The following morning was bright and beautiful. It took a bit of organization to ready the search party, given that the staff was not informed of it until Anthony mentioned it to Phelps as he was heading in to breakfast. He asked that everyone be ready to leave within the hour, which put a bit of a strain on the butler’s features, but, being the dutiful servant that he was, he simply said, “I’ll see to it right away, Your Grace,” and then departed, leaving Anthony to enjoy his eggs and ham with Winston and Huntley.
It was nine o’clock by the time they set out, the horses as eager for a burst of fresh air as the men who rode them. Having made a simple plan during breakfast detailing who would cover which parts of the town, Anthony, accompanied by a footman, rode toward the eastern side of Moxley, while Winston, Huntley, and the rest of the footmen veered off in other directions.
Arriving at a neat row of houses, all white with black roofs, Anthony handed the reins to his accompanying footman and proceeded to climb the front steps. A butler answered, and, having stated his purpose, Anthony showed the man the sketch that the artist had made of him and Miss Smith the previous evening, inquiring if he recognized the woman. A shake of the head indicated that he did not, so Anthony moved on to the next house, where the process was repeated.
And so it went all morning, without the slightest bit of luck. Granted, the picture that Anthony had of Miss Smith was one where her face was partly obscured by the mask she’d worn, but he felt certain that anyone who knew her well would recognize her anyway. He let out a sigh of frustration, for it did seem as though the ground had somehow swallowed her up.
“Any luck?” he asked Winston and Huntley when they rendezvoused at the Sword and Pistol tavern in the middle of the day.
“None at all,” Winston said, chasing the sandwich he was eating with a gulp of ale. “Nobody has recognized her based on the drawing, and if you ask me, it’s a pretty good drawing, even though our copy was traced from the original.”
“We still have a few parts of town left to visit,” Huntley said, sounding optimistic. “I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.”
“You’re right,” Anthony agreed. Still, he couldn’t ignore the sense of doubt that settled over him. They’d visited all the homes belonging to the gentry, which meant that if Miss Smith did indeed reside in Moxley, it was becoming increasingly unlikely that she was of noble birth, or even the daughter of an affluent business owner. Unless of course her butler had deemed it necessary to protect her and had given no indication that he knew her.
Anthony sighed. It was possible—butlers were notoriously protective of their masters and mistresses. Of course it might also have been possible that her family had fallen on hard times and had been forced to move into cheaper accommodations. That would explain her need to marry a man who didn’t appeal to her taste, although, if that was the case, Anthony saw no reason why she couldn’t as easily marry him.
Something stood in the way—to her mind at least. Only two solutions presented themselves. She or her parents had either made a promise that she felt honor bound to keep or . . . Anthony steeled himself. What if the Deerfords were right? What if the gown she’d worn had belonged to their long-lost daughter? He had no idea how Miss Smith might have happened upon it, though he supposed she might have received it as a gift from someone—perhaps Lady Margaret had been in need of money and had sold it. Miss Smith’s suitor might then have bought it, offering it as a gift. No, that would be inappropriate. Perhaps Miss Smith had stolen it then? Whatever the case, Anthony found himself unable to dismiss the possibility that Miss Smith was a simple woman from a simple family—a lowborn ignoble, to put it bluntly.
With renewed determination, Anthony kicked his horse into a trot and headed toward the less affluent part of town, his heart filled with a mixture of certainty and apprehension. He was a duke. He couldn’t marry just anyone, could he? Determined not to worry about it until his suspicions had been confirmed, he tried to relax. He’d always enjoyed a good challenge. Even if Miss Smith turned out to be the daughter of a blacksmith, he’d still find a way to make her his. He wasn’t sure how he’d do it, but he would. Somehow.
Two hours later, he’d visited every house situated between Mill Road and Hill Street. He’d walked down Church Lane and was now turning onto Brook Street, exhausted and lacking the hope he’d had when he’d set out in the morning. It was entirely possible that Miss Smith had only lived in Moxley as a child and had since moved away to another neighboring town. If this was the case, it would be near impossible to find her.
