The Accidental Duchess Read online

  I opened my mouth, but Myrtia, for once, cut me off rudely. “And I have not yet fully lived down the humiliation of being caught at going through Lady Chelmesley’s underthings!”

  “She never knew that you weren’t truly a thieving scullery maid!” Cecy replied, gaily. “And anyway, I was merely going to suggest that you have two options, Gwen. Or would that be too alarming of me?”

  I sighed. “And the first is?”

  “We attempt to learn what has happened to Milburn.” Cecy sounded a little huffy. “You do, after all, through your family, have access to the highest diplomatic circles.”

  “I suppose that couldn’t hurt anything,” I said. Actually, it was surprisingly sensible, if one were to consider the source. “Oh, but that won’t work as I’m not supposed to tell anyone that Cambourne’s Cambourne.”

  Cecy lifted a brow. “And you have followed that request precisely to the letter.”

  I flushed. “Well, I cannot imagine he meant you,” I said, realizing, as I did, that he no doubt had. I looked at her still-raised brow. “Oh,” I said.

  “Who else knows?” asked Myrtia.

  “Well, Mother and, of course, Violetta. And Father, and the two of you, and Milburn’s valet, I think, and Ladimer, and Reverend Twigge.”

  “He has not got the slightest chance of keeping this quiet,” Cecy said with conviction. “And,” she mused, “he must know that.”

  “But surely none of us will tell,” I objected.

  Cecy looked at me as though I had grown a second head. “I suppose allowances must be made for the shock having addled your wits,” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother would publish it in the Times, or possibly hand out leaflets herself in St. James Street, if she thought it would keep Cambourne married to you.”

  “But she hasn’t breathed a word,” I pointed out. “In fact, she blackmailed Reverend Twigge not to.”

  “She’s choosing her moment,” said Myrtia, slowly. “Waiting until she thinks it’s the right time to make it public in a way that would ensure neither of you can live it down. Is that what you think, Cecy?”

  Cecy nodded. “I’d go odds that’s precisely what she’s doing and Cambourne knows it.”

  I looked at both of them. This was my mother they were talking about. The woman who bore me and raised me and … “Oh, dear,” I said, dully.

  Cecy leaned over. “But all this is diverting us from the plan. And, of course, crucial to the plan of finding Milburn succeeding is that you manage to keep Cambourne out of your bed, Gwen. Because once he so much as sets foot in it, it doesn’t matter if Milburn is dead or alive, there is no going back.”

  I nodded. I knew that much, at least. “What is my other option?” I asked.

  Cecy smiled. “The one that is the complete opposite of the first, and the one you’ll choose if you’re smart: You go home, put on one of those night rails of Suzette’s and lure him into your chamber without further ado.”

  I turned to Myrtia. “Do you agree with that?” I demanded.

  She was silent for a moment, choosing her words, I knew. Myrtia always spoke carefully. “I think that you have to understand what he has done, and why he has done it, first.”

  “And, trust me, the night rail is precisely the way to go about it,” Cecy said. My complete incomprehension must have shown on my face, because she continued. “There are some things that a man will do anything for. You want information. A beautiful woman in a flimsy night rail is a time-honored means of eliciting just that. Empires have fallen on less. And may I remind you, he wasn’t above trying to silence you with a kiss. Turn the tables on him.”

  “Next you’ll be suggesting I truss him like a chicken,” I muttered, under my breath.

  Her eyebrow went up. “Hardly for a beginner, I shouldn’t think. I’d start with the flimsy night rail.”

  “Cecy was right,” I said to Myrtia, the following day, and then added, quickly, “Not about the night rail. I think we should try to find out what has become of Milburn.”

  “Oh?” she said, very cautiously.

  “I am not suggesting,” I told her with asperity, “that we look to her for our methods. Only that she had the correct idea. But how to do it?”

  “Your brother,” she said, promptly. “James.”

  “James?” I asked, frowning at her. “Why on earth would I go to James?”

