JOSIE WAS SITTING near the fire at the Hare and Hound, a pub near the London docks, the Pinkerton across from her, when she overheard a conversation between two gentlemen at the next table.
“The duke is completely pockets to let. If he doesn’t find a rich wife within the month, he’s going to lose everything.”
The word “duke” had caught her attention, but she was still only half listening, when the other gentleman said, “I heard he’s advertised both here and abroad seeking an American heiress.”
Josie was startled to realize that, if everything Mr. Thompson had told her on the endless train ride from Berwick-upon-Tweed to London was true, she qualified as “an American heiress.”
“I heard Blackthorne’s turned down at least a dozen girls. Too conceited. Too loud. Too brassy. Too bossy.”
Both men guffawed at the last pronouncement, apparently imagining the haughty duke being pussy-whipped by a woman he’d been forced to wed.
Josie froze in place. Blackthorne was seeking an American heiress? He had to marry? And in the next thirty days?
“Time to go, Miss Wentworth,” Mr. Thompson said, rising from the table.
“Not yet,” she said. “We have something to discuss.”
The Pinkerton eased back into his chair. When she said nothing, he asked, “Is there something else I can do for you, miss?”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson, there is. You can find out the truth of the matter those gentlemen were just discussing.”
“You mean whether the Duke of Blackthorne is, in fact, seeking an American bride? The answer is yes, he is. He needs a rich wife, and he’s too proud to seek her among his peers.”
Josie smiled. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you were listening. Or that you know the answer to my question.”
He smiled back. “A Pinkerton never sleeps.”
Josie huffed out a breath. There it was. The answer to all her problems. She could offer the duke her inheritance to release the Lords Spencer and Clay Wharton into her care. Surely he would be happy to have the means to save his estate without the burden of a wife. Before she could change her mind she said, “How would I manage an introduction?”
The Pinkerton looked startled. “To the duke? For what purpose?”
“I want him to release the two boys you met at Tearlach Castle into my care. I’ll happily give him my fortune in exchange.”
Mr. Thompson steepled his fingers under his whiskered chin. “Are you aware of the precise amount of your inheritance, Miss Wentworth?”
Josie made a face. “I suppose it’s not enough, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, miss. It’s substantial. More than a million, I should say.”
Josie gasped. “Dollars?”
“Pounds, miss.”
Josie’s heart was beating a fast tattoo in her chest. “That should be enough, wouldn’t you say, to induce him to give the boys to me?”
The Pinkerton chuckled. “I suppose it depends on how much value he puts on his nephews.”
“None at all, from what I’ve seen over the past two years,” Josie retorted. She glanced down at the plain gray dress and black half boots she was wearing, then lifted a hand to the braids wrapped tightly around her head, which Mrs. Pettibone had insisted she employ to restrain her blond curls. “I can’t meet the duke looking like this. Do you think I could obtain the funds to dress myself properly?”
“I don’t see why not, miss. I’d be glad to act as an intermediary for your meeting with the duke, if you wish.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. That would be wonderful!”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replied. “The duke may already have chosen a bride.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
The Pinkerton quirked a brow, and Josie explained, “Even if he’s secured one fortune, surely he wouldn’t turn down another.”
Mr. Thompson looked doubtful. “There’s no understanding the Quality, miss. Sometimes what they do makes no sense to anybody.”
“I can’t disagree with that. I need to see a modiste and a hairdresser. I don’t want to look like a supplicant, even though that’s what I’ll be.”
Josie parted ways with the Pinkerton, who left her with Miss Harriet Brownlee, the most expensive dressmaker in London. Harriet spoke French to her assistants and English to Josie, which consisted primarily of tsk, tsking about her clothing and hair.
Josie was careful not to give the modiste or her assistants the opportunity to see her back. She insisted on undressing and dressing herself in private. The terrible wounds she’d suffered two years ago had long since healed, but her back contained rivers of mutilated flesh that she couldn’t look at without shuddering. She still felt pain on occasion, if she jerked and the scars pulled. But once she was dressed, there was no way to tell that, once upon a time, she’d been savagely whipped.