Leaving the footman to keep an eye on the horses, Anthony unlatched the gate leading into the front garden of a small thatched cottage that sat apart from the rest, on the very edge of the town. It was a quaint little place, with daffodils and hyacinths filling up the flowerbeds. Anthony stopped to stare at them, then looked toward the cottage. Miss Smith had spoken fondly of daffodils—they were her favorite flowers. A coincidence perhaps, but one that demanded further investigation.
Shoulders back, Anthony strode up the pathway toward the front door and knocked. Nobody answered. He knocked again. Still nobody answered. Discouraged by his lack of success, he turned to go, but paused at the sound of a door slamming somewhere toward the back. Someone was there; there was still hope that this last person would be able to give him a useful bit of information—unlikely perhaps, but possible.
Skirting the building, he rounded a corner to discover a maid who appeared to be busy at work in the vegetable garden. It looked as if she was digging up new potatoes and tossing them into a basket. “Excuse me,” Anthony said, keeping a reasonable distance so as not to frighten her.
The woman looked up and then immediately rose, bobbing a curtsy while she hastily tried to brush the soil from her hands.
“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but nobody answered the door when I knocked, so when I heard a noise coming from back here, I thought I’d see if anyone was at home—save myself the trouble of having to return at a later hour.”
“My apologies, sir, but the Chilcotts are not at home right now. You’re welcome to wait of course, or leave your calling card if you prefer.”
Anthony didn’t bother to correct the maid’s improper form of address. She’d no way of knowing that he was a duke, and detesting the thought of acting like a pompous aristocrat, he determined to keep quiet about his heritage. “It’s been a long day,” he said, feeling suddenly overcome by a heavy feeling of weariness. All he wanted was to go home and sit in his favorite chair in the Kingsborough Hall library and enjoy a glass of brandy. “I will be back tomorrow. Perhaps you can recommend a more convenient hour for me to call.”
“If it’s Mr. Chilcott you’re seeking, he’s hardly ever here except during the evenings and on Sundays.”
Anthony really didn’t feel like waiting or venturing back out later in the day. He gave the maid a pleasant smile. “Well, perhaps you can help me then. You see, I’m looking for a woman who attended the Kingsborough Ball last night. If you’d please take a look at this drawing, I’d be most obliged.”
Holding the piece of paper up for the maid to see, Anthony watched her frown. She took a moment, but eventually shook her head. “She holds no resemblance to anyone I know,” she said.
Well, so much for that.
Thanking her, Anthony slipped the drawing back inside his jacket pocket, turned, and began making his way back toward the front of the cottage when something caught his eye—a piece of fabric stuck in a window. It fluttered slightly, and Anthony watched it shimmer as the yellow threads captured a bit of sunlight. Leaning forward, Anthony reached out and gave it a gentle pull, freeing it. A smile tugged at his lips as he straightened himself. The maid had clearly lied to protect her mistress, for it did appear as though he’d just discovered Miss Smith’s whereabouts after all.
Tucking the fabric safely away in the same pocket as the picture, and with more of a spring to his step than he’d managed all day, Anthony continued back to where the footman stood waiting. “Let’s go home,” the duke said, feeling both cheerful and relieved. He had plans to make now—plans involving a proper social call to Mr. Chilcott and flowers to . . . Miss Chilcott? He couldn’t be sure of her real name just yet, though it was fair to assume that she had to be Mr. Chilcott’s daughter. He would have to discuss it with his mother of course. She’d probably swoon at the thought of a lowborn woman becoming his duchess, while the gossip-rags would have a splendid time writing about it all in every detail—a price he was willing to pay nonetheless.
“Do you have a moment, miss?” Marjorie asked shortly after Isabella’s return from the shops.
As usual, Isabella hadn’t bought anything—she never did, she simply liked to browse. And after everything that had happened last night, she’d been in desperate need of some fresh air, as well as something to distract her from all the guilt she felt at betraying her mother, her hasty departure from the ball, lying to everyone and getting her sister into trouble for helping her do all of these things.
