Page 5 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

When she focused on the door once more, Darla had disappeared, slipping as soundlessly away as she’d arrived.

Marce adjusted her hold on her traveling trunk and walked toward the foyer, careful to keep her pace unhurried to hide the mounting dread that increased with each step.

It was not every day a woman told a duke to go to hell—consequences be damned.

With her head held high, Marce departed Craven House with only a slim hope she’d be allowed to return.

“Your carriage,” the driver called, pulling the coach door wide for her.

With this servant, and the several that had come before him, she was never Madame Marce, nor even so much as Miss Davenport. He only held the door for her to enter at Craven House and exit the carriage at the Whisper Hook Inn.

She was simply a chore that could be assigned to any random servant. Collect and deposit her as if she were naught but a bag of sugar needed for afternoon tea, or a gown needing collection from the laundress.

Perhaps she, at some point, had acquiesced to her role as such and began to think of herself in the manner in which the duke treated her—as something of little import.

The time had come for that to change.

She may have shed the trappings of her noble birth long ago and nearly forgotten her status as the eldest daughter of Lord Buckston, a marquess; however, she had not fallen so far that she believed herself as insignificant as a bushel of sugar.

“Sir.” Marce halted before stepping up into the waiting conveyance, making certain to keep her tone level. This was not the man her years of pent-up frustration should be aimed at.

He was but a messenger.

“Yes?” He cleared his throat, keeping his stare trained on her feet.

“I need to make a stop before departing London.” She pinned the driver with a hard stare even though he’d yet to lift his gaze to hers. Would he deny her request? Would he load her into the carriage and ignore her demand?

“His Grace will not be pleased if we are tardy,” he mumbled, his eyes finally meeting hers.

“It is a gift—for the duchess.” It was Marce’s turn to avoid his gaze as she admitted the truth of the matter. She was in no way seeking to delay or displease the duke, only curry favor with the duchess. “I must pick it up from the bookseller on Piccadilly.”

“Certainly.” He nodded, his stare focusing on her feet once more.

Without another word, Marce handed her trunk to the driver to stow in the boot and entered the carriage.

As they pulled out of the Craven House drive, Marce stopped herself from glancing out the window and watching her home disappear in her wake. Neither would she waste precious time dwelling on the looming task awaiting her once she arrived at the Whisper Hook Inn. Her decision had been made—and Marce would allow nothing to alter her course.

Chapter 2

Rowan scrutinized the smudged tumbler as he rolled it between his fingers, shifting it from one hand to the other, careful not to send the amber liquid over the rim. The scotch should have burned going down as he hadn’t drunk in far too long, but its murky blandness spoke of spirits too long open on the shelf.

More difficult than overlooking the less than stellar drink was ignoring the various conversations going on about the public room at the Whisper Hook Inn—locals in search of a hot meal and lukewarm ale, or stragglers from the staging coach passing through on its way to and from London. There was little need to hear their business as Rowan sought to keep his reasons for being in Welling quiet—and the public room at the inn afforded him just that. The constant flow of people masked Rowan’s comings and goings. No one took notice of him, and Rowan, in turn, made a point of not retaining the names of the barkeep or the patrons.

Each time, it was as if Rowan had found himself in the rundown inn for the first time.

There was no need to familiarize himself with the neglected inn when this occasion could be his last visit—the tepidness of the spirits, the stale smell clouding the room, the scrape of wooden stools on the scarred plank floor, the rough bar top…all things Rowan did not commit to memory.

He could leave the Whisper Hook Inn and return a thousand more times. Or never again.

“Another scotch, m’lord?” the barkeep called, removing a plate with the remnants of Rowan’s meal from the bar top.

“No, thank you.” Rowan tossed back his glass, emptying the remaining scotch before sliding the tumbler toward the barkeep. Even though the liquid had seen better days, Rowan was not one to waste spirits, no matter the murky, suspect quality. “What time have you?”

“Nearly three.” The man moved farther down the bar to serve a pair of newly arrived patrons. Their threadbare trousers and wide-brimmed hats spoke of their employment in the fields surrounding Welling.

Rowan had no need for the barkeep’s undivided attention. To remain a man not remembered was preferable; yet, dressed as he was and arriving as he had, it would be odd if the proprietor didn’t recall his many visits and thus cater to him. Not that the man knew anything of Rowan, least of all his status as a duke. If the barkeep paid close enough attention, he’d have noted that, for years, Rowan came to the inn, had a drink—whether ale or something more substantial—and departed quickly when a fair-haired woman arrived in the stable yard.

So had been his tedious routine for nearly eight years.