Halfway down that column, a personal notice demanded attention. With one quick scan, it assumed a very large presence. She read it again, astonished.
A certain gentleman wishes to inform a shepherdess that he retrieved what he believes is her shawl. If she wishes its return, she should meet, same terms as last time, on 5 June, after which day he will ask the ladies he knows to whom it may belong so he can do his duty in finding its rightful owner.
Amanda cursed under her breath. That Langford had found the shawl at all was terrible luck. After searching in the dark for it to no avail, she had hoped a gardener would discover it and take it for his wife.
That the duke now used it to try and have another meeting struck her as dangerous on several counts. He may have learned of the missing buckle, for all she knew. This could be a way to trap her, if he had guessed the whole of it.
That he threatened to display that shawl to the women in his circle made her pulse pound. Someone would probably recognize it as one of Lady Farnsworth’s older garments. That floral pattern would be memorable.
She had hoped that once she learned how to send the buckle to its new owner that she could take steps to ensure that this sorry adventure would be over. Done. Finished. She had never expected the Duke of Langford to present a complication like this, especially considering their last, unsatisfactory assignation. That kiss may have moved her, but surely he was too sophisticated to find it, or her, interesting enough for this peculiar pursuit.
There was no other word for his actions. Had he merely sought to return the shawl, he could have told her to write with any address where he might leave it. There were plenty of tradesmen who would act as go-between if she did not want to send her own location.
Instead, he demanded this second meeting in his brother’s home. Flattered though she might be—and she had to admit she was—he could be up to no good.
June 5. Four days to decide what to do.
* * *
“Can I ask what you are looking for?” Brentworth broke his bored sighs enough to pose the question. Gabriel ignored him and continued to examine the lockets laid out for his perusal.
“A bauble?” Brentworth nudged. “A gift for the duchess to celebrate the birth of her son?”
“Yes, that.” It seemed as good an answer as any. The real one would not do at all.
Brentworth pointed to a tasteful gold, circular locket. “A snip of the infant’s hair would fit inside that one nicely.”
“So it would. However, I can’t decide between that and this one here.”
“That emerald is rather large. A small memento is in order, not something to be worn to the theater.”
“I am always so grateful for your advice on matters of taste. What would I do without your exercising restraint on my behalf? Still, I cannot decide.”
“Take them both, and decide later, so I can be spared another half hour here.”
“A splendid idea.” He gestured to the jeweler and made his lack of choice known.
Five minutes later, they mounted their horses with both lockets secure in Gabriel’s pocket. The duchess would receive the discreet, simple one. Another woman would get the jeweled, flamboyant one. Assuming she had seen that notice and would arrive at the place designated.
Also assuming the night went as he intended. His thoughts about his mystery woman had shifted slightly. A deep sense had emerged that something about that meeting had been not quite right. He had only himself to blame for drinking too much and falling asleep, but . . . he could not avoid the suspicion, born of his long experience with women, that she had in some way manipulated him. If so, she would not a second time.
She might not even show up, of course. He kept telling himself that the odds were she would not. All the same, the shawl remained neatly folded and waiting in his dressing room. His instincts also said its owner would want it back.
If not, he had enjoyed making the plans and playing the game. Last night, in his anticipation, he had even worked out a few creative details for additional fun.
First and foremost, he would not drink more than one glass of wine this time.
* * *
“I need your advice,” Amanda said.
Katherine raised her eyebrows. They sat in Amanda’s chamber, where Amanda had invited Katherine to share a late supper. Amanda had carried the food, which was better than either of them normally ate, back from Lady Farnsworth’s. It had been a gift from the cook, left from a little luncheon Lady Farnsworth had held.
“I have to meet someone. A gentleman. I need you to look at the two dresses I laid out and tell me which one is both presentable but . . . discouraging.”
Katherine’s eyebrows went higher yet. “A gentleman, you say. Will this be a private meeting?”
“Yes, I regret to say.”
