“Yes, I am the Dowager Duchess of Redcliffe, but that’s something of a mouthful, so I prefer plain Lady Brandon, or even Letitia. At my age, one can’t waste time on gabbling through lengthy titles. Tell me, my dear, how did you come to be here? My grandson has strange proclivities, to be sure, but never before has he abducted a young woman.”
Amelia bit her lip. “Abducted is quite a strong word.”
“Is it? Then what word would you use?”
No word came to mind.
Amelia cleared her throat and offered a weak smile. “The truth is, I was poking around his house. I believe he took exception to it and… and blamed me for the disappearance of an heirloom I did not take. He was so angry, but I suppose this is better than having the constables summoned and being thrown in gaol.”
“Most things are better than gaol,” the Dowager Duchess agreed. “Do you have an occupation, then?”
“I work at a modiste’s. I am a seamstress. A dressmaker,” she corrected herself hastily.
Seamstressconjured images of a sad, poor woman spending all day and most of the night hunched over her work, squinting by a window, and constantly wishing that she had more light.
Of course, Amelia didthose things, but she also helped fit ladies for their gowns and made adjustments. Dressmaker was a finer title than seamstress.
The Dowager Duchess watched her curiously, as if she could hear all the thoughts running through Amelia’s head.
“A seamstress,” she murmured thoughtfully. “That is perfection itself, I think.”
“I beg your pardon?” Amelia managed.
“Granted.” The Dowager Duchess nodded. “Ah, here we are.”
They had reached a first-floor landing, with a wider hall and a more expensive carpet, thick enough to absorb the thumps of their footsteps and the clack of the Dowager Duchess’s stick.
“My private parlor is in here,” she explained, pushing open a neat little door. “Do come in. I’ll ring for tea.”
Amelia followed the woman uncertainly.
They entered a small, neat room, modestly decorated. A fire burned in the grate, and two chairs were angled toward it.Warmth filled the room, and comfortable, inviting chairs were scattered everywhere. There was already a tea tray set on a low table beside one of the chairs, a tepid cup of tea waiting, half-drunk.
“I was in the middle of my usual pre-luncheon tea when I heard that we had an unexpected guest,” Dowager Duchess confessed. “I came to your aid at once.”
“Th-Thank you, Your Grace,” Amelia stammered. “Am I free to go, then?”
The Dowager Duchess tugged on a velvet rope, no doubt designed to summon servants, and sank down with a sigh into what appeared to be her usual seat.
“I’m afraid not. This is my home, and I exercise a good deal of authority in it, but I cannot overrule my grandson. No, we’ll have to be cleverer than that, my dear.”
A prickle ran down Amelia’s spine. “Does he… Does he mean me harm?”
“Harm? Heavens, no. I know my grandson well. His motives are not always apparent to me, even after all these years, but you are not in danger. However, I imagine you haven’t had the leisure to kick your heels in some stranger’s attic for days or weeks on end. Besides, I have been trying to do something about Stephen for a while now.”
Trying to do something about Stephen. Now, what on earth does that mean?
The Dowager Duchess gestured toward the empty chair opposite, and Amelia obediently sank into it.
“You must call me Letitia, by the way,” she added. “I hate ceremony and titles. My grandson and I have that in common.”
Amelia bit her lower lip. “Is there no chance of my sneaking out before he realizes that I have escaped the attic?”
The Dowager Duchess—Letitia—sighed and shook her head. “No, I think not. He will hear that I have let you out of the attic…” She paused, taking out an elaborate gold pocket watch. “… right aboutnow.”
“She didwhat?” Stephen thundered, rising to his feet quickly enough to send his teacup toppling off the side of the desk.
The butler, Greaves, was too well-trained to show surprise at his master’s outburst.