  “James,” she said, “has been noted with favor at a number of Ladies’ Reform and Rescue Committee meetings, for his efforts in the War Office. He is held to be quite a rising force there.”

  And so it transpired that a short time later the two of us were ushered into his chambers.

  “Hallo, Gwen,” he said, rising to greet us from behind an impressive mahogany desk piled high with charts and papers. I eyed them. They certainly did at least give the illusion that he was working. He bowed over Myrtia’s hand. “Miss Conyngham. What brings you two ladies—lovely surprise though it is—to a place like this?” he asked.

  I looked at him with suspicion. He was being entirely too polite. I seated myself. “Milburn,” I said, with, I admit, some sense of drama, “has disappeared!”

  James, though, had no sense of drama. Never has. He leaned back in his chair. “You are confusing me,” he said bluntly, with a frown.

  “I mean,” I said, “Cambourne replaced Milburn at the wedding and is impersonating him.”

  “Yes,” he said, at length.

  “Yes?” I said. “Yes, as in, you already knew that?”

  He nodded.

  “Fine,” I said. “This is all fine and good that even you knew about this when I did not—I suppose the maids who clean the cathedral knew. But now I want you to find Milburn for me and bring him back.”

  “It seems to me I have two choices now, Gwen.”

  “There is a lot of that going around, apparently,” I muttered.

  He gave me a strange look and continued. “I can obfuscate or I can simply tell you the truth. Shall I be honest with you?” he asked.

  “By all means. It promises to be a novel experience,” I told him.

  “As far as bringing Milburn home goes? Can’t do it,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked. “I don’t understand. Are you saying it can’t be done? Or that you can’t do it? Or that he won’t come? Does he want to?”

  He didn’t answer, saying, instead, “Cambourne, I take it, does not know you are here?”

  “Of course not,” I told him. “He wants me not to ask questions.”

  “Perhaps you should not,” James said. “Go home, Gwen. This will take care of itself.”

  I clenched my teeth together to stop the fury boiling up in me. “Home?” I said. “And that would be where, precisely, James? To the house where I was supposed to live with the man who I was supposed to marry, but in actual fact contains the one who married me under false pretenses and won’t say why? To Mother and Father? Why is everyone treating me like this?” I demanded. “Like I’m just some foolish little chit who has no idea what is good for me?”

  “Is Cambourne treating you that way?” he asked, with a keen look.

  “Yes,” I said. “And Mother certainly is.”

  “Mother,” he said, “treats everyone that way. Including the prince regent, the prime minister, Father, and myself. I shouldn’t read too much into it. Infinitely more worthwhile to put your resources into convincing Cambourne that you’re more than that.”

  “Are you saying, then, that I have to prove something to him?”

  “It can’t hurt,” he replied, placidly.

  “You won’t help me?” I demanded. “Because I am not without resources, you know.”

  “Gwen,” he said, leaning across the desk. “I am your resources. At least where the War Office is concerned. And, no, I am sorry, but I think you need to do as Cambourne asks. I know it won’t be easy,” he said calmly, as he turned an unused quill over in his fingers. “But I suspect if you act reasonably, you’ll get some answers. And Mothe
r, you should know, is going around saying you are off your oats,” he said. “No doubt laying the groundwork for, I don’t know what, but some plot. If you are smart, you won’t make her sound in the right of things.”

  “Off my oats?” I demanded. “Like a horse off his feed?”

  “That would be the general idea,” he said. “Something about bride nerves.”

  I dropped my eyes down to my lap, trying to regain some degree of control over my temper, and as I looked up, I saw him wink at Myrtia. “What are you saying, James?” I asked, mulling that wink. “And this time, say it as though you believe I’m clever enough to follow you.”

  “Very well, Gwen,” he said. “Not to put too fine a point on it, I am saying, go home. Do as Cambourne asks. He has his reasons; they’re good ones. Meantime, be patient. If you racket about complaining, you’ll only provide Mother with more fuel for her fire and you stand the chance of further endangering the person you would most like not to.” He smiled, tightly. “There. Was that specific and yet cryptic enough for you?”

