Chapter Eleven

P utting down her paint brush, Jess stepped back to assess her work on an illustration of a red flower whose name completely escaped her. Not that it mattered. Her job wasn’t to learn anything about the flowers; her job was to present them in the best possible position to show off their features.

She had managed to do just that, too. On this one, at least. There were others she needed to spend more time on, still others she needed to travel back to Kew to sketch in more detail before the season ended and the flowers went dormant. But for now, she was making excellent progress.

A heavy sigh sagged her shoulders, and she wiped her hands on her apron. She was exhausted. Last night had been another sleepless night. Well, not entirely. She had managed to fall asleep a few times between tossing and turning in bed, but each time, her dreams had been filled with Lucien, and not all of them had been the wonderful dreams of before. Finally, she’d given up well before dawn, slipped out of bed and dressed, then came down to her studio to once more throw herself into the refuge of her work.

That was proving to be the only good thing about her confusion over Lucien. It had been incredibly productive for her art, letting her create some of the best work she’d ever done with her illustrations. She’d even been tempted to pick up her oil paints again.

She walked to her work table where she kept her supplies and sketches and began to sort through the pieces of chalk she’d thrown into a small drawer, but her thoughts kept drifting to Amanda.

Was it possible her sister had lied to her? If she had, what reason could she possibly have had for violating Jess’s trust? Jess had written a letter to Amanda immediately after Lucien left their house yesterday. In it, she demanded to know the truth— needed to know it, if she were to help her sister out of her situation.

But the security of having that letter on its way to Ireland didn’t stop Jess from anxiously waiting and worrying.

“Or writing again, just in case,” she muttered to herself as she went to the small writing desk and withdraw a piece of stationary, quill, and ink pot.

She paused, took a deep breath, and wrote,

Sister,

What happened in the garden between you and the Duke of Crewe— exactly ? Is Lucien Grenier truly the father of your baby? I desperately need to know. Please reply as soon as you receive this missive.

Always Your Loving Sister—

Jess

No polite greetings, no unnecessary rambling. Just right to the quick of the matter, which was for the best, too, although as Jess stared down at the letter, her heart was torn. Part of her didn’t want Lucien to be the father. But if he wasn’t, then that meant Amanda had been lying to her for months.

She had no idea which one of them she wanted to be telling the truth.

She fanned the paper in the air to dry it, then folded and sealed it. Fighting to keep her hand from trembling, she wrote the direction on the outside. She gave a firm nod of determination, pushed herself away from the desk, and took it through the house to the front hall.

Simms and the other servants had long ago started their day, even if the sun had been up for only an hour, with Auntie still tucked warmly in her bed where she would remain for several hours more.

She gave him a tired smile. “Good morning, Simms.”

“And you, Miss.” He gave her a polite nod. “Shall I tell Cook to prepare your breakfast?”

“Only a chocolate pot, please, sent to the garden room. And when you ask Cook for the chocolate, could you please ask her to heat up water for a bath when it’s convenient?”

“Of course.”

“And this.” She handed him the letter. “Would you put this into the morning post? I’ll also need you to arrange a hackney this afternoon to take me to Lady Holkham’s garden party.”

“Of course, Miss.” He paused. “You have a delivery.”

“Oh?” She glanced out the sidelights. The street was still empty, the neighborhood around them not yet awake. She wasn’t expecting anything, certainly not this early. Good heavens, had she ordered more of those silly pamphlets by mistake?

“I’ve put it into the drawing room for you,” Simms told her.

“Thank you.”

She went into the drawing room and stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening. A gigantic flower arrangement sat on the tea table. She blinked, then scowled. Surely, it was from Sir Percival for her work on the illustrations, yet not so much a thank you gift as sheer bribery to hurry up and finish her illustrations so his book could be published sooner.

Her mouth twisted as she picked up the card tucked into a burst of pink roses. Hmm…only her name, no message. But beside the arrangement was a neatly folded copy of the most popular gossip rag in London, a broadsheet Jess would never have been caught dead reading but one which Matilda read as religiously as the Bible.

How odd. She picked it up. Perhaps it had been left here for Auntie by mistake.

A letter fell out onto the tea table. Her brow tightened into a sharp frown. It was the letter from Mr. Stevenson which she had misplaced as soon as it had arrived. But how on earth had it gotten here? She looked back at the broadsheet, and her heart stopped.

A news item halfway down the page was circled in red pencil. A rumor that Lucien Grenier, Duke of Crewe, had become secretly engaged…

To Miss Jessamyn St Claire.

