Chapter Nine

“Y ou look like something the cat dragged in,” Aunt Matilda commented as Jess walked into the dining room the next morning for breakfast.

“That’s not true, and you know it.” At least Jess hoped it wasn’t.

“I suppose not.” Auntie squinted at her through her spectacles that were still perched on her nose from reading the morning paper. “You look worse.”

Jess shot a chastising grimace at Auntie, then winced at the sight of food on the side table, especially the kippers and sausages, as she sank into her chair. She wasn’t at all hungry, and the thought of food roiled her stomach. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Well? Ha! She didn’t sleep a wink. Her busy mind had kept replaying over and over her encounter with Lucien Grenier on the terrace in the darkness, and her heart kept scolding her for liking it so much.

Because she had liked it. A great deal.

Good Lord, how could she be attracted to someone who was so terrible? His heart was surely shriveled and black. If he had a heart at all.

Worse—he was supposed to become her brother-in-law, which was as good as a brother. Which meant she had no business thinking of him as anything other than a priest. A very old, very ugly, very smelly priest.

But the truth was that he was young and fit, far from ugly, and the way he’d smelled…simply delicious. Jess had never realized until last night that any man could smell that good. The only men with whom she’d ever been close enough to catch a whiff of had been her father when he’d fallen unconscious on the floor and she’d had to pull him onto the rug in front of the fire— he had smelled of cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume—and a few dandies who had stolen kisses at soirees. Those men had smelled so much of bergamot and cologne that simply being near them had given her a headache. But Lucien smelled faintly of spices, leather, and musk, and he had filled her senses in a way that left her craving more. And the things he had whispered in her ear were utterly wicked and far more exciting than she wanted to admit.

No, not a priest but Lucifer himself, who apparently knew well how to tempt away ladies’ souls.

Since the night she’d stumbled across Lucien and Amanda together in the darkness, Jess had wondered how Amanda could have fallen for such a rake.

Now she knew, and her sympathy for her sister only grew.

“Why didn’t you sleep?” Matilda pressed as she spread strawberry jam on a piece of toast.

“I was painting.” She’d returned home last night and gone straight to her makeshift studio, where she spent the rest of the night painting and drawing like a woman possessed, sorting through her pigments, sharpening her pencils— anything to keep her mind from replaying what had happened on the terrace. But none of it had helped. By dawn, she was still as confused as ever, and now she also felt like a traitor. She’d only gone with Lucien because of Amanda, but what had happened between them had nothing to do with saving her sister.

“Yes, dear. But why were you painting?” Matilda pressed.

“Because I couldn’t sleep.”

“Because you were painting.”

“Yes.”

“And the wheels on the carriage go round and round,” her aunt mumbled. With a pointed brow, she reached for her cup of chocolate and mused, “Perhaps it had something to do with a certain duke.”

Jess’s shoulders slumped. If she couldn’t even fool Auntie, there was no point attempting any more dissembling. “We had an interesting…”

“Encounter?”

“ Conversation. ” She narrowed a reproving look on Matilda. “I’d approached him about Amanda.”

“You mean he approached you . I saw him lead you away from Mr. Caulderfield.”

Jess wisely ignored that and reached for a plain piece of toast from the rack. Her stomach couldn’t handle anything more substantial this morning. “I wanted to give him the opportunity to explain himself and do the honorable thing by agreeing to marry her.”

“And did he?”

She grimaced and snapped the toast in two. “No.”

The blackguard did neither. Instead, he had the audacity to look surprised when she’d mentioned the baby, as if he’d had no idea. As if! Of course, he knew about her sister’s unfortunate situation. Amanda had explained it all in her letter to him, only for him to callously reject her.

“Well, you were certainly out on the terrace a long time if all he did was say no.” Matilda slid a knowing glance across the table at Jess as she deftly decapitated a kipper. “Was that really all that happened?”

“Yes.” She covered that lie by popping a piece of cold toast into her mouth.

“That’s not what Mrs. Peterson reported after you returned to the ballroom.”

Her heart stuttered. Good Lord, the Petersons had seen her with Lucien in the shadows! Her sleep-deprived, kiss-troubled mind had momentarily forgotten that.

She forced down a hard swallow of toast. “Mrs. Peterson was mistaken.” She flicked imaginary crumbs off her fingers to give herself a moment to think of what to say. “It was a simple misunderstanding, that’s all. His Grace was a perfect gentleman.”

“She said you slapped him.” Auntie popped a strawberry into her mouth and mumbled around it, “Hard.”

“Yes. Well. As I said, there was a misunderstanding.”

“She said the duke was touching your cheek.”

“Not my cheek. My hair.” She couldn’t look at her Auntie as the lies tumbled out, so she fixed her gaze on the small glass of orange juice that their butler Simms set in front of her. Her stomach roiled. Heavens! She couldn’t look at the orange juice either. So she stared at the small honey pot. “He saw something in my curls.”

“Something?”

