Page 44 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Rowan’s head fell into his hands, and he scrubbed at his face, his eyes gritty from his disturbed slumber over the past two nights. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly. Or more likely, he was thinking plainly for the first time.

Everything he’d said and done made him worthy of being nothing more than his father’s son. He’d lied, not only to his mother and Marce but also to himself. He’d believed for so many years that his actions were justified and that they were righting the wrongs of his past. That one day, when his life was not in shambles, he’d be faced with the decisions he made and know that he’d done right by his mother.

In turn, he hadn’t done right by anyone. He’d cheated Marce, deceived his mother, and made Tobias go along with it all.

He had no right to forgiveness; however, that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try. Even if she turned him away, he needed to tell Marce how he felt. Confess his transgressions and throw himself at her mercy. It was ironic. Only a few days before, he’d have rather thrown himself to a pack of hungry beasts than humble himself before the woman he wronged.

“Horses? Or should we take your coach?” Tobias asked, his brow rising in question.

Chapter 19

Marce glared at the stack of bills and piles of coins on the desk before her. It was a startling amount of money; however, she could not allow herself to ponder all she could do with it. It was the funds amassed to make her next payment to the Duke of Harwich.

Not Rowan. She never thought of the man by his given name now. It lulled her into a false sense of familiarity with the duke. She needed to remember that they were little more than strangers, despite their years of forced association.

With the funds before her—plus the money she’d been able to hide away—Marce had collected enough to purchase a plot of land with at least a modest cottage with several rooms, perhaps close to the sea with a fishing village nearby, or in a meadow with a garden fertile enough to provide food all year long.

A hint of a smile crossed her face before Marce pressed her lips tightly together. She couldn’t allow herself even a moment of elation at the fact that she, and those who depended on her, would not only survive but also thrive.

In the week since she’d returned to London and her home, she’d tried to remind herself that Craven House no longer belonged to her, that detaching her emotions from the place was in her best interest. She’d slowly started collecting all the possessions that meant the most to her. But as the days passed and no one came to cast her out, Marce had begun to pack with less urgency. Could it be that the duke was in no hurry to throw her to the streets?

Marce pushed the coins into the velvet, drawstring bag before stuffing the stack of notes in next. No matter what his plans were, Marce was not paying him another shilling of her hard-earned money. She’d need every note and coin to set up her new household—once she found a suitable residence, that was. But she would be ready when he did arrive, even if that meant renting several rooms in a lodging house closer to Drury Lane.

If there was one thing Marce knew for certain, it was that she could—and would—do all that was necessary and in her power to protect everyone who depended on her. She would let no one down…not her siblings or the women who’d come to her for help.

Rowan could go to the Devil if he thought to get any more money from her or if he thought she’d leave before she was damn good and ready.

Upon returning to London, Marce had consulted with Lady Chastain, one of her few friends—and her husband—gaining the name of their family solicitor: a Mr. James Adams, Esq. The man was, at the moment, scouring the countryside for an appropriate and fitting home for Marce that would give her the space she needed but also a modicum of privacy and seclusion. With the number of women who came and went from Craven House, it was no wonder rumors still continued that her house was one of ill repute. Thankfully, Ellington and her husband, Alex, were well aware of the work Marce did and had very graciously offered their assistance.

It was an odd turn of events—Marce being the one to depend on Ellie—as Marce had raised Ellie alongside her own siblings after Ellie’s mother, a working girl at Craven House, had expired shortly after Ellie’s birth. Ellie had maintained that she owed Marce much for the many years of kindness she’d shown the girl, even during her hellion years, but Marce knew the woman’s indebtedness was misplaced. It had been survival they’d all worked so tirelessly toward, and that they were able to wage war together had been beneficial to them all. It wasn’t as if Ellie hadn’t done everything in her power to help Marce with Jude and Sam once it was time for them to take their places in society. Without Ellie’s sponsorship, neither of Marce’s sisters would have met and wedded the men they love.

Marce pulled the drawstring tight and slipped her savings—meager as it might appear to others—into the bottom drawer of her desk. The lock clicked into place just as a knock on her study door sounded.

Her entire body tensed.

She wasn’t expecting anyone, nor did she have anywhere to go. The meal for the evening had already been agreed upon, and the money for the market given to Cook the previous night.

Marce smoothed her hands down the front of her gown and swept her long curls back over her shoulders. She hadn’t bothered to fuss with it that morning and decided to allow her long locks to do as they pleased.

“Enter,” she called, sitting a bit straighter in her chair.

Darla, the Craven House housekeeper and cook, pushed the door wide and stepped aside to allow a young, delicate girl to enter the room. She couldn’t be more than sixteen, at most, with her ebony hair pulled back in a severe knot, and her pale skin highlighting green eyes with high cheekbones and a straight, if not a bit too pointy, nose. Images of Rowan with his dark hair and green eyes sprang to Marce’s mind, but she pushed them away and locked them up tightly.

As she stared at the girl, Marce noted her torn gown, as if the hem had been caught on something and she’d pulled it free. A bruise marred her jawline, and her hands—where they were clenched before her—were stained with soot and filth. She kept her stare focused on the floor, and her shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

Marce eased slowly from her seat in an attempt to not startle the terrified girl as she brought her hesitant stare up from the ground.

“My dear girl.” Marce reached forward with a gentle touch, but the girl stepped back out of reach as her alarmed gaze darted about the room. “What is your name?” Marce spoke low, holding her hands up in surrender—or at least to show the girl she wouldn’t invade her space again until she was settled.

“Abbigail, madam,” she uttered in a thin, reedy voice with the undeniable hint of aristocracy. She was of noble birth, or at least part of the upper gentry. “I was told you could help me.”

“Of course, of course, Abbigail.” Marce moved back to her seat, lowering herself gradually as she gestured for the girl to sit, as well. “Please.”

Abbigail lowered her head once more. “I will stand, but thank you for the kindness.”

From her manners and the quality of her gown, the girl was certainly a part of society. “Abbigail, please tell me what you need, and I will do everything I can to help.”

“A place to stay—”