Along Came a Lady Read online

  “We may not have had much success with previous instructors,” the duke volunteered, and by the chastising look shot his way by his wife, too honestly this time.

  Ah, he was desperate, then, and the duchess was determined to reveal no vulnerability. It mattered not. This represented her chance to prove to her father that she was completely capable of moving among his equals. And perhaps . . . even then, earn, if not his love, respect.

  “She is going to have to know something of it,” the duke said.

  Edwina’s intrigue redoubled.

  And the older woman might have whispered something that sounded very much like, “You’re the one responsible for your actions, dear heart.”

  Had they been attempting to rouse her intrigue, they couldn’t have done any better than they were with their sotto voce exchange.

  The duke slumped in his chair, giving him the look of a naughty charge. “Get on with it, then.”

  They were a fascinating, if peculiar, pair. One that fit not at all with the image society pedaled of dukes and duchesses, and yet, mayhap it was that elevated rank that allowed them that freedom of expression.

  Her Grace looked to Edwina. “Until recently . . . very recently, His Grace had something of a . . . reputation.”

  “Most gentlemen do,” Edwina said pragmatically. It didn’t make it right, or anything she wished for her charges’ future, but it did make it accepted by Polite Society.

  “Not like this, Miss Dalrymple. Not. Like. This,” the Duchess of Bentley said.

  “She hardly requires all the details,” the duke muttered.

  His wife cupped a palm around her mouth, concealing it from her husband. “He was quite the rogue, really.”

  Again, most men were.

  “I hear you, dear,” he groused.

  His wife, however, wasn’t done with him. “In your mind you have likely conjured rogues and rakes and scoundrels, Miss Dalrymple. My husband would have put them all to shame with the depth of his depravity.”

  Edwina’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

  “How many other governesses have you come to before approaching me?” she asked, curious.

  “Does it matter either way for our discussion?” the duchess returned.

  Edwina considered that question a moment. “No,” she allowed. “I suppose it does not.” Only in the sense that it would provide her an indication of just how difficult an assignment she was taking on. Nor could there be any doubting or disputing that she was taking it regardless. This represented her first, and perhaps only, chance to gain entry into a clientele previously beyond her grasp.

  “As I was saying, we’ve attempted to enlist the services of others. But governess after governess has refused us. First for the reason of my husband’s past as a rogue”—and his not-too-distant one, at that—“and then, there is, of course, the matter of his children.”

  “She doesn’t require details, dear heart,” the duke mumbled, a blush on his cheeks. He wrestled with his cravat.

  His Grace needn’t have even bothered wasting his breath. The duchess would not be silenced. “Until our marriage, just six months ago.” The stunningly regal woman leaned forward. “I assure you, my dear, had we been married some years earlier, the duke would not find himself in the very predicament he does now.” And in a very unduchesslike way, she winked.

  And perhaps it was that unexpected realness from the woman that compelled Edwina to ask her next question. “What exactly is the predicament you speak of?”

  “His reputation has been so terribly damaged that the governesses most highly recommended by our peers, well—”

  “Won’t work for me,” the duke said, the color deepening on his cheeks. “I’m not nearly as bad as society has made me out to be.”

  His wife lifted an eyebrow in his direction.

  “Anymore,” he allowed. “It was my youth. My distant youth,” he added. “Alas, the reputation . . . stuck.”

  At last, all the pieces of the puzzle were in their proper place, and the reason a duke and duchess wished to hire Edwina made sense. They’d not sought her out because they wished for her services. They’d sought her out because there was no one else who’d take on the assignment. Either way, her pride wasn’t fragile; her determination to work among the peerage was far stronger.

  His wife nodded. “Precisely. My husband has been making an attempt at a new beginning. He wants to . . .” She paused, and glanced at the duke. “Tell her.”

  “I want to make right my past, where I can.” He made that avowal as if it was rote, committed to memory, and mayhap with the commanding woman he’d made his duchess, he’d been required to do so.

  Edwina puzzled her brow. The Duke and Duchess of Bentley were only recently married. Which meant . . . Edwina went still.

  “They are all bastards,” the duke said quietly.

  “Illegitimate,” the duchess admonished. “They are illegitimate.”

  His Grace frowned. “They mean the same thing.”

  “Ah,” the Duchess of Bentley said, putting up a single finger, “but one is vastly more polite than the other, and therefore, that is the descriptor we shall go with.”

  Aye, bastard . . . or illegitimate . . . They both meant the same. Edwina’s stomach muscles clenched. Bastard-born herself, a secret that would have destroyed all hope of an honorable existence if revealed, she knew all too well society’s opinion of people born outside wedlock. It was the very reason she’d crafted a new identity for herself and lived a life and lie of respectability. She’d carved out a respectable life. Yes, whichever polite word one wished to dress it up with, a child born out of wedlock was nothing more than a bastard, always searching for and never finding society’s approval.

  But if I can groom a young woman, the daughter of a duke, to take her place among Polite Society . . . What that would do for her business. This represented her entry to the ton—that sphere that had previously been closed to her. One she’d sought so very hard to infiltrate.

  “There is just one more detail I might mention . . .” The duke’s pronouncement went unfinished.

