The Duchess Hunt Read online

  Dedication

  For Barbara Dombrowski

  Who has been there from the beginning—

  Critique partner and collector of obscure facts

  But most of all, cherished friend

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Announcement

  About the Author

  By Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  London

  July 2, 1874

  Six weeks until the Kingsland ball

  If there existed a more unpleasant task in the world than selecting the woman who was to marry the man you loved, Penelope Pettypeace certainly couldn’t imagine what it might be. But then, during the eight years she had been secretary to the Duke of Kingsland, she had been beset with unpleasant tasks. She should be accustomed to them by now. The latest, however, was beyond the pale.

  Sitting at the desk in her small office in his London residence, using the green-marble-handled letter knife he’d given her one Christmas, she efficiently and quickly sliced open another envelope, preferring to keep the wax seal intact, withdrew and unfolded the heavy parchment, adjusted the position of her spectacles, and began scouring the words some young, naive unmarried miss had meticulously and with unbridled hope penned in response to the duke’s recent incisive advert seeking a noble lady of marriageable and procreational age to become his duchess. He’d done the same last year, with disastrous results.

  He’d made the selection himself, announcing his choice during a ball within this very residence, one she had arranged and overseen. She’d hovered in the shadows as the clang of the magnificent gong echoing to the far corners indicated he was on the verge of revealing his choice. She hadn’t known with whom he’d gone until all of London heard her name pass his lips: Lady Kathryn Lambert.

  For nearly a year, he’d courted the woman, but in the end, she’d turned him away in favor of a rapscallion with no title and a heritage that included a treasonous father. Kingsland should have learned his lesson then and there: one couldn’t take such an impersonal approach to obtaining a suitable wife.

  But no. A mere two days after the lady had rejected his proposal, he’d placed another advert in the Times, seeking an easy solution to a complicated issue: securing a woman with whom he could be content. Without even deigning to slit open any of the nearly seven dozen envelopes received and giving the carefully worded missives a read, he’d handed the task over to her.

  In spite of her upset with the chore, she took her duty seriously and had created a grid on butcher’s paper that nearly covered the entire top of her oak desk. She had a column in which she wrote the ladies’ names and one for each attribute she was rather certain the duke wanted in a wife, even though he hadn’t bothered with specific requirements other than the most pressing one: “I require a quiet duchess, one who is there when I need her and absent when I don’t.”

  And every woman wanted a man who was there when she didn’t realize she needed him. A man of charm and grace and insight. A man who didn’t mind being bothered when a woman simply wanted someone near to reassure her that she was of value.

  Hugh Brinsley-Norton, ninth Duke of Kingsland, was most certainly not that man.

  Yet Penelope Pettypeace had managed to fall in love with him all the same. Drat her impractical heart.

  He’d never encouraged her deeper affections, and she hadn’t realized she harbored them until he’d called out another lady’s name, and the words had struck her like a blow to the chest. As a matter of fact, it had been somewhat of a surprise to realize her depth of feelings for the man. Perhaps it was the trust he placed in her to see to his business affairs when he was away. He often traveled in pursuit of investment opportunities, a singular purpose to his life that left him with little time for other endeavors—such as a proper courtship. He was responsible for four estates—the dukedom, two earldoms, and a viscounty—as well as the welfare of those who were dependent upon them for their livelihood. Until she’d come to work for him, she’d always considered the aristocracy a spoiled and lazy lot, but he had shown her the truth of the matter: their obligations often fell heavy upon them. Her respect for him knew no bounds, and her heart had followed.

  “Miss Pettypeace?”

  “What the devil is it?” She jerked up her head to glare at the poor footman who had interrupted her. Then she felt contrite for having done so because his eyes had widened in astonishment and reflected a touch of horror, like someone who had come upon a large, hideous spider and realized too late that it had taken exception to being disturbed while weaving its web. “My apologies, Harry. How may I be of assistance?”

  “His Grace just rang for you from the library.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be there in a tick.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  As he immediately and quietly took his leave, she set aside the letter that had listed a host of talents: playing the pianoforte, singing, croquet, and fencing—that was a skill no one else had claimed thus far, would require the addition of another column, and might result in injury to the duke when the woman discovered he had no time to enjoy any of her proficiencies. Snatching up a paperweight of black marble upon which had been carved and embossed in gold, “The early bird catches the worm”—a gift from the duke after she’d been with him for a year—she set it on top of the letter to indicate she had not yet finished considering its author as a potential duchess.

