No one took note of her. A few glances came her way but immediately moved on. Too unfashionable to be important, those fluttering lids said. She didn’t care. She had not come here to impress anyone with her style and wit. She had come for justice, for herself, her father, and the grandfather she had never met.
Her mind returned to her meeting. She picked through the memory, seeking evidence it had gone better than her dampened mood believed. As she did so, the door to which she walked opened and a man entered.
She halted in her tracks. Considering what had just transpired with Mr. Haversham, this man’s presence only increased her consternation.
He entered like he had been here a hundred times before, which he probably had. No need for him to gawk at the large chamber’s appointments the way she did.
He made his presence known through no effort or intention. Everyone noticed him arrive. Some ladies repositioned themselves so they might catch his eye.
He stood taller than anyone else and his bearing insinuated a man who did not bend easily. His vague smile implied tolerance more than friendliness. His handsome, chiseled face, with its straight nose and square jaw, reflected the Germanic blood brought into the family line by a great-grandmother. His eyes, more a dark gray than blue, created a steely gaze that shot through all that it saw.
Eric Marshall, the Duke of Brentworth. The most ducal duke, he was called.
Davina had been introduced to him several days ago, at a party to celebrate the Duchess of Stratton finally taking credit as the patroness ofParnassus, a woman’s journal of increasing renown. Davina had been invited because she contributed essays to the journal. That was the only reason she knew the duchess, or any of the other ladies present. Almost everyone in attendance far surpassed her in social standing.
The duke had condescended to have some conversation with her at that party. She had held her own, using the opportunity to take his measure. One should do that with a person who might be an enemy. Of course, she had known when they met that she would have this meeting today, and had anticipated a much more favorable outcome then. A summons from the king gave one a lot of confidence when meeting a duke.
She had no interest in conversing with the duke today. She averted her gaze, and aimed through the chamber, turning her thoughts again to the potentially insurmountable problem of finding more evidence to support her petition about her legacy.
* * *
It was rare for Brentworth to receive a summons to Court. Granted, it had not been a true summons. More of an invitation, to the extent that kings ever invite instead of summon.His Majesty would be happy to receive you tomorrow at two o’clock.
He entered St. James’s Palace at fifteen minutes to two, wondering why the king would want to see him at all. He and the king did not rub well together. The king was a fool and Brentworth was not, so they had little in common.
He considered that it might have to do with the meeting he had attended earlier in the day. The king may have learned about the renewed efforts to again pick up the question of abolishing slavery in the colonies. He might want to voice his views on the matter and think an informal conversation with a duke would be the best way to do that.
Brentworth had no idea what that view would be. This king was not known for engagement in political questions, or in much, really, except his pleasure. He probably did have opinions, however. Most men did, no matter how ill-informed those men might be.
It was not a drawing room day, so few people were about. There was no crush in the anteroom of those hoping to obtain vouchers to watch the nobility on parade. He strode through that chamber and the next and entered the drawing room. At most twenty people moved through it, chatting.
He did not announce himself to any of the pages. They knew him, and upon his arrival one hurried across the chamber and disappeared through the door that led to some offices.
He idled in the drawing room, awaiting either the king himself or an escort to wherever the king lounged. While he did he saw a young woman in serviceable blue garments and bonnet stride across the chamber. He recognized her as Miss MacCallum. He had been introduced to her at a party earlier in the week. She was a writer with an unusual interest in medicine.
She had impressed him with her ability to hold her own in a chamber full of nobles and members of the ton. He could not ignore that during their brief conversation she had been sincerely unimpressed with his title or status. That almost never happened, especially with women. Most peers would be annoyed. He had been intrigued.
Her bonnet obscured most of her blond hair, hiding its short length. That cropping had been apparent at that party despite a heroic attempt to disguise it. He had concluded that her interest in medicine derived from a serious illness of her own, a recent one in which her hair had been cut off to help with the fever.
Right now she appeared both out of place and distraught. He intercepted her before she could leave.
“Miss MacCallum, what a pleasant surprise.”
She halted abruptly and blinked away whatever had been distracting her. She executed a neat curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Are you unwell? You appear haunted.”
She glanced back at the door that led to the long wing with offices. “Not haunted so much as distressed that my business here is being treated lightly.”
“You have business at court?”
“I do. I think it unlikely it will ever be addressed as it should be, however. I learned that much today.” Her features, too bold to be fashionable, moved easily to express her thoughts and moods. Right now she appeared to be fighting both despair and fury.
“It is nothing serious, I hope.”
The anger won. “Do I appear to be a woman who would waste a monarch’s time with frivolous matters?”
“Of course not,” he soothed, drawing her aside. “If you were in some way insulted you must let me know. I will make sure it does not happen again.”