And then of course there was Mr. Roberts to consider. He’d be joining her for afternoon tea tomorrow. However would she look him in the eye without feeling like the most wretched woman to have ever walked the earth? She could picture him now, all proper and perfectly starched as he sipped his tea, oblivious to the fact that the woman he meant to marry had snuck out of her house in the middle of the night, traipsed across the countryside, kissed a duke and, most deplorably of all, lost her heart to said duke.
She pushed the thought aside and eyed her maid. “Certainly,” she said, growing curious as she noted Marjorie’s troubled expression. “Right this way.”
They entered the parlor, where Isabella took a seat while Marjorie remained standing. “A gentleman came to call today,” Marjorie said without preamble. It was one of the things Isabella liked best about her—she was always direct.
“Oh? And did he have a name?” Isabella asked, frowning. The only gentleman who ever came to call was Mr. Roberts, but Marjorie knew him, so it had to be someone else. A growing sense of uneasiness began to tickle her skin.
“He didn’t give me one, but he showed me a picture, miss—one that looked an awful lot like you, if you don’t mind my saying so. I might be mistaken of course, given that there was a mask covering part of the face, but I’m familiar enough with your features to be sure.” Her gaze dropped to the floor and she quietly said, “It was a very good drawing.”
Isabella sucked in a breath. Good Lord! She swallowed hard as she tried to collect herself and stop her hands from trembling. “What did you tell him?” She grasped the fabric of her skirt and twirled it between her fingers.
Lifting her gaze, Marjorie looked directly at Isabella. “That I didn’t recognize the woman in the picture.” She paused momentarily before adding, “I think he believed me, for he seemed rather disappointed and left shortly after.”
Isabella nodded. “You did the right thing by not telling him that I live here. Thank you.”
The corners of Marjorie’s mouth tightened into an odd little smile. “There’s something else you ought to know, miss. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”
“What?” This wasn’t happening, it simply was not.
“Forgive me, but he’d already inquired as to when it might be more likely for him to encounter Mr. Chilcott before I realized that he was looking for you. I’m sorry if this puts you in a difficult position.”
“It’s all right, Marjorie.” Isabella’s voice sounded faint to her own ears. She felt light-headed and on the verge of falling into a state of panic. “You didn’t know.”
“Once again, I’m truly sorry,” Marjorie said, bobbing a curtsy as she exited the room, closing the door behind her.
Isabella sat in perplexed silence for a long while after. He’d found her, and all because he’d caught her off guard the previous evening during the fireworks display. She was sure that had to be it, because she’d been careful otherwise.
Blast!
Her mind whirled as she tried to think of how best to address the situation. He might be back tomorrow, but he still didn’t know that he’d found her. Perhaps she could talk to her father—warn him of the duke’s impending visit. And, she decided, she’d have to tell her mother as well. Isabella dropped her head into her hands at the thought of it and groaned. After their argument the previous evening, she’d rather hoped to avoid having to discuss the Kingsborough Ball with her again—had hoped that they could just carry on as if it had never happened. She didn’t want to tell her mother any more lies though.
With a deep sigh of resignation, she pulled herself together, rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen. She’d ask Marjorie to help her prepare a cup of hot cocoa. Cocoa made everything better—especially when it was served with scones topped with cream and strawberry jam.
“Of all the stupid things you could possibly do,” Isabella heard her mother say as they sat across from one another at the dining room table that evening. Her father, seated at the head of the table, was being his usual nonconfrontational self and had said nothing as of yet. “Have you no pride?”
“Of course I do, Mama. This has nothing to do with that. The duke—”
“I beg to differ,” her mother said, cutting Isabella off and pointing her fork directly at her daughter as if it had been a sword. “You’ve made a mockery of the Kingsboroughs by sneaking about the way you did, acting as if you had a right to be there. I daresay the duke will be incensed when he discovers the truth about you, and then where will we be? Only the Regent holds more power than a duke, Isabella. What if he decides to have you arrested? I’m sure he can find a way if that’s what he wishes, or worse, he might insist on making you his mistress.”
