Page 35

“She would not tell strangers anything. Even if she does not align herself with the smugglers, she would not trust that kind of information to anyone.”

“Not the Duchess of Kelbrook or the Viscount Langton, perhaps,” Rosalind said. “But I think she might tell Reynard.”

“She believes Reynard to be a member of the Lamhurst Gang.”

“Then she may need to be persuaded otherwise.” Rosalind smiled. “And I’m inclined to believe that Reynard may be charming enough to manage it.”

She was impossible. How did the duke ever manage this woman? When her mind was made up, she was all but unstoppable.

“Tell me, has there ever been a time when you’ve allowed your poor husband to believe his ideas are more valid than your own?”

Rosalind’s smile grew. “My husband is a duke and his widespread authority and influence are well-known. You, dear brother, are merely a viscount and, as such, are in far greater need of my loving direction.”

Jonas raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I think I’m ready to return you to Finley Park.”

Rosalind laughed. “I will be gone all too soon. But first, I shall introduce Miss Doyle to Mother, and we shall see how they do.”

“Mother is to make the determination as to whether Miss Doyle will suit,” Jonas warned. “Not you or me.”

“Agreed.” With a flounce of her mauve skirts, Rosalind stood. Jonas followed. “I will see what I can do about finding Miss Doyle something suitable to wear before she meets Mother.”

The practical Rosalind had returned, and Jonas suddenly realized that with the costume Hancock had provided him destroyed, he, too, needed new clothing. He experienced a wave of unexpected nervousness at the thought of reprising his role as Reynard. There would be no hardened smugglers to convince this time. Only Miss Doyle. But for some reason, that seemed more dangerous. He tamped down his anxiety.

“Tell Miss Doyle that Reynard will meet her in the rose garden this evening at nine o’clock. No matter what Mother decides, Miss Doyle deserves an opportunity to say her piece. And if she is also willing to share information about the Midnight Master, so much the better.”

Chapter 13

Elizabeth could not begin to fathom how she had come to be in this position. Less than twenty-four hours ago, bedraggled and weary, she’d barely been allowed into the house through the servants’ entrance. Now, with her hair piled in elaborate curls on her head and wearing the most beautiful gown she’d ever seen, she was walking toward the drawing room to have tea with the Viscountess Langton.

“You look very nice, Miss Doyle.” At her side, the Duchess of Kelbrook gave her an encouraging smile.

Elizabeth touched her throbbing cheek self-consciously. “Not me so much as the dress, I think,” she said. She lowered her hand and ran her fingers gently over the pale-green muslin. “It is beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so, and I have to say, the color suits you far better than it ever suited me.”

Elizabeth was quite sure the duchess was being more kind than honest, but she accepted her words graciously. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The duchess nodded. “I have made my mother aware of your association with Reynard, your unfortunate marriage arrangement, and the injury you recently sustained at the hands of your father. Should she choose to discuss any of those subjects, you may rest assured that she is sympathetic to your plight.”

Elizabeth’s bewilderment knew no bounds. Ever since the duchess had reappeared at her bedchamber bearing the muslin gown and an invitation for tea with the Lady Langton, Elizabeth had been furiously considering and then abandoning subject matter that might be appropriate for conversation with a noblewoman. Unfortunately, the firm reprimands she’d received from Mrs. Parkin at every misstep she’d made during those endless afternoon teas at the parsonage had circled through her aching head until she’d been quite sure she was better off remaining mute.

Their arrival at the drawing room spared Elizabeth from having to respond. She’d been brought to the same room the night before, but this time, sunlight reflected off the brass door handles and illuminated the bright, airy room beyond. Without a backward glance, the duchess glided in through the open door. Clasping her hands tightly before her, Elizabeth followed.

Three large, small-paned windows ran the length of one wall, their blue damask window treatments a few shades darker than the robin-egg blue of the walls. Elaborate crown molding ran around the perimeter of the room, with a matching design surrounding the large fireplace. Oil paintings depicting scenes in and around the Romney Marsh hung in gilded frames on the walls. Candelabras sat on each end of the mantelpiece, on the surfaces of the many end tables, and on the magnificent pianoforte in the corner. In the center of the room, a luxurious sofa upholstered in cream and gold fabric and a handful of similarly upholstered chairs were positioned so as to facilitate conversation amongst their occupants.

Currently, there was only one other person in the room beside Elizabeth and the duchess, and she was sitting on one end of the sofa.

“Good afternoon, Mother,” the duchess said.

The older lady turned, and Elizabeth saw her clearly for the first time. Her graying hair was carefully arranged beneath a lacy mobcap decorated with a ribbon the same peach color as her gown. Her eyes were as blue as her daughter’s were dark, and when she looked upon Elizabeth, they held a kindness in their depths that Elizabeth had rarely seen before.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” Lady Langton smiled. “And this must be Miss Doyle.”

“It is, indeed.” The duchess stepped aside. “Mother, Miss Elizabeth Doyle. Miss Doyle, this is my mother, the Viscountess Langton.”

Elizabeth bobbed a curtsy. “I’m honored to meet you, my lady.”

“And I am glad that you are come,” Lady Langton said. “It’s always refreshing to meet someone new.” She pointed to a nearby chair. “Please sit down.”