Miss Brownlee brought in a hairdresser, because she didn’t want Josie leaving her establishment wearing one of her fabulous frocks with the hair of a washerwoman.
When Miss Brownlee and the hairdresser, Monsieur Pierre, were done, Josie could hardly believe what she saw in the mirror. Sparkling blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face, a dainty nose sprinkled with freckles, full lips, and even white teeth—which was when she realized she was smiling with delight at the transformation in her appearance.
“Why, I’m…”
“Stunning,” Miss Brownlee said with a satisfied smile.
“Magnifique,” the French hairdresser added, kissing his fingertips.
“You look devilish dashing, Miss Wentworth,” one of the assistants, to whom Miss Brownlee had spoken in French, said with a cockney accent.
Miss Brownlee lifted a disapproving eyebrow, and the girl disappeared behind a curtain.
Josie had grown up as the daughter of wealthy parents, so once upon a time, she’d been used to nice things. But it had been five years since the Great Fire of 1871 had killed her parents and sent her and her siblings to the Chicago Institute for Orphaned Children. Since then, she’d worn homemade muslin dresses and had her hair cut by her sisters.
The long-sleeved, powder-blue silk taffeta dress designed by Miss Brownlee buttoned to Josie’s throat, then followed her form to the waist. The skirt fell in folds to the pleated hem. Matching silk-covered buttons lined the bodice from throat to waist, and embroidered flowers decorated the sleeves at the wrists. Miss Brownlee had provided ivory kid high-top shoes that buttoned up the sides. Josie’s hair had been trimmed so bangs swept away from her face, and a small satin bow held her hair at the crown, leaving shiny blond curls falling onto her shoulders.
She’d grown nearly three inches in the two years since she’d come to England, and she was taller than average. At eighteen, her face and form had fulfilled the promise of the beautiful young woman she’d once been destined to become. The only visible hint that she’d been badly beaten about the face was a slight bump on the bridge of her nose.
“A gentleman is waiting for you in the parlor,” Miss Brownlee said, gesturing Josie in the right direction. “Are you sure you don’t want more than one gown?”
“One is all I’ll need,” Josie said with certainty.
“I’ll dispose of the garment you wore on your way here.”
Josie smiled wryly. That had been her very best Sunday dress. But those days were behind her. She would keep enough of her inheritance to get herself and the boys back to America. Surely she would be able to stay with one of her sisters until she could find work to support herself.
Josie never considered marriage. There was no way to hide her scarred back from a husband, and she couldn’t imagine anyone not becoming nauseated at the hideous sight. She would die inside, if a man she loved cringed from her. Better not to put temptation in her path. Better not to fall in love in the first place.
“Good heavens.”
Josie grinned at the Pinkerton’s shocked expression, then twirled around, so he could look at her from all angles. “I take it I pass inspection.”
“I’ll say, miss.” He put a finger in his shirt collar to pull it loose. “Near took my breath away, you did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. Were you able to make arrangements for me to see the duke today?”
“Wasn’t easy, but luckily, he hasn’t made his choice yet, so his solicitor said yes to your request.”
Josie was suddenly nervous and realized she hadn’t acquired a fan or a purse to keep her hands busy while she was with the duke. “Excuse me.” She turned and headed back into the dressmaker’s salon. “Miss Brownlee?”
“Have you forgotten something, Miss Wentworth?”
“I need a handkerchief.”
Miss Brownlee pulled a delicate, lace-trimmed hanky from her pocket. “You’re welcome to this one. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Josie took the handkerchief, smiled, and said, “That’s all. Thank you. For everything.”
As she turned and left, she was already wringing the handkerchief like a washrag. How many times had she used a washrag on those two dear, dirty faces? More times than she could count. Soon the duke’s nephews would be hers to take care of forever after, and it would be deep copper baths and soft cotton washcloths, instead of a wooden tub and a worn-out rag.
“Hang on, boys,” she whispered. “I’ll be there soon to take you away. And we’ll all live happily ever after.”