“A leaf. The wind was blowing—there were leaves on the terrace, you see, and they were stirred up by the wind—and one must have lodged itself in my coiffure—and he reached up to pluck it off. All perfectly proper.”

“Then why did you slap him?”

“Because I didn’t know he was being proper.” If she kept digging, at this rate she’d find herself in China by noon. “He’s a notorious rake. That sort of men do all kinds of improper things with ladies when they think they’re alone in the darkness.”

“You were alone in the darkness.”

“We were not alone. The Petersons were there.” She punctuated that point by reaching for the chocolate pot. Perhaps the thick liquid inside would settle her stomach. “That’s why I slapped him,” she prattled on quickly. “I thought he was trying to touch my hair, but that wasn’t at all the case. He was simply going after a leaf. So you see, the fault was all mine. More chocolate?”

“Please.” Auntie slowly held out her cup, but her gaze never left Jess’s face. “Chocolate is always good when listening to fairytales.”

Jess rolled her eyes and set down the pot with a loud thud. “Auntie, do you really think I’d allow myself to be charmed by that bounder?”

“Amanda did.” She picked up the pot herself to finish the pour. “If rumors can be believed, so have half the women at Almack’s, Covent Garden, Vauxhall, and the Royal Academy of Arts’ summer exhibition.”

“That is not true, and you know it.”

“What I know is that both my nieces have encountered that man in the shadows in the past year, and neither of them were themselves after.” She pointed her cup at Jess. “You need to stop this before it goes out of control.”

“I am trying to do exactly that.”

“No. You are trying to finagle that man into marrying Amanda.”

“Someone has to.” How could she live with herself if she didn’t help her sister?

“Not at the price of your own reputation.” Matilda put down her cup and placed her napkin on her plate, signaling the end of breakfast, if not their conversation. “Does Amanda want you interfering in her life like this? Maybe she doesn’t even want to marry Crewe.”

“Of course she does.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been writing letters to her about it.” Not technically a lie. Jess had done exactly that. She’d sent long, detailed letters about her plans for the duke and Amanda, their soon to be born child, and how everything would be put to rights.

Amanda simply had yet to reply.

But when she did, Jess was certain she’d agree with her. Besides, if the ends justified the means, then what harm was there in manipulation?

The front door knocker reverberated through the small townhouse.

Matilda frowned. “Who on earth could that be at this early hour?”

Jess glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly noon.”

“As I said, at this early hour.” Matilda shook her head, surely conjuring all kinds of bloody and ruinous thoughts that would have brought someone to their doorstep so early in the day. “Simms, would you see to the door, please?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The butler nodded, then hurried away toward the front of the house.

“Auntie, do you think—”

“Shh!” Matilda crossly shushed her, then cocked her head in the direction of the front door so she could hear better. The two women fell silent for several minutes, but they were too far away to hear anything except a few footfalls and muffled male voices.

Simms returned, carrying a large package. “A delivery for Miss St Claire from Meade’s Printing House.”

Jess popped up from her seat. “It must be about the book.” She gestured toward the end of the side table. “Put it there, please, Simms.”

He did so, then pulled a letter from his pocket and held it out. “And this, too, Miss.”

“Thank you.” Jess accepted it, recognizing the handwriting. It was from Jonas Stevenson, the former Bow Street Runner she’d hired to investigate Lucien, forwarded on as a favor by Mr. Meade.

She quickly broke the wax seal, unfolded the letter, and scanned her eyes over the page. It was more information about the Duke of Crewe. Yet she caught her breath because it wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

He was expelled from university during his first term in Oxford…

Well, perhaps that wasn’t so unexpected. But the rest had her toes curling in her shoes.

…served as a mercenary during the wars, first with the Prussians and later in Spain. He excelled in reconnaissance and sabotage, sometimes keeping up false identities behind enemy lines for weeks at a time. He continues to lie about his past and to hide his true activities during the wars.

The Duke of Crewe had hired himself out as a mercenary? She hadn’t known that. No wonder his heart was black as coal; he’d already sold it away in the wars.

…continues to regularly participate in illegal boxing matches in the warehouses along the docks and spends several nights each week visiting various brothels across London, usually at Madame Pierre’s, where he has been reported spending hours in a room at the top of the brothel with several prostitutes at once. Rumors claim the Duke of Crewe once owned at least two brothels in Seven Dials and still has contacts in London’s criminal underworld, especially with smugglers, fencers, and thieves.

She swallowed hard as a knot formed in her throat. She’d known Lucien possessed a bad reputation and that women, drink, and gambling occupied the majority of his waking hours. But she’d never expected secrets like these. He’d owned two brothels? Good Lord.

Could she trust anything she thought she knew about him?

I will have more information about his current activities soon. Please forward the agreed upon payment at your convenience. In the meantime, do not trust him with—

“Who’s that letter from, my dear?” Matilda asked, still seated at the table and deftly decapitating another kipper.