Isabella blanched. “He would never make such a demand,” she muttered. “He was kind toward me even though he knew I’d told him a Banbury tale. He knew me to be an imposter, and yet he allowed me to stay, as did his mother.”
“Hmf!” her mother retorted, taking a sip of her wine. “And that doesn’t worry you? You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Isabella.”
Isabella had been in the middle of cutting a piece of chicken, but she paused at her mother’s words and slowly raised her head to look at her. “What do you mean?”
Her mother took a deep breath. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that he should have tossed you out?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Did he make any advances on you?”
Isabella dropped her gaze. Her cheeks were burning as she quietly said, “He kissed me.”
“And you let him?” Her mother’s tone was sharp and accusing.
“I . . .” A sigh of defeat escaped Isabella’s lips. “Yes.”
“Then I am right—as unfortunate as that is. He has designs on you. That’s why he didn’t ask you to leave. His mother’s wishes would have been inconsequential. He’s the duke, and judging from what you’ve just told us, it’s quite clear that he was—”
“That’s enough!” Isabella watched in stunned silence as her mother froze, her mouth dropping open in response to her husband’s outburst. She turned her head toward him. Isabella turned too. “Nobody is going to make a mistress of my daughter,” he said, his voice deep and rough and desperately protective. “I’ll meet with the duke and explain the situation properly to him. I’m sure he’ll understand.” He looked at his wife. “And I would like to caution you, madam, against speaking of such things when there are children present—it’s unbecoming.”
They all turned to look at Jamie, who was seated opposite her father at the other end of the table, eyes wide with interest. She looked vastly entertained by the discussion taking place, but she wisely fixed her attention on her meal, quite possibly hoping that this would make her invisible.
“I only meant to draw attention to the severity of the situation,” Isabella’s mother said, her tone a little softer than before as she turned her gaze away from her youngest daughter and regarded her husband instead. “It’s obvious that she’s caught the duke’s attention, so if he’s out looking for her, it’s also obvious that he wants her.”
“He’s known to be a reasonable man, love. I’m sure he’ll leave Isabella in peace once I’ve had a word with him.”
Isabella doubted it. After all, she’d told him repeatedly that they couldn’t be together. As if to confirm this fear, her mother said with incredulity, “Reasonable? He’s one of the worst rakes this country’s ever seen! Why, he and that friend of his were notorious for leaving a blazing trail of ruined maidens behind them in their youth.”
Isabella saw her father frown. “I believe that’s highly exaggerated, my dear, not to mention that the duke is older now and has proven himself quite responsible these past five years or however long it’s been . . . I forget.”
“All I can say,” Isabella’s mother said, “is once a rake, always a rake, and a duke is a dangerous man to meddle with to begin with. You know as well as I that these sorts expect to have their way.”
There was a look in her mother’s eye that Isabella couldn’t quite place as she stared back at her husband—as if the two of them were sharing a silent exchange.
Jamie’s fork clattered against her plate as she accidentally dropped it, distracting Isabella from her pondering. “What if she’s right, Papa?” she asked in a muted tone. “What if he won’t listen?”
“Then we may have to resort to different measures.”
“Such as?” Isabella’s mother asked, her eyes still riveted upon her husband.
“Such as encouraging Mr. Roberts to propose right away. Once you’re married, the duke will have no choice but to abandon all thought of you.”
It was true, and a simple plan. Yet Isabella felt her shoulders slump as she expelled a deep breath. There was a feeling of emptiness inside her that she feared might never be filled. Pushing back the tears that threatened at the thought of marrying a man she did not love when the man she truly desired had declared himself eager to court her, she stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork. It was a fate she would have to accept. Social standing would make it difficult for the Duke of Kingsborough to show any interest in making her his duchess, and it was unlikely he’d wish to once her father spoke to him. Her mother was right. If he still wanted her after discovering that she was nothing more than the daughter of a carriage driver, he’d want her as his mistress. It was disheartening to consider, but in this instance she had to agree with her mother—being realistic was of far greater importance than being romantic.