  After shoving back her chair, she stood, patting her hair as she did so to ensure no wisps had escaped the no-nonsense bun. She made complete use of every minute of every day, doing a multitude of things concurrently whenever possible. Satisfied with her appearance, without even going to the trouble to look in a mirror, she began marching toward her destination, along the corridor that led to the kitchens, past the wall upon which hung the parallel line of bells—one for the regular staff, one for her—marking the rooms in which a bellpull had been tugged, past the staircase leading to her small bedchamber in the servants’ quarters. Then onward along another hallway to the weathered stairs used by footmen to serve a meal, the butler to answer the front door, the maid who saw to the needs of the dowager duchess when she was in residence, and the valet who tended to the duke. Stairs she was allowed to traverse to the main portion of the residence because she also tended to the duke, although not in a manner as personal as the valet. Still, she would argue her duties were much more important. As would the entire household staff, no doubt, because her presence kept things sailing on an even keel. Not once had the butler objected to her handling the duke when His Grace was in a foul mood.

  She’d have preferred her study nearer to where he worked, but he’d never asked her preference. Unfortunately, he would probably never do the same of his wife either. His focus was narrow, seldom venturing beyond the empire he’d built. The man cared about little more than making money and securing success at any cost. But the shrewdness, skill, and ruthlessness with which he managed hi
s business affairs had often left her quite breathless. It was a sight to behold, and she had learned a great deal from him, enough that she had managed, like many women, to invest her income in private businesses and government securities with astounding success. Never again would she be forced to do the unthinkable in order to survive.

  As she neared the library, a liveried footman standing at the door gave her a quick nod of acknowledgment before opening it. With her shoulders pulled back, her spine straight, her emotions girded, she strode in without giving the barest hint of how much the mere sight of His Grace always weakened her knees. It wasn’t his devilishly gorgeous features. She’d known handsome men aplenty. It was the confidence in his bearing, the directness in his steady gaze, the power and influence he wielded with ease. It was the manner in which he looked at her with no lasciviousness whatsoever. He viewed her as he might a man he respected, a man whose opinion he valued. And for her, who had never known any of that before him, it was an aphrodisiac.

  His dark hair, half an inch longer than fashionable—she would have to take up the matter with his valet—called to her deft fingers to brush aside the forelock that forever seemed to be in a state of rebellion, falling over his obsidian eyes as he came to his feet, unfolding that long, lithe body that any clothing would be fortunate to drape. That his tailor painstakingly ensured each stitch was perfect only served to make the duke more dashing.

  She’d seen him at breakfast, of course. He insisted she join him because ideas, musings, and things to be researched often entered his mind as he slept or upon first awakening, and they sometimes dictated how she spent her day. She was also prone to fits of stirring from slumber when solutions came to her regarding problems they were striving to solve, and she’d share them with him as they took their repast. It was a lovely way to begin her day, even when they had nothing to say and simply read the separate newspapers the butler ironed and set beside each of their places. The duke believed it to his advantage for her to be as informed as possible.

  “Pettypeace, splendid, you’ve arrived.” His deep, smooth voice created warmth in her belly like the brandy she enjoyed before retiring. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Lancaster.”

  She nodded toward the gentleman in the ill-fitting tweed jacket. “Sir.”

  “Lancaster, Miss Pettypeace, my secretary.”

  “A pleasure, miss.”

  She’d put him a couple of years past her own of twenty-eight. He had a hunger about him, an eagerness in his gray eyes as though he knew he was on the cusp of making a fortune, but she also sensed a wariness because he understood all hopes could be torn asunder with two small words from the duke: not interested.

  “Miss Pettypeace will be taking notes so I can consider the matter more fully later. I like to ruminate over investment possibilities, you see.”

  A polite way of saying he would be digging into Mr. Lancaster’s life until he knew the precise day and time and with whom the man had lost his virginity and, ages before that, how long he might have nursed at his mother’s teat.

  As unobtrusively as possible, she removed from her skirt pocket the pencil and small leather-bound notebook she always carried with her, slid over to a winged chair at the edge of the sitting area, adjusted her spectacles on the bridge of her nose, and sat. Both gentlemen took their chairs.

  “Right then, Lancaster, impress me with this scheme of yours that is guaranteed to make me wealthier than I already am.”

  King had the enviable skill of concentrating on more than one thing at a time, so as Lancaster waxed on about his invention—a clock that would emit an alarm at a particular time designated by its owner—he appeared to be giving his full attention to the inventor while out of the corner of his eye, he admired Pettypeace’s new frock. It was dark blue. Of course it was dark blue. She only ever wore dark blue. However, because he also possessed a gift for memory, he knew in spite of it not daring to reveal so much as the dip of her collarbones, it had two fewer buttons than any of her other frocks, the sleeves running all the way to her wrists were a slightly closer fit, and the bustle smaller. He wondered when she’d had time to have it sewn, but then, she was a paragon of efficiency. He’d once asked her why she always wore dark blue instead of a cheerier color, and she’d immediately taken offense. “Do you ask your solicitor why he doesn’t strut about in brighter jackets like a peacock?”