  “It is my husband’s eldest son.”

  A son?

  And just like that, those eager musings were popped. Oh, blast and damn on Tuesday. “I do not have male charges.”

  “Correction, Miss Dalrymple.” The duchess tipped her lips up in a perfectly measured little smile. “You didn’t have them. It is our expectation that after today . . . you will.”

  How very confident they were that Edwina would simply accept the assignment, no matter how unconventional and outrageous it was. But then, to those of the peerage, the word “no” meant nothing. It was why they weren’t incorrect in their assumption that she’d not reject the assignment they put to her outright.

  “Oh, and there is just one more thing, Miss Dalrymple.”

  What else could it possibly be? “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “My husband’s son? He’s no interest in the title, or . . . receiving our company. We’ve sent our man of affairs . . .”

  “Solicitors,” the duke put in.

  “Investigators. All of them have had little success in securing a meeting.”

  Edwina puzzled her brow. “Are they unable to locate him?” she asked, perplexed. And how was she supposed to find the gentleman if others had not?

  Husband and wife exchanged a glance.

  “Oh, no. We currently know where he and his siblings reside. We’ll need you to convince the eldest of the lot to join you in London and begin instruction,” the duke said.

  They were mad. “Me?” A small laugh escaped her. “You expect me, a stranger and a woman at that, one who has never met him, to not only convince him but bring him back to London.”

  The duchess beamed. “You’ve stated it all quite clearly.”

  “And just what
makes you believe I shall succeed when you have both failed?”

  It was a bold, if accidental, challenge to two of London’s most influential peers, and by the like frowns marring their mouths, they chafed at it.

  “The fact that you and he both stand to benefit, Miss Dalrymple. That is why I expect you to not only accept the undertaking, but convince him that returning to London and claiming his rightful place as a duke’s son is an opportunity neither of you can afford to pass up. If you take on this endeavor and succeed? You’ll be richly compensated,” the duke vowed. “Five hundred pounds if you manage to convince him to return to London.” Her heart jolted, and she choked on her swallow. “And another two thousand upon your completion of his . . . transformation.”

  Edwina choked again, hurriedly covering her mouth with a fist.

  It was a veritable fortune for a woman reliant upon her own skills and work in order to survive. And yet, neither was it enough to see her set. Nay, ultimately, her reputation and her skill set were what Edwina relied upon and would continue to rely upon, regardless of what decision she made this day.

  “But I can also promise you far more than that, Miss Dalrymple,” the duchess murmured.

  Edwina straightened and retrained her focus on the elegant woman across from her.

  “Once you transform His Grace’s son, Polite Society will see there is no charge you cannot transform.” The older and very astute peeress had been wise enough, then, to grasp just how much Edwina’s business . . . and reputation meant.

  As such, they’d offered all they might to bring her ’round to accepting, and yet she’d not succeeded as she had in the world by not analyzing every situation from every possible angle. She eyed them carefully. “Given the importance of the undertaking, why do you not pay a visit to the gentleman yourself?” she asked, removing all inflection.

  “My children don’t wish to see me.”

  Was it merely a trick of the room’s shadows responsible for the glint of sadness she detected in his eyes?

  Pulling off her gloves, the duchess proceeded to slap those fine leather articles together. “And with good reason,” the duchess muttered. “We trust you might be more capable of conveying the benefits of his stepping forward into his rightful role.”

  They’d cracked open a door, allowing her a peek inside a life that, even with her successes as an instructor, she’d been without—entry to Polite Society and their daughters . . . and the respectability that would elevate her business . . . and set her on a path to independence, the likes of which she’d never known. And that had only existed as a fanciful musing she’d stopped allowing herself. “Very well,” she said, forcing calm, while inside giddiness threatened to overwhelm that weak facade. “I shall accept your assignment.” Edwina silently tapped her toes about, once more in a private celebration.

  “Splendid.” The duchess took to her feet, and Edwina quickly followed suit. Her Grace fished a small stack from within her cloak and placed a heavy packet atop Edwina’s desk. “The details we’ve been able to gather about his sons, Miss Dalrymple, are in there.”

  Edwina picked up the packet and studied it a moment, as her newly acquired employers started for the door. “Staffordshire?” she asked, picking her head up.

  The pair paused briefly. “Oh, we might not have mentioned before . . . Rafe . . . ? He is a coalfield miner.” With that, the couple let themselves out.

  A coalfield . . . miner?

  She choked. That was why the most elite instructors had declined the duke and duchess’s request: not because of His Grace’s wicked past, but because of his son’s rough existence.

  She’d agreed to the task of teaching a thirty-one-year-old coal miner how to conduct himself among Polite Society. That is, after she convinced him to accompany her back to London so he might claim a place among the ton.

  “How difficult can it be to convince a miner to accept the wealth and lands awaiting him?” she murmured.

  Nay, the greater difficulty lay in transforming a piece of coal into a diamond that sparkled.

  Chapter 2

  Around That Same Time in Spring 1805

  Staffordshire, England

  Greed and arrogance made men do and say stupid things.

  Nor could there be any doubting that the small-pit owner, W. M. Sparrow, possessed both in spades.

