Page 6 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Shifting his stare to the window, Rowan’s irritation only grew when he still did not see his traveling coach in the yard.

Where is the bloody woman?

Miss Marce Davenport was many things, but late was generally not one of them.

Since the day they’d struck their bargain, she’d always been punctual—for she knew well the consequences if she did not abide by Rowan’s dictates. With any luck, she would not test Rowan’s boundaries, or he would be forced to make the decision he’d been dreading.

Perhaps she tested his patience on purpose?

Today was not the day for her to challenge him.

With all things considered, he asked very little of the woman: her attendance at his country estate no more than three times per year, and repayment each month for what she owed the Harwich dukedom. In exchange, she kept control of Craven House. What she did with the ancient structure, he cared not. As long as she didn’t burn the house to the ground, Rowan was content to remain far removed from her business, and as an unspoken rule, she did the same with his. Their names were linked in no other way.

Except when they both journeyed to Welling and then continued on together to his family home, Hadlow Estate, in Dartford, Kent.

It was then that they became entangled in one another’s affairs, at least enough to make it through their stay in the country without raising his mother’s suspicions. The servants, both in London and at his country home, were easily dealt with—and had kept their positions in exchange for their silence on the matter of Rowan and Miss Marce Davenport’s association outside of Hadlow Estate.

Julian, Rowan’s father, had ruled with an iron fist, and though his only son found himself away more than in residence, his family’s servants obeyed his every command.

He turned toward the public room door as another coach pulled to a stop in the stable yard.

Once again, the conveyance did not have the Harwich crest on its door, nor did any of the finely dressed occupants exiting the coach have fair hair or an upturned nose.

“Another,” Rowan growled, and the barkeep hustled to pour him another drink.

The woman obviously had little care for her own well-being.

As he drained his glass once more, cringing at the tepid temperature, a hand settled on his shoulder, and a light, feminine voice purred into his ear. “Somethin’ sweet Molly Mae can do for ye, sir?”

Rowan stiffened, turning to see a woman of indeterminate age, her lips painted a bright red, with rosy cheeks and plumped cleavage, taking him in with a slightly hooded stare and a mischievous smirk. His stomach turned at the thought of what Molly Mae did for the men passing through Welling on their way to places unknown—and the atrocities that had forced her into such a career path.

Life was a cruel mistress, and Rowan would be remiss in thinking he was the only one cursed.

When he made no move to answer, she continued, “Ol’ Pete has a room saved jus’ for me.”

Gripping the woman’s fingers where they clutched the shoulder of his coat, wrinkling the fine fabric, Rowan removed her hand with a tight frown. “My apologies, ma’am, but I am only here long enough to meet a friend.” He glanced over her shoulder and out the open door. “And it appears they have arrived.”

To diminish any injured feelings, he slipped two shillings from his pocket and held them out to her. Quick as anything, Molly Mae swiped the coins with a grateful smile.

Rowan made no further conversation as he strode from the inn and into the crowded yard, his coach still unseen. The chilly February breeze slammed into him, making him take a deep breath and clamp his jaw tight to avoid chattering teeth. Winter still had a viselike grip on Kent, and with the dark clouds in the distance, there was little chance it would release its hold during Rowan’s stay at Hadlow.

The clouds were rolling his way from London—the path his carriage would be taking. Had something happened on her journey? After all these years with no issues, Rowan had become decidedly lax when it came to trusting she would come when he sent for her. It hadn’t struck him until now that her carriage might be tardy because something had waylaid her. The thought of a highwayman coming upon her unexpectedly sent a shiver of unease through him. Would the servant he assigned to protect her have the gumption to do what was necessary to transport her safely?

Even if she were out of the reach of a highwayman, what of the weather? Or perhaps a thrown wheel or injured horse.

If she did not arrive soon, he would be forced to set out and search for her.

Bloody hell, if she went back on their agreement, Rowan would be wise to forget the entire debacle—go on to his country estate without her and make as if she’d never existed. It would be safer for him, yet the questions he’d face when he arrived would be dangerous.

Dangerous, indeed.

He pulled his collar high to keep the wind from darting down his back and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as he stared off into the distance. There were too many carriages, carts, and men on horseback to see anything clearly. Perhaps he should call for his mount and venture back toward London until he found his coach.

He suppressed the urge, knowing had a highwayman set upon any travelers word would have made it to the Whisper Hook Inn long before now.

Instead, Rowan moved to lean against the wall of the inn, praying he remained out of sight from Molly Mae or anyone else that thought to disturb him. The note he’d sent to his mother, the Duchess of Harwich, had said they would arrive at three o’clock, and bloody hell, he did not relish the idea of keeping her waiting. She’d spent too many long, lonely years doing just that…for her husband to make a rare appearance at their country estate, for her body and the Lord above to bless her with another child, and for her only living son to take time from his vast business ventures to visit Kent.

A coach, loaded with travelers and their cargo, pulled out of the yard as another far more familiar carriage navigated around it with his driver holding tightly to the reins. The conveyance ambled to a halt.