How to Seduce a Duke (23 page)

When she reached the library, she stopped just outside and spread the ornate crimson shawl carefully over her arm.

This is madness.

Utter madness.

But even she had to admit that with each day that passed, the tale of Mrs.
Fitzherbert’s
babies was getting harder and harder to deny.

Mary arrived at Lady
Upperton’s
Cavendish Square home two hours later.

She was not alone, for both Anne and Elizabeth were with her.

Nor did she arrive empty-handed. Carefully folded and concealed inside the basket swinging from the crook of her arm rested the Kashmir shawl.

Quite possibly, the shawl Lady Jersey had whisked from her own shoulders and used to swaddle the secret babies.

But they would need Lady
Upperton
and Lord
Lotharian’s
assistance to be sure.

When the
Royle
sisters were ushered into the library, Lady
Upperton
was, as she was oft found, sitting on the settee serving tea.

“Do not move your cup,
Lotharian
. Leave it still on the tabletop.”

“I heard you the first time, dear lady.” Lord
Lotharian
glanced up. Noting the presence of the footman waiting to announce the sisters, he brought a finger to his lips to silence the girls.

“All I need to do is touch this cord and... ” She reached out and gently pulled a piece of corded silk.

She wrung her hands and held her breath as a metal contraption of some sort wheeled forward until it bumped the tea dish.

Elizabeth, unable to restrain her curiosity, crept forward and stood behind the settee where Lady
Upperton
sat.

“Watch now.” The old woman began to giggle with excitement. “The tea server has not spilled even one drop since I made the adjustment to the handle tension. Not one drop, I tell you.”

Though Mary was near bursting with the news about the Kashmir shawl, she knew that at this moment, nothing was more important to Lady
Upperton
than her tea-pouring mechanism.

Lady
Upperton’s
invention stood at least two feet high, quite large for such a small tea table. At least a dozen or more metal wheels spun and connected and resembled, more than anything else, the moving workings of a grand clock.

The server lowered a thin wire a finger’s width into the cup. A tiny bell began to ring, and a silver teapot tipped forward and poured steaming tea into the dish until the liquid met the wire tip.

Abruptly, the teapot was righted, and four small wheels transported the server to its starting position on the far end of the table.

“Brilliant!”
Lotharian
cried out. “Why, ladies all over England shall be
clamoring
for a mechanized tea server.”

“Well.” Lady
Upperton
angled her head, making her appear very proud indeed. “They can
clamor
all they like. No one shall have a server such as this but me.” She giggled again. “Honestly, I have begun working with the power of steam. I have finished with tea servers for now.”

“My lady, if I may.” The footman cleared his throat. “My lady, Lord
Lotharian
, the Misses
Royles
have arrived.”

The elderly inventor raised her brows. “Yes, I see that. Do be seated, gels.”

She looked at the young women and reached out her hand to greet each one, before returning her gaze to the footman once more. “Mayhap I should begin designing a mechanized announcement system.” She lifted a white eyebrow at her
inperturbable
footman.

Mary hurried to sit down on the settee. “Lady
Upperton
, I must speak with you on a matter of great importance.”

The lady and Lord
Lotharian
shared a private, knowing glance.

“No doubt you do.” She settled her hand atop Mary’s and squeezed it. “I have already had one young visitor this day. Would you care to guess who that might have been, Miss
Royle
?”

Confusion was plain on Anne’s and Elizabeth’s faces.

Mary had not yet decided how to admit to her sisters what had happened between her and the Duke of Blackstone. But she did know that doing so now, and in the presence of Lord
Lotharian
, one of the most famed rakes of all, was not the best way.

“Lady
Upperton
,” she began. “I will venture to guess that the Duke of Blackstone called upon you. But please, let us not speak of him now.
Please.
” Mary hoped her pleading gaze imparted the meaning she hoped.

Elizabeth rose and snatched Mary’s basket from her. “We have stumbled upon a clue... no, more than that—we may have evidence of our noble birth!”

“Evidence?”
Lotharian
leaned forward, his interest highly piqued. “What have you got there in the basket?”

Elizabeth plunged her fingers into the basket, but before she could withdraw the shawl, Mary stilled her sister’s hand.

“First, we need to know if you can get us into the Harrington gallery without raising suspicion.” Mary looked pointedly at the elderly pair.

“Why, certainly.” It was clear that Lady
Upperton
could not wait to have the contents of the basket revealed to her. Her words came forth in a torrent. “I can appeal to Sir Joseph’s pride in his paintings. And Lord
Lotharian
, here, is a master of distraction. But why, dear, do you need to enter the gallery?”

“Because we found something hidden inside one of Papa’s document boxes,” Anne announced.

“Last night, during the musicale,” Mary explained, “I might have seen something in Lady Jersey’s portrait that quite closely resembles—
this.
”

Mary gave Elizabeth a nod, and her sister slowly lifted out the fragile Kashmir shawl and laid it across Anne’s awaiting arms.

Lord
Lotharian
lifted his stunned gaze from the ornately patterned crimson shawl and looked straight into Lady
Upperton’s
widened eyes.

“Good Lord. Could it be?” he asked.

“I daren’t allow myself to believe it.” Mary swallowed deeply. “But, yes, this may be Lady Jersey’s shawl.”

“Do you know what this may mean, gel?”
Lotharian
asked.

“I do,” Mary replied solemnly.

M
ary would never have guessed that Lady
Upperton’s
clever way of gaining entry into the Harrington’s gallery that evening would have involved Rogan, the Duke of Blackstone.

