?”

  “I followed her.”

  Richard stood up, a second glass of whisky tumbling to the floor.

  “You did what?” he said, his voice unchecked as it rose a decibel or two.

  Jane stood as well, calming him with an elementary shushing motion.

  “Oh, it wasn’t as grand as all that. I simply left the tea after her and followed her to a coffee house.”

  Richard felt the blood pound at his temples. Jane had not only followed a possible suspect in his assignment, but she had followed her into a radical coffee house. Jane could have been confronted with all manner of liberal thinkers and revolutionists. He gripped her shoulders as if his physical touch could convey the sense she clearly lacked.

  “Do you know what kind of danger you put yourself in?” his voice was low and level, and he knew she understood how serious he was when her eyes lowered, unable to look at him. But she surprised him by quickly recovering.