The paper slipped from her stunned fingers and landed on the floor at her feet.

*

That afternoon, Lucien rapped the brass knocker on the front door of Lord and Lady Holkham’s new Palladian villa.

It was a lovely house, he had to admit. More than a house—a figurative bridge. Located at the edge of Marylebone, it sat just far enough into the fields beyond London proper that Holkham was able to snatch up the property for far less than other lords were paying for similarly sized parcels in the more fashionable areas of Mayfair, yet close enough to the park to maintain a certain respectability among the ton . Oh, it was nothing compared to Brixton House, the St James’s townhouse of the Dukes of Crewe for the past one hundred years and where Lucien currently resided.

But then, Holkham actually owned his home. Thanks to his father, Lucien was simply usurping his.

The house also bridged Holkham between the world of the peerage and the wealthy middle-class Cits that seemed to be popping up everywhere. The baron was part of the newly rich and not-yet influential who hadn’t found their foothold among the beau monde , which meant they had to look further down the social ladder to find people to lord over. Which was precisely why Jessamyn St Claire had been invited to today’s garden tea, because she was considered lesser, although Lucien knew the frustrating gel would outshine every other woman present despite their jewels and finery.

The door opened. The butler swept an assessing glance over Lucien from hat to boots and immediately recognized him as part of the quality…although quality what , exactly, Lucien had always been tempted to ask.

“Lucien, Duke of Crewe,” he told the man without preamble.

The butler’s mouth fell open. Then he recovered himself and shook his head apologetically. “His lordship is away for the afternoon and will not—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here to see her ladyship.”

Without waiting for an invitation to enter, Lucien whisked off his hat and stepped past the man into the house in one smooth motion. He placed his hat in the surprised butler’s hands.

“I heard Lady Holkham is hosting a garden party this afternoon for her favorite charity.” He stripped off his gloves and coat and piled them with the hat. “I want to make a donation. Where might I find her?”

The stunned butler glanced down the hall toward the rear of the house even as his mouth flapped open and closed like a fish’s, without producing a sound.

“Excellent.” Lucien rubbed his hands together. “I’ll find the way myself.”

Lucien turned on his boot heel and strode through the house, following the growing sound of women’s voices and the tell-tale clinking of tea dishes.

For a gentleman to invade a ladies’ garden party was foolhardy under the best of circumstances, but for a rake to breach one without invitation was nothing short of madness. For once, he simply didn’t care. He had declared war on Jessamyn St Claire, and if the only way to press her into leaving him alone was going on the attack, then so be it. He’d cross the fiery pits of hell—or attend a ladies’ tea party—to do so.

He stopped in the doorway of the garden room. A sea of muslin dresses and ostrich-feathered hats greeted him from one end of the large room to the other, along with the rush of the sweet scent of flowers piled in vases of all shapes and sizes and the earthy aroma of tea being generously splashed into bone china cups. As if one, the two dozen women in the room all looked his way, then froze, their faces darkening with expressions of utter disbelief.

He pulled in a steadying breath. Fiery pits of hell, indeed.

“Good afternoon, ladies.” He sketched a bow to the room at large and smiled. “Don’t let me interrupt your tea.” Although that was exactly what he had planned and was doing a bang-up job of it so far.

He could have heard a pin drop in the sudden stillness of the room.

A plump woman in a green sprigged muslin dress who had been standing in the corner with two footmen came toward him. Her old-fashioned hat stretched nearly two feet above her head, and its sculpture of feathers, emeralds, Belgium lace, and starched organdy teetered precariously on her head as she lowered into a curtsey before him, bringing Lucien’s suddenly wide eyes even with the stuffed bird on her crown.

“Lady Holkham.” He nodded at the dead dove. “How good to see you again.”

She rose, her hat moving unsteadily on her head. “Your Grace! What a pleasant surprise.”

She certainly sounded surprised. Downright stunned, in fact. He didn’t blame her. Surely, it wasn’t often that a wayward duke stumbled into her ladies’ charity meetings, let alone one with his wicked reputation.

“My sincerest apologies, my lady, for interrupting your tea.” He meant not a word of it. “I’m looking for Miss St Claire,” he explained, letting his gaze move languidly around the room and ignoring the ladies’ collective sudden intake of breath. “Her butler said I could find her here. Do you happen to know where she is? I only need a moment of her time.”

From the rear of the room, he heard a chair scrape softly across the marble floor, and a slow movement broke the tableau. Jessamyn. She rose to her feet and glared at him with all the fiery fury of Vesuvius.

