When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,109

dark without at least my sword cane for protection.”

They were serious, and Duncan was demented. Also touched.

“I have a theory,” he said. “A theory based more on fancy than fact, and if my theory is correct, Matilda is in more danger married to Parker than she will be wandering the English countryside at the mercy of brigands and poachers.”

“So why are we hesitating?” Stephen asked, gently. “Why aren’t we taking Parker into custody, and shaking him until his teeth rattle?” He hefted his leg onto a hassock with a sigh that spoke of fatigue and pain.

“Because Parker will be the outraged swain, the loyal soldier who knows nothing of any purloined correspondence. He will be the tireless gentleman and officer, mad with worry for his missing lady. If Matilda contradicts that story with some tale of encoded missives and spies in Mayfair, she will be writing her father’s death warrant, if not her own.”

“Jane wants to call on Parker,” Quinn said, “though I don’t trust even her to handle him.”

“This is complicated.” Stephen stared into the flames of the hearth. “I normally enjoy complications and do all in my power to create them. I hate this.”

I love Matilda.

Duncan had lifted the latch, intent on leaving this cage of speculation and worry, when the door opened from the other side. Ivor stood in the corridor in plain clothes, a young woman at his side.

“Mr. Ventvorth, the lady is asking to speak with you.”

The young woman wore a cloak with a collar of meticulously tatted lace. Her gloves were plain kid and clean, though far from new. She likely didn’t wear them much, suggesting she worked with those hands. She was on the thin side, a possible indication of low wages, and pale, which could result from long hours indoors. Her eyes were reddish about the rims—too much close work by candlelight?—and shadowed with fatigue.

Duncan ran through that sequence of observations and conjectures in the time it took Ivor to bow the lady through the doorway.

“You are a seamstress,” Duncan said. “Duncan Wentworth at your service. What have you to tell me?”

“Perhaps she’d like to have a seat,” Stephen suggested, struggling to his feet. “Ivor, get the woman some sustenance, and have a guest room made up.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the lady said. “You’re right, sir. I am a seamstress. Madam Foucault’s head girl, and I won’t be staying. If somebody could walk me home once I’ve said my piece, I’d appreciate it. I’m to return to the marquess’s house at first light, so the bride’s dress will be perfect for the ceremony.”

“Bloody hell,” Quinn growled, and the seamstress took a step back.

Ivor scowled thunderously. Stephen smiled.

“Please do have a seat.” Duncan gestured to the sofa. “The hour is late and His Grace’s manners have gone begging. I take it the bride sent you to us. Might you tell us your name?”

The woman passed Ivor her cloak and sank into a chair. Her dress could not have been plainer and hung loosely on a gaunt frame, and yet, there was embroidery on her cuffs as well.

Red and white roses, delicately wreathed in greenery.

“I’m Mary Bisset, and yes, I am here because the bride—the duchess—sent me. Even that popinjay of a groom could not intrude for the fittings. Madam doesn’t allow that nonsense when we’ve work to do, and we always have work to do.” She chafed her hands and held them out to the fire.

Duncan’s heart beat faster, with both hope and dread. “You have a message for us?”

Mary nodded, scooting on the chair to get closer to the fire. “She said to find the Duke of Walden’s house on Birdsong Lane and ask for Mr. Duncan Wentworth. I’m to tell you that the ceremony is scheduled for eight in the morning. She doesn’t want to marry him, sir. The dress fit well enough, and she pitched a tantrum worthy of Mrs. Arbuckle’s twins, ripping the lace from the décolletage and cuffs. Said she had to have embroidery, and no duchess was ever married in a shoddy dress. Even the groom didn’t attempt to argue with her.”

Lace could be stitched onto a dress from whatever stock was in store. Embroidery was a more tedious undertaking. Matilda was thinking clearly, which helped Duncan think clearly.

“I know the Arbuckle twins,” Stephen said. “Sweetest pair of cooing doves you ever did meet.”

Mary gave him an incredulous look. “Not when their dresses are too snug or their underskirts are the same shade as some other lady’s.