Kathryn Caskie: How To Seduce A Duke

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss.” The Scottish butler tipped his bald pate. “If ye’ll excuse me please, I’ll just be poppin’ down to see if Cook needs any help setting the roast to the spit.”

As MacTavish quit the room, Anne leveled a superior gaze on Mary.

Oh no. Here it comes again.

“Why you could not bring yourself to pay a little more per annum to engage a proper butler I will never understand.” Anne crossed her arms over her chest and plopped back down in her chair. “MacTavish is little more than a street thug, and you well know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” Mary shook the letter at her sister. “What I do know is that by being thrifty with wages, I was able to engage a butler and a cook, and I have just placed a notice in Bell’s Weekly Messenger for a maid. So unless you would rather handle the cooking, shopping, and emptying of the chamber pots for the duration of our stay in London, you would do well not to mention MacTavish’s minor shortcomings again!”

“Minor shortcomings? The butler and our cook are completely unsuitable. This house would have been far better served if you had kept Aunt Prudence’s existing staff.”

“Please stop, Anne. We’ve had this discussion too many times. The old staff took complete advantage of Aunt Prudence’s age and poor memory. They were robbing her blind, and you well know it.”

Elizabeth turned then, caught Mary’s arm, and guided the letter before her eyes. “Come now, tell us who it is from.”

Mary swallowed deeply, then, her composure regained, broke the crimson wax wafer and opened the letter. She scanned the heavily inked words quickly, then stared for a clutch of seconds as the name of the sender met her eyes.

“Oh my heavens.” The letter slipped through Mary’s fingers to the bare wooden floor.

“Please do not make us wait any longer, Mary-may I read it?” When Mary didn’t answer but simply stared down at it on the floor, Elizabeth snatched the letter up and began to read. When she finished, she backed stiffly to her chair and collapsed into it.

Anne’s mouth fell open. “Will one of you please reveal the contents of the letter? My patience with your drama is growing ever thin. Who is the letter from?”

“Lord Lotharian of Cavendish Square, Marylebone Park. Our guardian.” Elizabeth turned her gaze to Mary. “We must go to him, Mary, we must!”

Mary huffed at that. “Are you mad? Pay a call to a gentleman we do not know? A man we haven’t heard from ever. ”

“He claims to be an old acquaintance of Papa’s. I see no reason he would make such a claim if he were not.”

When Mary shook her head, Elizabeth then reached across the small tea table and took Anne’s hand into her own. She peered into Anne’s gold-flecked eyes until she nodded.

“Yes, I’ll go, Lizzie.”

Elizabeth turned her gaze to Mary. “We all must go.”

“Aunt Prudence must be informed of your plan,” Mary noted. Of course, even if she told their dear great-aunt that her sisters were off to call upon a gentleman, their supposed guardian, she wouldn’t remember within an hour’s time. But that wasn’t why she’d mentioned it. She was hoping to appeal to Anne’s great sense of propriety.

Only her ploy did not work.

“Aunt Prudence is napping,” Anne replied matter-of-factly. “I shouldn’t wish to wake her.”

Suddenly Elizabeth rose and raced from the room. She returned with the shiny brass key extracted from the document box’s keyhole. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

“According to this letter,” she told them, “this key has a dual purpose-one that may assist us in our quest.”

Mary raised her eyebrows. “How does this gentleman know of our ‘quest,’ I ask you?”

“He was a friend of Papa’s.” Anne’s eyes glittered with excitement. “He may know all about our true parents.”

“I think you both suppose too much.” Mary sighed as she walked over to Elizabeth and pulled the key from her fingers. “You both actually believe that this simple brass twist of metal may in actuality be…the key to the mystery of our births.”

Anne and Elizabeth’s eyes locked, then in an instant, they shot out of the library. The thunder of boots echoed down the passageway floor.

“Mary, do come. We must away-this instant!”

“This is naught but a lark, I tell you-though I will come along, only so I can be there to remind you that I told you so.” Resignedly, Mary turned and started for the passageway.

When she neared the door, her excited sisters flung a woolen shawl around her shoulders and shoved a straw bonnet down upon her head.

“But I will not waste good coin on a hackney for this useless sojourn.” Mary gave her head a hard nod to emphasize her point. “Cavendish Square is not so far away, and the air is mild enough this day. We shall walk.”

Anne opened the front door and stared up at the heavy gray clouds above. “But Mary, it is about to rain.”

Mary turned a concerned gaze to the skies. “Oh dear. That does make a difference. Wait just a few moments for me, please.” Turning, she hurried back inside the house.

Anne and Elizabeth stood in stunned silence for several seconds.

Finally, Anne turned to her sister. “Good heavens. Our frugal Mary is actually going to spend a coin to hire a hackney. Why, I can’t believe it.”

“Nor can I, so let us find a hackney cab before she changes her mind.” At once, Elizabeth rushed into the street and waved her hand madly, finally catching the notice of a hackney driver who stood puffing on his pipe at the corner of the square and Davies Street.

“Elizabeth, we are in London!” Anne rushed into the square and dragged her sister back to the steps. “Your hoydenish ways must end. We are ladies, no longer coarse country misses. Remember that.”

When Mary came back out the door, she was dismayed to find her sisters about to board a hackney.

“No, no! I do apologize, my dear sir,” Mary called out to the driver. “But my sisters shan’t require your services after all.”

Anne and Elizabeth jerked their heads around and stared at Mary, their mouths fully agape.

Mary smiled pleasantly and handed each of her sisters an umbrella. “Since we’re walking, we’ll most certainly need these. ”

The scent of coming rain permeated the damp air as Rogan Wetherly, the Duke of Blackstone, and his brother, Quinn, the newly belted Viscount Wetherly, reined their gleaming bays down Oxford Street in the direction of Hyde Park.

A single chill droplet struck Rogan’s cheek, and he turned his eyes upward to the darkening sky.

The clouds were black and heavy with moisture. They were bloody insane to venture even a few short miles from Marylebone-for the sake of a woman.

But the lady in question, according to Quinn, who was set on making her acquaintance, visited the park every Tuesday at this hour. And who was Rogan to dash his brother’s hopes of meeting her?

“Good God, Rogan- halt !” Without warning, Quinn unsteadily rose up in his stirrups, reached out, and caught Rogan’s right rein. He yanked back hard, driving Rogan’s horse straight into his own, stopping the beast’s forward progression.

Rogan’s heart lurched in his chest. “Bloody hell, Quinn! If you were trying to unseat me, you very nearly succeeded.”

Quinn cleared his throat. He removed his hat and tipped his head forward, turning Rogan’s attention to the trio of wide-eyed, stunned misses.

Fools. They must have crossed from Davies Street without paying any heed to oncoming riders. And now they were standing in the middle of the crowded street, still as statues, less than a foot before them.