Page 57

“One thousand and eighty,” Isidore said cheerfully. “Or fifty-four pounds.” She counted them out, then deliberately put a guinea on the counter. “For delivery to each house in the village.” The shopkeeper almost smiled.

She put down another guinea, and his eyes widened. Another. They formed a small golden pile. Deliberately, she built it into an unsteady mountain.

There was an audible pop. No one made a sound; even the footman seemed to be holding his breath.

“There are twenty-seven houses,” she said. “I shall add an extra guinea, so that you might provide some thread and needles to go with the fabrics.”

“Yes,” the man said, his voice half strangled. “Though there’s no need—”

“I am the Duchess of Cosway. I always pay for the value of the merchandise I buy, and naturally, for its delivery as well. There is nothing more valuable than your time, Mr….”

“Mr. Mopser, Your Grace, Harry Mopser.”

Isidore held out her hand. “Mr. Mopser, it has been our pleasure to frequent your establishment.”

“Ba, ba—” he said, but finally managed to say, “Yer Grace.”

She swept from the store, hiding a smile. In the bakery, she ordered twenty-seven meat pies. In the church, having come up with something to say to the vicar after all, she promised a new steeple.

By the time she reached the smithy, Isidore felt like an ambassadress to a foreign country. The vicar had welcomed the idea of giving each household in the village a measure of wool with great enthusiasm; the baker had confided that she sent up a few pound cakes to Revels House weekly, in memory of the late duke’s mother; Isidore promptly paid for five-years’ worth of pound cakes.

The smithy had a low door and a pungent odor, like sulphur. “There’s nothing to buy here,” Lucille protested.

“Then we’ll just greet the smith,” Isidore said cheerfully.

Once inside the smithy, all she could see was a low ceiling, blackened beams, and the dim glow of the fire. Before she could say anything, her footman called, “The Duchess of Cosway.”

There was a clatter and a man rose from the hearth. He didn’t bow, or even smile. He just put his hands on his hips and stared at her, and it wasn’t a nice look. He had a crooked nose and his eyes looked like the sunken coals of his own fire. “The new duchess, I suppose,” he stated.

Isidore blinked.

“A newly minted duchess,” he drawled. “Flanked by a footman, the better to protect you in case a starving villager manages to sling mud in your direction.”

He had the air of someone of incredible strength and yet he was surprisingly gaunt. Behind her, Lucille made a little sound, as if she were a mouse scurrying away.

“Do you wish you had some mud to hand?” she asked, meeting his eyes.

“A duchess who’s not afraid of an insult…how peculiar.”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” she said, putting out a hand as her footman took a menacing step forward. “No one is as impolite to each other as equals, in my experience.”

“Do they chide each other with talk of starving children, then? Of fields rotting at the stalk due to bad seed? Of betrayal and coarse unconcern at the hands of those who should take the greatest care?”

Isidore’s heart was beating fast. This was the heart of the matter. She looked around and saw a three-legged stool, covered with dust. With no hesitation she walked over, sat down, and folded her hands. “Lucille, I’ll thank you and John to wait for me in the carriage. I’ll sit for a moment and talk to Mr….”

“Pegg,” the smith said. “Silas Pegg.”

“Oh no, Your Grace,” Lucille moaned, looking toward the door as if it was heaven’s gate itself.

Isidore fixed her with a duchess stare and a moment later the smithy was empty.

“You may sit down,” she said.

He just looked at her.

“If you wish.”

“I only sit amongst my equals.” His teeth were very white. “Duchess.”