The Duke's Perfect Wife

Eleanor looked up and found the clerk standing an inch from her. He was breathing hard, his face perspiring.

“Are there any more?” she asked him in a businesslike tone.

“No, miss, that’s all.”

“Did you have more before? I mean, has someone else bought any others?”

The clerk shrugged. “Don’t think so. Shopkeeper bought these a while ago.”

“Who sold them to him?” Eleanor tried to keep the excitement from her voice, not wanting to arouse his suspicions. Or arouse anything else for that matter.

“Don’t know. I wasn’t here then.”

Of course not. That would have been too helpful.

Why no one had found or purchased these since their arrival was explained by the chaos of the room. The photographs would have been difficult to chance upon in this jumble, and if the proprietor refused to bring them to the front, a person would have to ask for them specifically.

“I’ll take them all,” Eleanor said. “These and the three I found in front. How much?”

“A guinea for the lot.”

Her eyes widened. “A guinea?”

“Told you, His Grace of Kilmorgan is popular. Now if I could find some of the Prince of Wales in his altogether, I could fund my retirement.” He chuckled.

“Very well. A guinea.” Hart had already started giving her wages for typing, but Hart could pay her back for this.

The clerk reached for the box. “I’ll just wrap that up for you.”

Eleanor reluctantly put the box into his hands and stood by while he folded brown paper around it and secured it with twine. She took the package he handed her and headed for the curtain, but the clerk stepped in front of her.

“The shop shuts for tea, miss.” His gaze roved down her primly buttoned bodice. “Perhaps you could stay and share it with me. We could look at more photographs together.”

Most decidedly not. Eleanor gave him a sunny smile. “A kind offer, but, no. I have many errands to attend to.”

He put his arm across the curtained door. “Think about it, miss.”

The clerk’s arm was thin, but Eleanor sensed a wiry strength in this young man. She was highly aware that only she and Maigdlin were in the shop, aware that she’d voluntarily gone alone into the back room with him. If Eleanor screamed for help, passersby were as likely to condemn her as to help her.

But for years, Eleanor had dealt with the inappropriate advances of gentlemen who thought her fair game. After all, she’d been engaged to the notorious Hart Mackenzie and afterward had retreated home to look after her father, never to marry anyone else. Had Mackenzie ruined her? Not a few people speculated on this. On occasion, a gentleman would do his best to find out.

Eleanor smiled up at the clerk, putting on her best innocent expression. He started to bend to her, lips puckered in a ridiculous way. He even closed his eyes, the silly man.

Eleanor ducked under his rather musty-smelling arm, spun herself out the doorway, and slammed the heavy velvet drape back into him. The clerk shouted and fought the dusty folds. By the time he’d untangled himself, Eleanor had slapped her coins onto the counter and was heading out the front door.

“Come along, Maigdlin,” she said as she hurried to the street. “We’ll go and have some tea.”

“My name’s Mary, my lady,” the maid said, panting behind her. “Housekeeper should have told you.”

Eleanor set a brisk pace west along the Strand. “No, it isn’t, Maigdlin Harper. I know your mother.”

“But Mrs. Mayhew says I should go by Mary. So the English can pronounce it.”

“Absolute nonsense. Your name is your name, and I’m not English. I’ll speak to Mrs. Mayhew.”

The maid’s disapproving look softened. “Yes, my lady.”

“Now, let us find some tea and sandwiches. And heaps of seedcake. His Grace will pay for it all, and I intend to enjoy myself.”

The house in High Holborn looked the same as it had the night Angelina Palmer had died, the night Hart had walked out of it forever.

The house was to let, but none had taken it this Season, perhaps because it lay too far from fashionable quarters for the rent Hart was asking. Or maybe he’d set it so high because he truly did not want anyone here. The house should sit empty until its ghosts died.

Hart told his coachman to return for him in an hour. The town coach rumbled away, and Hart opened the front door with his key.

Silence met him. And emptiness. The downstairs rooms had been cleared of furniture, save for a stray piece or two. Dust hung in the air, the cold heavy.

He’d not wanted to come here. But Eleanor’s assertion that a clue to the photographs might be found in the house made sense. Hart did not trust anyone in his employ enough to confide in them about the photographs, and he certainly didn’t want Eleanor there, so he’d come himself.

As he climbed the staircase he’d lightly run up as a younger man, he fancied he heard whispers of laughter, the trickle of whiskey, deep voices of his male friends, the high-pitched chatter of ladies.

The house had at first been a nest for Angelina Palmer, when Hart had been proud to be only twenty and yet to have caught such a ladybird. The house had then become his refuge. Here, Hart had been master, his brutal father far from it. The old duke hadn’t even known of the existence of the place.

The house had also become a point of contact during Hart’s rising political career. Hart had hosted gatherings here in which alliances had been formed and plans made, which resulted in Hart now being at the head of his coalition party. Here, Hart had celebrated his first election to Commons at the tender age of twenty-two, he unwilling to wait until he inherited his seat in the Lords to start telling Parliament what to do.

Here, also, Angelina Palmer had lived to please Hart. When Hart’s friends had gone, and he and Mrs. Palmer were alone, Hart had explored the darker side of his needs. He’d been unafraid to experiment, and Angelina had been unafraid to let him.

Angelina at first had assumed that Hart, still at university, would be too young and inexperienced to prevent her from straying with whatever gentleman she wished. But when Hart discovered her transgressions, Angelina for the first time had seen Hart change from laughing, devilish rogue to the hard, controlling man he would become. Hart had looked her in the eye and said, “You are with me, and no other, whether I see you every night or once a year. If you cannot obey that simple stricture, then you will go, and I will advertise the vacancy of your position.”