But it did.

Nor would she have believed that she herself would have been dangled as bait to lure the duke into unwittingly participating in their scheme.

But she was.

She had no recourse in this matter, for she had not admitted the twining of her bared body with Rogan’s to anyone. Well, except the maid, Cherie, but since Cherie could not speak, Mary knew she could be trusted to keep her silence.

So Mary just did her best to avert her eyes from the duke as Sir Joseph and Lady Harrington led their party into the gallery that evening.

“Blackstone,” Sir Joseph began, “Lady Harrington and I are honored that you remembered our hospitality and were able to extend to us invitations for the Heroes’ Fete this night.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Sir Joseph.”

Sir Joseph bowed over his round belly. “Lady Harrington was beside herself with excitement when Lady
Upperton
called this afternoon. The newspapers reported that Wellington himself might return to London in time to attend.”

Rogan rocked slightly on his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am pleased you and your lady will be able to join us.” He slid an annoyed glance at Lady
Upperton
. “Shall we be going? My brother is being honored at the fete, and I do not wish to miss a single moment.”

To her horror, Mary saw that Elizabeth and Anne had walked away from the group and were standing below the portrait of Lady Jersey.

“
Er
... yes, I agree, we should be going very soon,” said Mary, “only I wonder, Lady Harrington, if you and your husband might allow us to view the paintings in the dining room. I fear Lady
Upperton
and I, due to the popularity of your musicale, were unable to make our way in to see them... though we heard that there is a landscape that is particularly stunning.”

Lady Harrington was beaming. “Why, certainly. Do come this way. I know just the painting you mean.”

Lotharian
noticed the
Royle
sisters beneath the portrait of Lady Jersey.

“Oh, Miss
Royle
,” he said to Mary. “I wonder if you could fetch your sisters and join us in the dining room momentarily? I see they are quite taken with the paintings here, but do not be too long. The Heroes’ Fete awaits.”

Then he swung his arm around Rogan’s shoulder and brought him in line behind Lady
Upperton
and Sir Joseph and Lady Harrington. “I daresay, Blackstone, from what I hear, you will not wish to miss it.”

The minute the others had left the gallery, Mary rushed over to her sisters.

“Now, Mary, let us see and compare.”

Mary glanced about to be sure no servant had wandered into the room. Then, she whisked from her shoulders her
Platoff
cape of pale pink satin and handed it to Anne, revealing the folded, gold-threaded, crimson Kashmir shawl beneath it.

Elizabeth lifted it gently from Mary’s shoulders and held it up before the painting. “Oh my word.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes welled with unshed tears. “Do you see—do you see?”

Mary did see. Anne saw too.

The hand-woven pattern, which would have taken the weaver months to complete, was identical.

The crimson background was exactly the same.

The spare use of hair-thin gold-hued threads... why, there was no question.

The Kashmir in Elizabeth’s hands, though stained and aged, was in fact the same shawl as the one in the portrait of Lady Jersey.

The fine hairs at the back of Mary’s neck rose up, and though the air in the room was thick with heat, a chill raced up her body and over her scalp, as if she’d been touched by a
specter
. She wriggled, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling.

Anne’s face went white, and she suddenly pitched forward. Elizabeth dropped the shawl and lunged to catch her sister just before her head met the floor.

Mary crouched beside Anne, while Elizabeth tried to pat the color back into her sister’s cheeks. “Anne, Anne?”

Anne smiled and shook her head. “No need to fret, Mary. I am well. ’Twas just the excitement.”

“The excitement of what?” came Rogan’s familiar deep voice from the far side of the gallery.

Elizabeth’s eyes were wild as she met Mary’s startled gaze.

Mary did not turn around but remained crouched before Anne. Her fingers scrabbled for the shawl, finally catching the edge and dragging it toward her.

Mary could hear his approaching footsteps.

Quickly, she lifted the
Mechlin
lace hem of her
underdress
and shoved the shawl as high up between her skirts and chemise as she could manage.

As she rose, she clenched her fingers around the flowing China crape overdress and the layers beneath, and held the shawl in place as best she could as she stood.

She forced a pleasant smile and looked straight into Rogan’s eyes. “What excitement? How amusing you are.” She manufactured a laugh. “Why, Your Grace, tonight’s fete is only the most grand social event of the season.” A smirk pulled at her mouth then. “And we are just country gels, as you so often remind me.”

“The carriages are at the door. We are leaving.” He peered down at Anne, still on the floor resting against Elizabeth. “Is everything all right? Shall I call for assistance?”

Mary glanced over her shoulder at the portrait of Lady Jersey, then back at the duke once more. “Everything is splendid, Your Grace. Quite splendid, indeed.”

Lending her sisters a hand, Rogan helped them to their feet. “Very well, then. Shall we go?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Anne replied as she snatched up the pink satin cape and positioned it around Mary’s shoulders for her.

The sisters’ gazes leapt from one to the other before Anne and Elizabeth started for the passage, glancing nervously back at Mary every few seconds as she followed along behind them with Rogan.

She gripped the shawl through her skirts and walked very slowly, praying that the shawl—the evidence, perhaps, of their lineage—would not fall to the floor as she moved.

Rogan offered her his arm, and she knew she ought to take it, if only to avoid unwanted scrutiny, but there simply was no way to accept it without dropping Lady Jersey’s shawl.

So instead she spurned him, earning herself an almost inaudible growl of disappointment from the duke.