When a Duke Loves a Governess (Unlikely Duchesses #3) - Olivia Drake Page 0,4

in particular, was the one that wrenched Tessa’s heart. But she hadn’t realized the true significance of the rest until much later when, as an employee at the millinery, she’d noticed that ladies often arrived in fine carriages with a lozenge on the door of a type similar to the engraving on the pendant. It had occurred to her then that what she’d viewed as merely a pretty design might actually serve to identify the man who had sired her.

“’Tis him, isn’t it?”

Orrin’s sharp tone startled her, as did the inquisitiveness in his eyes. “Who?” she asked.

“This lord you’re goin’ t’ see, is he your pa? The one what used your mam an’ then tossed her out? Did you find him?”

She’d told Orrin the story about her parentage, although she hadn’t shown him the pendant. Keeping it concealed beneath her gown was a habit that had begun as a child at the orphanage, where even a crust of bread must be guarded against theft. “No, I did not. It’s the Duke of Carlin who needs a governess.”

“A duke, eh? The loftiest o’ the toffs.” Orrin’s upper lip curled. Being something of a revolutionary, he had a low estimation of the aristocracy. “Gorblimey, Tess, you don’t do things by halves.”

“It’s an excellent prospect. With the increase in salary, I’ll be able to open my shop all the sooner.”

“That’s if you can bamboozle this duke. He’ll be expectin’ a blueblood lady. And he’ll be askin’ for your family connections. You can’t be tellin’ him you’re a hatmaker from the East End.”

Tessa had been mulling over that very issue. What little she knew about aristocrats had been gleaned from observation, both at work and while window-shopping along Bond Street on her half day off. But if she let Orrin talk her out of this, she most certainly would never succeed. “I’ll think of something. Now I must be on my way lest the duke hire someone else.”

That he might already be conducting interviews was a worry that lent speed to her packing. She added a stack of hat sketches to the clothing in the open trunk, then pried up a loose floorboard and extracted the tin box containing her savings. The coins made a satisfactory weight in her palm, though their value fell far short of the vast sum she needed.

After tucking a few pennies in her reticule and concealing the remainder in the trunk, she straightened up to find Orrin eyeing her, his brows knit. “A pity you don’t know your pa’s name,” he said, continuing in his earlier vein. “He must be loaded with blunt. The bleater owes you.”

Orrin had skirted close to guessing her true purpose. Too close. Should she apprise him of her secret plan to find the man? Yet a hard-learned caution made her hesitate to reveal the pendant.

“But I don’t know his identity,” she said. “So that’s that.”

She turned away to don the chip-straw bonnet that Madame had rejected. Tessa had felt justified in taking it in lieu of her monthly pay. The tiny spot on the brim had been eradicated with a bit of careful rubbing. Tying the sky-blue ribbons beneath her chin, she glanced into the little square mirror above the bureau. How pretty the hat looked now that she’d removed the gaudy clusters of rosebuds, how elegant and self-assured it made her feel.

Was it too fine, though?

Lady Farnsworth had described the other governesses as bran-faced spinsters. Such women tended to wear ugly round bonnets that offended Tessa’s sense of fashion. Everything in her craved to wear the stylish hat, so she rationalized that the rest of her appearance wasn’t memorable in the least. Small in stature, she had blue eyes set in ordinary features, with a hint of fair hair visible beneath the brim. She had changed into her second-best gown, a high-necked one of dark cerulean muslin that made her appear sober and bookish as befitting a governess.

“What was your mam’s name?” Orrin asked suddenly.

“Florence.” She tugged on her only pair of gloves, the pads of the fingers worn to threads. “Why do you wish to know?”

“I don’t like you workin’ for this duke, that’s why. These noble swells, they’re lechers. If one preyed on your mam, it could happen t’ you, too.”

Disquiet niggled at her. But Lady Farnsworth had pooh-poohed the notion of the Duke of Carlin abusing his governesses. She’d said only that little Lady Sophy had been indulged by her grandparents while the duke had been out of England. What