Page 1 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Prologue

London, England

June 1812

Rowan Delconti, the Duke of Harwich, preferred to remain standing as he scrutinized the woman seated behind the delicate, spindle-legged desk surrounded by garish lamps, baubles, and furniture in varying shades of red and gold. Any man would question his purpose in such a feminine domain, but Rowan had no time to question his motives for standing before the purported proprietress of Craven House.

Though his motives ran deeper than the Thames, and its current had brought him here, even though the pull to retire to the country to mourn the loss of his father—and console his mother—was strong.

What he did have time to ponder was how the petite woman with hair the color of spun gold and eyes like the clearest blue sky could be so confident and poised when faced with his habitual glower.

One delicate, fair brow rose, and she nodded curtly at the chair before him. “Are you certain you do not wish to have a seat, Your Grace?”

Why did the woman’s subtle confidence irk him in such a way when at the same time it drew him nearer to her?

With a certain measure of shock, he realized he wanted to take the seat she offered him. However, that was an invitation Rowan could not accept.

Rowan, the only son of Julian Delconti, had been raised to take over his father’s dukedom. Although his father had neglected Rowan’s education in facing such a confident, self-possessed adversary, he still managed to don the mask of an arrogant lord when the need arose.

If the blond woman before him thought it possible to crack his resolve, she was gravely mistaken. He’d waited nearly a decade for this precise moment…and he would have his due.

Retribution, though a long time coming, would repair him, make him whole once more, freeing him from the ties of his past. He’d look only to what his future held.

“As I stated, quite clearly, I am here to see Sasha Davenport,” Rowan reiterated for the second time. When the blonde only laced her fingers together on the desk and stared at something over his left shoulder, he continued, “I am certain you are not the woman I seek.”

No, the businesswoman Rowan sought was at least two decades older, though he knew her hair and eye color were similar to the woman’s before him. It had been several years since he laid eyes on Sasha Davenport, and even then, a gathering of children clamoring for her attention had hampered his view. However, he was confident that the woman behind the desk was not she, the famed proprietress of the elusive Craven House.

The woman he was faced with presently sat a bit straighter in her seat, and her stare flitted to the door at his left before she answered. “You are correct.”

Rowan ignored the way she flinched each time he spoke the name Sasha Davenport.

Time was a valuable commodity for men such as he. There were meetings to schedule, business ventures to discuss, and any number of estate matters to be handled. But first, he needed to complete the unsavory task he’d set about when he arrived at Craven House. “Where may I find her?”

“I am her daughter, Your Grace,” the woman replied, tilting her chin up a notch and sweeping her long curls over her shoulder to cascade down her back. He supposed it would be a rather alluring and captivating sight had the circumstances not been what they were.

She seemed proud to call herself the daughter of a famed London brothel madame, as if that were on the same level as Rowan’s status as a duke.

“Congratulations.” He was half tempted to offer a celebratory clap. He’d heard tales from his University chums about the wonders of Madame Sasha—the extravagant masquerade balls she held yearly, and the many scandalous male appetites her home catered to. Rowan thought it peculiar that the woman was so quick to claim her heritage as if it would earn her added favor in his eyes. “Yet, that does not answer my question.”

A shadow crossed the woman’s face, though not from the way his tall frame blocked the light of the fire at his back. Nor was it the shimmering red, hazy glow from the desk lamp, muted by the sheer length of gold fabric draped haphazardly over the shade. No, the shadow spoke of something within—hurt, anguish, and remorse.

Pain—a deep-seated pain Rowan knew all too well.

The hint of vulnerability disappeared in the blink of an eye, as did Rowan’s pity for the woman.

“My mother saw her end over two years ago, Your Grace.” The hard edge in her tone belied her gentle, innocent appearance. “I am Miss Marce Davenport, her eldest daughter, and current owner of Craven House. How may I be of assistance?”

How could she be of service to him?

Rowan longed to laugh, though he feared the chuckle would quickly turn to a growl. Tightening his grip on the envelope he held behind his back, Rowan eyed the young woman—certainly younger than he at the advanced age of twenty-one, yet dressed in garb befitting a woman twice her age, complete with a high neckline that cut right under her chin, the tight bodice hiding any hint of her bosom from view. Most of society’s young ladies were wed before their nineteenth birthdays or risked being labeled a spinster. However, he was well aware that he was not in the presence of a lady, and the woman’s chosen profession excluded her from society’s rigid rules.

Which was a pity, for Rowan would have likely asked for a dance had they mingled in the same societal circles.

His visit was not one of a social nature, and they were not in a crowded ballroom. No, this was more of a long-overdue business obligation. If she were the purported owner of Craven House, though her muted, simple garb suggested something altogether different, his business was with her. Could it be he’d missed something during his investigations regarding the establishment? The dealings within these walls were as hushed and secretive as those that transpired within his gentlemen’s club, White’s.

“I am here to inform you that my father—I’m certain you are familiar with him, Julian Delconti?” When she nodded, he continued, “He has died, and I, as his only son, have inherited the dukedom.”

“Congratulations…”