  “Yes,” I said, as I stood to gather my things. It cost me no effort at all to make my tone acid. “Very cryptic, indeed. Thank you for your help.” And then I swept out of his office, with Myrtia in my wake. I managed to refrain from demanding an accounting of her until we were outside, waiting for John Coachman to put down the steps to the carriage. “What was that about?” I asked, watching her carefully. “The winking. He winked at you when he said that very odd thing about endangering Milburn.”

  Color washed over her as she turned away to climb the steps. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Yes, you do,” I told her as I ascended behind her. “I saw.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, as she took her seat. “I am assuming he was saying to trust him. To trust them both.”

  “It’s a bit like being told it’s safe to put your head in the crocodile’s mouth, being told to trust one of my brothers, don’t you think?” I said, sitting down opposite.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, blushing again. “I think he’s quite trustworthy.”

  “That,” I told her, “is because you don’t know him, really.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But from a strictly pragmatic view point, it doesn’t seem to me that you’ve much choice.”

  Which sentiments I did not much like, but was forced to agree with. For the moment, anyway. “No, I suppose not,” I said, crossing my arms and staring out the window. “Do you suppose Milburn is really in danger? James’s hint was tantalizing, but hardly conclusive.”

  “Well, Gwen—” Myrtia sounded hesitant.

  I turned and looked at her. “Well what?”

  “As much as I hate to suggest it, you could always try Cecy’s second plan.”

  10

  In which we remove to Milburn House and my mother and Lady Worth pay us a visit

  Goodness knows, I had opportunity.

  Cambourne and I removed together into Milburn’s snug little house in Mayfair, which I quickly came to love. Cozy and informal, and presided over by a friendly and efficient staff, it was altogether much less intimidating than the vast, echoing rooms of Cambourne House.

  At Mother’s insistence, I had a new maid named Crewes. Crewes was exceedingly grand. She garbed herself entirely in black bombazine. She was a genius with hair, and ruthless with freckles, and had come to me from the employ of the Countess of Amblesmere, and was wont to tell me, at the least provocation—or even in the absence of such—how the countess had done things. She was particularly fond of relaying the countess’s little maxims for everyday living.

  “The countess, you must know, my lady, deems it acceptable to embroider after dinner only if the light is adequate.” (That was one of my particular favorites, as if we lesser mortals would be gauche enough to prefer going blind from squinting at a tiny needle in the dark.)

  And, “On Fridays, from ten of the clock until half past, the countess, without fail, practices her handshake so as to have it perfect for church on Sunday: two fingers only. Never too firm, never too friendly, always with the proper air of kindly condescension!”

  When I offered to eschew the handshake entirely in favor of licking people’s hands like a small dog, she was unamused. “The countess, my lady, if I may be so bold as to point out, has said on numerous occasions that it is hoydenish to engage in levity with one’s social inferiors!”

  “Hello, darling,” said Cambourne, appearing at that moment in the door to my bedchamber, where I was seated in front of the mirror, while Crewes finished dressing my hair. He looked amused by the scolding, but only smiled dotingly (entirely for Crewes’s benefit, I assumed) at me in the mirror as he lifted my hand to kiss it.

  At the touch of his lips, my heart did that ridiculous little trip-hammer thing it seemed to have deemed necessary whenever he appeared, let alone had the audacity to smile at me. Which meant it was happening quite a bit, living together as we were, and at the oddest times in the oddest places: on the second-floor landing. Over the breakfast sideboard. Once, even in the linen cupboard. It was all most disconcerting. And I was compelled to tell myself, quite firmly, on a frequent basis that I missed the safe, comforting presence of Milburn and would gladly consign his infuriating and unsettling brother to the devil to get him back.

  Crewes sniffed, bobbed a curtsey, saying, “M’lord,” and then departed.

