“The girl is difficult, I hear,” her mother said, returning to her plans. “Be sure Fanny does not leave you to take the blame for some wild choice on Helena’s part.”
“She would not, surely.”
Her mother looked up. “She was the first debutante to dance with your father and intended to wed him. Then he and I met and he forgot her completely. That is the source of her enmity: she insists I stole him from her.”
“But he loved you.”
“Indeed. Fanny has never been interested in that detail.” Her gaze strayed over the plan with enthusiasm. “Can you not escape the arrangement?”
Eliza could not lie. “I do not want to, Maman.”
Constance looked up, her gaze locking with her daughter’s, and eventually she nodded. “Because Captain Emerson was the one to ask for your assistance,” she said softly. “I always wondered.”
“Maman, it is not as you think...”
“Is it not, Eliza?”
“There is no impropriety.”
“Perhaps there should be.”
“Maman!”
“Eliza, for more than twenty years I have noticed how you looked at him. You are a widow, my dear. The rules of your debut season no longer apply.” She smiled. “I wish you happiness, wherever and however you find it,” she added, then appeared to be lost in the planning of her garden again.
Eliza was leaving her mother’s room when that lady called after her. “If you might see to the menus, Eliza, that would be of tremendous assistance. Damien would eat beef at every meal given his choice, and Mrs. Jones would indulge him, but I would rather not begin to lo before the end of the season.”
Eliza smiled, glad of the task. “I will see to it, Maman.”
Bert Latimer was so astonished to find the Duke of Haynesdale at the door that his characteristic impassive expression might have been compromised.
“I have been to see her,” the duke said grimly, stepping past him into the house. He halted in the foyer, leaning on his cane, his gaze assessing and his manner expectant.
Latimer closed the door and invited the duke into the front parlor with a gesture. “Your Grace?”
“I come in search of information,” the duke said crisply. “Miss Ballantyne refused my assistance and I must know the reason why.”
Latimer stood straight. “I would not compromise my lady’s trust…” he began but the duke made an impatient gesture.
“Then she may spend years in that prison cell, and for no just cause. I know she is not a thief and I take responsibility for my part in her being charged as one. But you must perceive that the sole way to correct my error is to prove the identity of the true thief before Miss Ballantyne’s hearing.” He paused while Bert considered his options. “It will be on May 6, a Tuesday, and unless action is undertaken now, it will be short and she will be found guilty.”
“But the true thief has left England, Your Grace.”
“And his name is already known. I see no reason for Miss Ballantyne to defend him, which means there is a detail I do not know.”
“She would not defend him!”
“She refused to tell me where he might be found.”
“Perhaps she does not know, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps there is another risk she would avoid.” The duke’s gaze was so steely that Bert had to drop his to the carpet. He was torn between his duty to his mistress and his desire to ensure that her best interest was served. He, too, felt the lack of information.
“I cannot breach her confidence, Your Grace.”
The duke harrumphed, the noise disguising the sound of an approaching footstep. Doris was in the parlor before Latimer could stop her.
“Don’t be an old fool, Bert,” she chided, then curseyed to the duke. “I am Miss Ballantyne’s housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Nelson,” she said. “And I have heard things.”