“What do you want, Your Grace?” Her voice was icy enough to freeze the Thames.

The devil inside him couldn’t help answering… “You.”

The single word sent up a round of gasps and whispers among the women who had undoubtedly seen the rumor he’d paid dearly to have printed in that gossip rag, the one claiming he and Jess were secretly engaged. A rumor , nothing more. He could deny it in a few days, once again pay dearly to have it retracted, and the entire incident would come to nothing.

In the meantime, however, he would make her life hell unless she promised to leave him alone.

“You couldn’t possibly have any business with me, Your Grace,” she flung back. Her eyes bore into him, refusing to look away, yet she surely heard the tittering and whispering around her. “I’m not at all the sort of woman with whom you’re usually acquainted.”

The sharp jab of that made several of the old biddies around her gasp at her allusion to courtesans and merry widows. Eyes widened across the room. Yet none of them knew whether to look at him or at Jess, so their attention bounced back and forth like tennis balls.

Lucien grinned knowingly, as if sharing some kind of private joke with her. Which only increased the rising whispers. “Haven’t you heard, Miss St Claire? I’m turning over a new leaf by doing all kinds of good deeds.” And undercutting it all by this wholly scandalous display in Lady Holkham’s garden room. “For today’s good deed…” He reached into his inside breast pocket and withdrew the same necklace he’d used as an excuse for calling on her at home. “I found your necklace on the terrace at Lord Fitzsimmon’s ball, and I promised Lady Fitzsimmon that I’d return it to you.”

“It isn’t mine,” she forced out between clenched teeth. “As you well know.”

“Isn’t it? I could have sworn you were wearing it when we danced.”

“You are mistaken, Your Grace. We’ve never danced.”

Another knowing pause, another amused curl of his lips…and more whispers followed in its wake, just as he wanted. “Then we must have been doing something else together.” He saved her by adding after only a beat’s pause, “Like discussing the weather.” But the damage had been done. Exactly as he’d planned.

“It isn’t my necklace, Your Grace.” She clenched her hands into fists. “I am certain of it.”

That denial sent a wave of confusion speeding through the room. If they were truly engaged as the gossip rag insisted, then she wouldn’t have denied it. Pretending to return a lost piece of jewelry was a standard ruse when gentlemen wanted to give gifts to ladies they couldn’t openly approach. Yet if they weren’t engaged, he wouldn’t have followed her here in the first place. The women gaped, not knowing what to think.

“My mistake. I’ll return it to Lady Fitzsimmon.”

Yet he didn’t move to leave. Instead, he simply stood there and let an awkward pause settle over the room, staring with a smile at Jess as if he were admiring one of Lord Elgin’s Greek goddesses.

Lady Holkham stepped forward. “There’s no need for you to hurry away, Your Grace.” Her comment was forced yet colored by a thrilled tone in her voice that a duke had deigned to call on her. “Please stay and enjoy tea with us.”

That wholly insincere invitation was expected. Just as he was expected to reject her offer to join a room filled with matrons and painfully respectable misses.

Instead, he answered, “I would be honored to join you.”

A gasp of surprise went around the room, followed immediately by—

“You can’t!”

Every set of eyes in the room swung to Jess at that outburst, just in time to see her face flush scarlet.

“Oh?” Lucien asked, feigning innocence. “Why not?”

“Because you’re—” She stopped herself in mid-sentence, then snapped her mouth shut.

She knew she was trapped; he could read it on her face. She couldn’t say he needed to leave because he was a blackguard and so not fit for proper society, not when she was working so hard to reform his reputation.

So with an apologetic smile, she said instead to the roomful of women, “Surely His Grace has more important things to do than drink tea and talk flowers with us ladies.”

“Not at all!” He feigned wounding that she’d even suggest such a thing. “I love spending time with ladies. At the opera, at balls…” He brought the full force of his grin onto Lady Holkham, who was the only one he had to win over. “In lovely garden rooms having tea.”

Giggles floated over the tables at that bit of charming nonsense. But it worked. Lady Holkham’s cheeks pinked, and she quickly ordered her butler to find another place for their unexpected guest. At her table.

On the other side of the room, Jess sank onto her chair, still staring daggers in his direction. Smart girl, he thought, in keeping her silence like that. Any more outbursts would only bring increased whispers and rumors about them.

Sadly, it would be hard to rattle her further, now that she was on her guard.

But then, Lucien always did love a challenge.