The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,127
an element of anachronism.
Members of my family are diagnosed with mental and neurological illnesses. I don’t choose the period-appropriate terms lightly. I use them because they make the story more historically accurate, and a better reflection of what Constance and Robert had to overcome as they won the battle for their happily ever after.
Which they did. Handily.
And before we begin our story, I must emphatically thank writin’ buddy and sister author Louisa Cornell for her generous assistance with the legal details regarding mental incompetence proceedings. She walked me through the relevant arcanities, and pointed me to a very useful period primer on the whole business. For storytelling purposes, I simplified a few aspects of the process, but the basic ideas—accusations of mental incompetence could come from anyone, and the judgment rendered was from a legal commission without any medical expertise—are accurate. If you want to have a really interesting conversation, ask Louisa about the commissions (note the plural) convened to consider the Duke of Portland’s mental fitness. My, my, my…
Discover Your Next Great Read
Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors.
Tap here to learn more.
Look for Stephen’s story in HOW TO CATCH A DUKE
Available Spring 2021
Keep reading for a preview.
Chapter One
“I have come to ask you to kill me, my lord.”
Abigail Abbott had surprised Stephen Wentworth from the moment he’d met her several months ago. May she ever bask in heaven’s benevolent light, her unexpected call renewed his delight and amazement.
“Miss Abbott, while it is my greatest joy to accommodate a lady’s pleasure wherever that quest may lead, in this instance, I fear I must disappoint.”
“You are the logical party to execute this errand,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You are in line for a dukedom and thus too highly placed to face repercussions should you be charged criminally. You’ll see the thing done properly.”
The butler had shown Stephen’s guest into the library, which was a breach of etiquette. Miss Abbott should have been received in the formal parlor, which faced the street and thus afforded a lady’s reputation greater protection.
Bless all conniving butlers. “Might we sit, Miss Abbott? My knee is—as it were—killing me.”
She glowered at him down the length of her magnificent nose. “I importune you to commit murder, and you jest.”
Stephen used his cane to gesture at a comfortable wing chair set before the blazing hearth and waited until Miss Abbott had seated herself before he settled onto the sofa.
“Your faith in my abilities is flattering, Miss Abbott, but my family takes a dim view of violence toward women—as do I. I cannot, alas, accommodate your request.”
She popped out of her chair and paced across his new Axminster carpet, gray skirts swishing. “And if I were a footpad trying to snatch your purse, a brigand menacing your person? Then would you send me to my reward?”
She moved with all the confidence of a general marching to war at the head of a vast army, though her attire made for very odd battle finery. Stephen had never seen her dressed in anything but gray frocks or dark cloaks, and the severity of her bun would have done credit to a particularly ascetic order of nuns.
Everything about Abigail Abbott was intended to disguise the fact that she was a stunningly well-built female with lovely features. Such attributes made her merely desirable, and Stephen had come to terms with desire years ago—for the most part.
What fascinated him about Miss Abbott was her wonderfully devious mind, and how her penchant for guile waged constant warfare with her unbending morals.
“Why would a professional inquiry agent with very few unhappy clients need to die?” Stephen asked. “From what my sister has said, your business thrives because you excel at what you do.”
Miss Abbott had been a very great help to Constance up in Yorkshire. To see Miss Abbott in London was both a lovely surprise—to see her anywhere would be lovely—and worrisome. If the Creator ever fashioned a woman who did not need any man’s assistance, for anything, Miss Abbott was that formidable lady.
“My situation has nothing to do with my profession,” Miss Abbott replied, resuming her seat. “Might you ring for a tray?”
“Is that how you go on with your lovers? Issue commands couched as questions? Sir, might you apply your hand to my—”
“My lord, you are attempting to shock me.” Her expression was so severe, Stephen was certain she was suppressing laughter. “As a dilatory tactic this is doomed to fail. I am very hard