  Of course he didn’t. He didn’t give a damn about Beckwith’s attire, but she’d made her point. She took her position seriously and wore nothing to give the impression she was flighty by nature. Still, he thought a hunter green would accomplish the same result while also serving to bring out the green shade of her eyes, sharp eyes, clever eyes. They were the reason he’d employed her.

  A dozen men had applied for the position when he’d announced it. She’d been the only woman. She’d also been the only one to meet his gaze straight on, to never look away, to never flinch—not even when she’d lied. If she was a vicar’s daughter, he was a beggar’s son.

  He’d hired the best investigators, detectives, spies—and they’d been unable to discover a single thing about her. It was as though she’d not existed until the moment she walked into his office for her interview.

  He of the shrewd mind, who considered odds, was willing to suffer a loss for a larger gain, and weighed risks, had taken a hell of a big one with her—and given her the position. Without knowing anything about her other than what she’d shared that long-ago afternoon. And he had yet to regret it.

  She was a marvel. Quite possibly the most intelligent person he’d ever known. That, too, had been reflected in those emerald eyes of hers.

  Now they were concentrating on what she was scribbling as Lancaster spoke. She had perfect penmanship, no matter how quickly she wrote. Although at the moment, he knew she was using something she referred to as the Pitman method, a series of curls, slashes, and dots that made no sense whatsoever to him, but then they didn’t have to. She would translate it all and write it out later for his records. He seldom forgot anything but preferred to have the reminders all the same. Besides, she often caught the smallest of details that he might have overlooked or decided at the time had no bearing—only to discover later they were crucial. They were a team, she and he. Other than his three best mates from Oxford, he trusted no one more.

  Although he wasn’t certain she could say the same of him. Otherwise, why had she shared nothing else of her past, other than what she had that first afternoon? On the one hand, he felt he knew her as well as he knew himself. Yet he couldn’t deny the gaping holes that seemed to yawn wider with the passage of time. He told himself her past was of no consequence. She did what was asked of her and she did it flawlessly.

  Besides, she had a right to keep her secrets. After all, he was damned good at keeping his.

  But still, he sometimes wondered . . .

  He became acutely aware of the expectant silence looming around him. Uncharacteristically, he’d stopped listening intently, but he had the gist of what Lancaster was proposing. “Interesting. Your invention would put knocker-uppers out of business.” Those paid to tap on windows to awaken workers at certain hours. Lancaster appeared stricken by the notion, as though he’d not considered all the ramifications of his invention. “That said, all progress results in someone losing. Look at the railroads. Coach services are used less frequently, and inns along well-worn paths have fewer customers. But opportunities open elsewhere. People can more easily travel to seaside resorts, which are thriving as a result. So you’ll need a factory. That’s what you’re seeking from me as an investor, I take it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I shall consider it, Mr. Lancaster, but will need to do some research of my own first. Within a fortnight, we’ll meet again, in my London office.” He preferred its austere businesslike setting when the possibility of negotiations loomed. “I shall have an answer for you then.” As he came to his feet, he extended a card to the man as he also rose. “Leave your own card with
Miss Pettypeace. She’ll be in touch regarding the exact date and time for our next appointment.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  He rushed over to King’s secretary and gave her his card. She smiled. “Well done, sir.”

  Her response gave King no hint as to what she was truly thinking, because she said the same words, in that cheerful tone, to anyone who pitched him an idea, no matter how atrocious or ridiculous it might be. It was as though she knew what it was to never be encouraged, as though she wanted to provide hope in a world without any.

  Once Lancaster was gone, King dropped back into his chair, met his secretary’s gaze, and settled in to enjoy his favorite part of any investment opportunity. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Pettypeace?”

  As always when she shared her initial impressions, she removed her spectacles to gently massage the bridge of her nose. A few blond strands had attached themselves to the wire frames and managed to escape the prison of her severely secured bun, so they now dangled loosely along her temple and the edge of her jawline. They caught his attention because it was seldom any aspect of her was unruly. It made her an excellent employee, but suddenly he found himself wondering if she was done up with such precision after she retired for the evening or on her day off. Was what he saw every day merely a facade, or was it her true self? No nonsense whatsoever. He approved, and yet it bothered him to realize he didn’t know the sound of her laughter.

  “You will need to find a way to make them cheaply. Those who would benefit from this contraption will have few coins to spare for what most will no doubt view as a luxury item.” She settled her spectacles into place.

  “I quite agree, was thinking along those same lines.” He placed his elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin in his palm. Slowly, he rubbed his finger along his bottom lip. “I’ve seen something similar in France, but it can be set only to blare noisily at a particular hour, on the dot.”

  “Whereas Mr. Lancaster’s invention allows the alarm to go off at a precise moment of a particular hour, so someone who didn’t need to awaken until half six could sleep for half an hour more.”