  “She has a warm and cheerful way about her,” he noted.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in my bedchamber?” I said, to cover the color that always came into my face concurrent with the trip-hammer thing.

  He raised a brow at that. “Cannot a man pay his own wife a visit?”

  “An ordinary man and his ordinary wife, perhaps,” I replied. “But we are hardly on such easy terms.”

  He smiled. “Ah, but I must present the appearance of a doting husband, all the same.”

  I turned on my chair and looked him in the eye. He did not need to come to my bedchamber to dote, I reminded myself, removing my hand from his, he could have done it just as well in any of the more public rooms. “What do you want, Cambourne?” I asked. “It’s hardly the correct time of day if you are trying to convey the impression that this is a … conjugal visit.”

  One eyebrow went up. “One would be naïve, indeed, to believe that such things were regulated by the hour.”

  I looked at him for a moment, his lean face at odds with the frivolous canary waistcoat he wore, and recalled with a flash of warmth how it had been when his hands had held mine, pinned to the bed, at the Clarendon. Indeed, I could well imagine that the time of day would not matter in the least to him.

  He sat down on the settee in the corner. He looked so ridiculously large there, and the settee so feminine, that I wondered for a moment whether Milburn had had this chamber decorated with me in mind, thinking ahead to the day he would bring me home as a bride. The idea brought a little pang to my throat as I recalled James’s words. Was he really in danger? And had I unwittingly endangered him further?

  “I had assumed that a visit to your chamber at the, ah, correct time of day for appearances would leave me fearing for my life,” Cambourne said. I raised a brow at this, and he went on. “So it is self-preservation, rather than inclination, that has kept me away.”

  I licked my bottom lip, and then realizing what I had done, closed my parted mouth. “I see.” I busied myself with fiddling with the bottles on my dressing table.

  He stilled my hand, taking it in his. His thumb moved across my palm and I felt myself being pulled back into that wild vortex of heat. For an infinitesimal amount of time, with his thumb stroking over my palm and his gaze holding mine, there seemed no reason not to do what Cecy had advised with the flimsy night rail. Or if there was, I surely couldn’t remember it. Then, the miniature of Milburn that I kept on my dressing table caught my eye, and a thousand reasons came rushing back. Not the least of which was that, according to Jame
s, he was in danger.

  And, I was forced to concede, my own motives were perhaps a shade murky, shall we say? Because while I wanted information—and I really did want information—there was perhaps a part of me that wanted the seduction almost as much. And I could very well end up losing at that game. I was not precisely a skilled seductress, and when it came to matching skills with Cambourne, I was not necessarily convinced I would come off the victor. And if he bested me, it meant that not only would I have no further information, I would end up in over my head—well and truly married to him, with no hope left of securing the annulment I knew I should want. That both of us should want.

  At this sobering realization, I collected myself and my hand and sat up. “How lovely of you to visit!” I said politely, as I would have to an unexpected guest for tea.

  His eyes were cool and unreadable as he replied, “How kind of you to invite me.”

  “I did not invite you,” I reminded him, and he smiled.

  “You will,” he said.

  “How is it that no one seems to notice that you and Milburn are never in the same place together?” I asked, always the one to add a repressive note.

  “People are accustomed to both of us having prolonged absences from London,” he said, as if thinking about it. And after a moment, he shrugged. “And somehow they don’t seem to remark it, as long as they see one or the other of us from time to time.”

  I stared at him, something he had said clanging in my mind. “Has he been back during the last two years?” I demanded, well aware of how sharp my voice sounded.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “But I haven’t seen him in two years,” I said, dumbly.

  “Actually, I’m certain you have.” His tone was tight. “Sometimes he was me.”

  “And he—both of you—let me believe he was soldiering? That every day his life was in danger?”

  “It likely was,” was Cambourne’s reply. “What would you have us do?”

  “Tell me the truth is what,” I said. “Were you him, then, there—wherever there is—when he was here, being you?”