“Oh, it’s nothing important.” What was one more lie on top of all the others she’d told already today? “Let’s see what came from Mr. Meade.” Jess quickly tucked the letter into her pelisse pocket before Auntie could question her further about it and stepped forward to untie the string securing the paper wrapping. “I wasn’t expecting anything. It must be related to my illustrations. Mr. Meade said he might send over other examples of botany books for me to look at.”

A second rapping sounded on the front door.

“There must be another package,” Jess said over her shoulder toward the butler. “Would you please fetch it, Simms?”

He nodded and left the room.

She pulled away the paper, and her heart skipped. Not illustrations. They were the pamphlets she’d ordered from Meade last week. After the events of last night, she’d completely forgotten all about them. But here they were, a thousand copies of the reformer’s tract The Washerwoman of Finchley Common by the esteemed author Lady Emily Hornblower. The tract was filled with homely wisdoms about the blessings of simple piety, austerity, and abstinence from all vice—and on the top of the first page, a notice declared that it had been printed and distributed courtesy of the Duke of Crewe.

“Or it will be,” she mumbled to herself.

“Pardon, dear?”

Jess flashed a smile over her shoulder at her aunt. “Nothing important.” Just another chink in Crewe’s black reputation.

She hadn’t lied to Lucien. She wouldn’t relent in her attacks against his reputation until he agreed to marry Amanda, even if doing that had started to trouble her for some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Simms returned, empty handed.

Jess wrapped up the package again so Matilda couldn’t see what it was. “Where’s the second package?”

“No, Miss, not a package. You have a visitor.”

“Oh?”

“His Grace, the Duke of Crewe.”

Her heart stopped. When it lurched back to life a moment later, she had no idea if she’d been spared or cast into hell.

Auntie recovered from her surprise far faster than Jess. “Are you certain it’s the duke?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He held out a cream-colored calling card with Lucien’s name and title printed plainly across the linen.

Jess stared at it as if it were poisoned and refused to take it. She ordered hoarsely, “Please send him away.”

Matilda stopped Simms with a small wave of her hand. “Jessamyn, you cannot do that!”

Oh, for heaven’s sake… “Why not?”

“For one, he’s a duke. No one—especially not people of our rank—send away a duke, even if he’s arrived at such an unrespectable hour.” As if to punctuate her point, the long case clock in the corner struck half past noon. “Second, what if he’s here to discuss marriage to Amanda?”

Oh, Jess knew better! “I really don’t think—”

“Simms, ask him to wait the drawing room, if you will, then hurry down to ask Cook to send up a tea tray. Right away!”

The butler nodded and left.

“Auntie, you really should not have done that,” Jess scolded. “You know what that man has done to Amanda and how he refuses do the honorable thing.”

“Which makes his arrival here all the more intriguing, don’t you think?” Matilda turned to check her reflection in the large mirror over the sideboard and fussed with her hairpins. “Given all that, why on earth would he be here without an invitation or any kind of notice? Seems to me that our drawing room should be the last place we’d expect to find him.” She pinched color into her cheeks. “Aren’t you absolutely curious?”

No, Jess was absolutely ill. “I—I’m not feeling well.” She didn’t have to pretend too hard. Her reflection in the mirror had already turned pale. “I think breakfast might be disagreeing with me. I should go up to my room.”

“Nonsense. You had one bite of dry toast.” Matilda turned toward Jess. She pulled at Jess’s long sleeves to smooth them into place. “It’s good he’s here, though. You will speak to him, apologize—”

“Apologize to him?” Never. “Why should I do that?”

Matilda leveled a no-nonsense glare at her. “Did you or did you not just send Hannah More a letter purporting to be from His Grace in which he vociferously gushed out his deep respect for all her reform work?”

“I never signed that letter.” No, because that would be forgery, and even she wasn’t mad enough to do something like that. She’d simply implied that it was from the duke.

“But you sent it. My point has been made.” Auntie pinched lightly at Jess’s cheeks to put color into them. “So you will take this opportunity to do what you should have done last night.”

“Pardon?” she squeaked out. Surely, Auntie knew nothing about what she had wanted to—

“You will call an end to all this nonsense you’ve been doing to him,” Auntie explained. “You cannot win, not at this.” Sadness filled her eyes even though she didn’t meet Jess’s gaze, focusing instead on straightening the runaway collar of her pelisse. “As I’ve said before, Amanda is not meant for a man like him.”

Jess’s eyes and nose stung at that soft rebuke. If her sweet, beautiful, and kind sister wasn’t good enough for someone of Lucien’s status, then Jess would never be. Not that she wanted him —she did not!

“And do not slouch. No duke likes a slouch.”

Jess blinked. “What on earth are you—”

But Matilda had already linked her arm through Jess’s and pulled her toward the hallway. Auntie proved far stronger than Jess would have given her credit for, and far more obstinate.

The harsh reality struck her like a slap. There would be no getting out of this.