  Rafe Audley, however, hadn’t survived as long as he had in the Staffordshire mines by taking the bait of the more powerful colliers.

  “I’ll tell you what I told him, Audley. It’s poor quality. You know that. And I won’t give him a penny more.” The greedy old bastard who owned the Cheadle coalfields dipped his pen in a crystal inkwell and made several annotations in his ledger. “I suggest you advise he take it before I pay him what it’s really worth.” With his spare hand, the collier pushed the small bag of coin across the desk. “Pfft. With the amount of slack in his latest delivery, it’s a wonder I didn’t fine him.”

  Behind him, Rafe felt Hunter, his youngest brother, surge forward. “You bastard,” Hunter hissed between his teeth.

  Shooting him a hard look, Rafe held up a staying hand.

  Rage flashed in the younger man’s eyes. Irate since the moment he’d come screaming into the world, in matters of business and in life, Hunter only knew varying degrees of recklessness. This time, however, Rafe’s sibling managed to restrain himself.

  Rafe refocused all his attention on Sparrow. “There is nothing wrong with that coal, and you know it,” he said coolly.

  And those crisp tones managed to penetrate the other man’s previous indifference. The collier finally glanced up. The man, who’d gone fat on the efforts of the men, women, and children who sacrificed themselves underground in the name of their survival and his fortune, went pale. His heavy jowls jiggled under the force of his swallow.

  Aye, Sparrow might be a man of power in these parts, but he was also nothing without Audley’s efforts . . . and he knew that, too.

  “Now, Audley,” the other man began in placating tones. “You know I’m fair. You know I’ve only been fair.”

  Rafe flashed a hard, mirth-free grin. “Ah, but I don’t know any such thing, Sparrow. I know you don’t hesitate to withhold a man’s rightful earnings.” He’d tried it once when Rafe had been more boy than man. It was a mistake the collier hadn’t made again where Rafe was concerned. “I know you falsify reports on the quality of the coal.”

  Sparrow adjusted his cravat. “But I haven’t done it with your family.”

  “No,” Rafe allowed, “you haven’t in the past.” Because skilled as he’d been as a miner, Rafe had climbed up the ranks to the role of Butty—the one who found and employed the workers who provided Sparrow with his coal. And in turn, all miners involved enjoyed fine wages under Rafe’s supervision. Pressing his coal-stained palms on the surface of the collier’s desk, Rafe leaned in. “You have now, though.”

  “Damned right he has.” Hunter spat on the collier’s floor. “The bloody bastard.”

  Sparrow slammed a meaty fist down hard on the desk, rattling the crystal inkwell. “Get him out. I’ve been patient enough, not turning him out the moment he stepped through the door with you, Audley.” He pointed a finger Rafe’s way. “I deal with you so I don’t have to deal with those uncouth others.”

  “ ‘Uncouth others’ am I.” Hunter spat once more; this time the wad landed at the foot of old Sparrow’s desk.

  “That is precisely what you are.” Sparrow tugged at his lapels.

  “Wait outside, Hunter,” Rafe said, his gaze trained on Sparrow’s.

  His brother tensed, but he knew better. Everyone—his family included—knew better than to challenge Rafe . . . and certainly never before an audience.

  The moment Hunter had gone, Sparrow came out from behind his desk. “You need to do something about that one,” he said, as he made his way to the sideboard f
illed with crystal bottles. “He could stand to learn a thing from your other brother. Where Hunter’s concerned, I’ve put up with more than I should because of our work together, Audley, but my patience and goodwill only go so far,” he warned, selecting a decanter of brandy.

  Rafe scoffed. “Let us not pretend you’re capable of either patience or goodwill, Sparrow. The only exceptions you make are when you stand to profit, and you know as well as I . . . you’ve profited mightily from Hunter’s work. And Wesley’s.” He leveled a look at him. “And mine.”

  “There’s always other workers—miners stronger, younger, and less damaged—who might take their places.”

  Their places. Not “your” place.

  Rafe remained deliberately silent while the other man returned to his desk with his drink in hand.

  Sparrow wasn’t so much a fool that he didn’t realize the greatness he’d attained in the mines of Staffordshire was due to Rafe and the team of men, women, and children he’d assembled. Mayhap that would be enough for another man. But Rafe’s loyalty to Wesley, Hunter, and Cailin was the same as it had been when they’d been babes and he was their surrogate father. Even with Wesley having left, and quit their family as he had, in search of a greater life.

  “Returning to Hunter’s coal,” he said as Sparrow took another swallow of that amber brew. “I’m not going to debate you on the quality. I can haul a bucket full and pour it on your desk and lecture you on just why it’s good. You’re not going to find any slack in there. Not Hunter’s. Not any of my men.”

  Sparrow compressed his fleshy lips into a line. “Fine,” the collier snapped. Yanking out the middle desk drawer, he drew out two purses and tossed them down. “One coin. One token.”

  They hit the surface with a noisy clink.

  Tokens to be used in Sparrow’s shop. That compromise in coal payment was just another way colliers stuffed their pockets at the expense of the people who worked for them. “He doesn’t want—”