When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,110
Wellington himself wouldn’t take on that pair.”
“Did the bride say anything else?” Duncan asked. The bride, not Parker’s bride.
Mary’s brow knit. “She didn’t say much at all, sir. She let us do our fittings, let us do all that work the livelong afternoon and into the evening, and then cut up something awful right before supper. His groomship told Madam we have the night to finish the dress, and poor Maisy and Helen are still there stitching themselves blind. I got stuck working overnight before Lady Lucy DeWinter’s come-out, so Madam said I could grab a few hours’ sleep and do the final adjustments in the morning.”
Ivor returned with a tray of buttered bread, pared apples, sliced cheese, and cold ham. He set it before Mary and poured her a cup of tea. The look she gave him was beyond grateful, and he withdrew only as far as the door.
Duncan took a seat on the sofa, guarded relief gradually penetrating his fatigue and worry.
“So the bride had a spectacular tantrum just as the dress was completed,” he said, “and the groom has given you orders to finish your work in time for a ceremony at eight in the morning. How did Her Grace convey to you that you were to contact us?”
“She ordered everybody out of the room but me—she’s some sort of pumpernickel duchess, you know—but even a duchess can’t undo her own laces. We were behind the privacy screen, nobody else in the room, and she told me that she did not want to marry the strutting buffoon—and I ask you, who would?—but she might not have a choice. I was to find you lot, and make sure you knew when the ceremony was scheduled.”
“We have less than eight hours to intervene in this farce,” Stephen said. “I, for one, will spend some of those hours sleeping. I am confident that well before dawn, a clearer head than mine will have concocted a solution to this puzzle, for none occurs to me.”
Mary was making good progress with the tray Ivor had brought, putting Duncan in mind of a hungry Matilda.
Stephen limped from the room, leaving Duncan with Quinn, Mary, and Ivor.
“We should all get some rest,” Duncan said, though what he sought was solitude to think. “Ivor, you will please see the lady made comfortable for the night, and ensure she’s back at her post at dawn. Miss Bisset, if you can relay to the duchess one message, privately of course, it would be this: Her knights will charge before the ceremony begins, and she is to do nothing to put herself at risk of further harm.”
“That’s all?” Mary asked, a buttered slice of bread in her hand. “Her knights will charge before the ceremony begins, and she’s not to put herself at risk of further harm?”
Thank heavens for a sensible young woman with good recall. “That’s not quite all. You have done me and the duchess a significant service at great inconvenience to yourself. You are tired and hungry, and need not have bothered with this drama. What can I do to show my appreciation?”
She gestured with the bread. “This is appreciation. Haven’t had a decent cup of tea since my grandmother’s funeral.”
“A tea tray is a mere courtesy,” Duncan said. “You deserve more than that for aiding a stranger.”
Quinn came up on Duncan’s side. “I am a duke, Miss Bisset, though I’ve never regarded that as a particular benefit to anybody. If you want a cottage in Chelsea, I’ll see it done. If you want your own millinery shop, that’s the work of a moment. I am in Mr. Wentworth’s debt to a greater extent than any duke has ever owed anybody, and my wealth is at his disposal to see you compensated for your trouble.”
Mary set down the half-eaten bread and sent Ivor a questioning glance. “I wouldn’t know what to do with my own shop.”
“You’d make money with it,” Quinn said. “Keep a decent roof over your head. In addition to Mr. Wentworth’s gratitude you have my own. My duchess is in a position to see that you will have substantial custom and nobody wants to go blind sewing for a pittance if they don’t have to.”
Mary studied the tea tray, which was French porcelain because Quinn liked for his duchess to have pretty things. “May I think about it?”
“Of course,” Duncan said.
Steam wafted up from the cup she cradled in her hands. “Will he walk with me in the morning?” Mary asked, nodding