“Yes, Your Grace. She had an affair that Clara found out about the day she was murdered. They were his letters to Lady Peters that Clara burned in the fire that evening.”
“Is that all of her secrets?” Blackford asked.
“Yes. Of course. Aren’t spying and a sexual liaison enough for one woman?”
Rosamond Peters gave me a grateful look.
His mother may have killed a man, but there was no reason a young boy should pay for her sins with the loss of his name and title.
The police raced in and took Lady Peters into a hesitant custody. She said, “Duke, would you contact the French ambassador for me, please?”
He bowed as she was led away.
Only then could I allow myself a gasp. I smacked Blackford in the chest with the blueprints and left the room to go upstairs and sleep for what little was left of this night. I’d had my fill of aristocrats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I awoke to sunlight streaming in my window. “What time is it?” I mumbled.
“One in the afternoon. You’ve slept through everything, including the local vicar and the Bishop of Wellston discussing whether you should have been awakened for Sunday services. The duke forbade it.” Phyllida smiled. “But now the duke has sent me to wake you. He said you have an appointment this afternoon.”
My eyes flew open and I sat straight upright in the bed. “I’ll need Emma to help me dress. Ring the bell for her, will you?”
“She’s in with the police, giving them the official line. You’re stuck with me.” Phyllida was fairly gloating.
“Well, help me, then.” I pulled off my nightgown and yanked on a shift, rolled my stockings up my legs, and then grabbed my corset. “What is the official line?”
“You went to your old friend, the duke, to ask for his help in proving Clara’s husband didn’t kill her. The duke learned about the missing blueprints for the new ship the Admiralty has ordered. When you had Gattenger draw a picture of the burglar, Blackford passed it around Scotland Yard. Once he was identified as Mick Snelling, the duke had him followed. When the burglar came here, Lord Harwin came to your aid by inviting you to his house party.”
“This story seems to leave out a lot,” I said as Phyllida finished tightening my laces. Between us, we hooked my stockings to the ribbons dangling from my corset.
Her next words were lost as we pulled my petticoat over my head.
“What was that?”
“The two of you discovered Snelling approaching the house. By the time you caught up to him, Snelling was dead and the plans were gone.”
I slipped on a blouse, and Phyllida hurried through fastening the buttons. “Are the police buying this?”
“Dukes can be very persuasive.”
“How did he say we caught Lady Peters?”
“You found the blueprints while searching the downstairs, and she tried to kill you, confessing her crime. The French ambassador is in negotiations with Whitehall to have her sent back to France. He’s citing diplomatic immunity.”
I’d completely misjudged the French spy. “What about her son? He’s staying with relatives currently, but will she be allowed to see him? She is his mother.”
Phyllida shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“What about Baron von Steubfeld?”
“What about him? No one is mentioning his name.” Phyllida helped pull my skirt over my head.
“He hired Snelling to steal the plans.”
“There’s no proof of that, so the duke decided Snelling must have burgled the house, found the drawings, and saw his opportunity.”
“Blackford has a lot to answer for.” I slipped on my shoes and raced for the door.
“We have to put your hair up,” Phyllida cried.
My hair didn’t look like much when we finished pushing pins into it, but everything was staying in place. Phyllida grabbed a simple hat with a wide brim to protect me from the sun and pinned it on. The brim fortunately hid the worst of my hairdo. Then I grabbed my gloves and ran out of the room and down the hall to the stairs.
“Finally.” Blackford’s voice rose from the front hall. “Are you ready to go?”
I skidded to a stop and proceeded with decorum. “Of course, Your Grace,” I said while smoothly descending the staircase. “How nice of you to escort me.”
We climbed into Lord Harwin’s carriage. Once we were settled and the horses were in motion, I asked, “What has happened to Lady Peters?”
“She was taken to London under police escort. The baron also left this morning, so the blueprints will return this afternoon under armed guard. No sense tempting fate. Lady Peters did explain about the stolen hatbox.”
“What did she say?” And what would they do about Henry at Fortier’s? He was also part of France’s spy network.
“She had taken something for her contact in a hatbox. His shop was busy, so they’d made previous arrangements under these circumstances for her contact to hire someone to take the hatbox from her and bring it to the shop. The young man grabbed the wrong hatbox.”
“He must have been shocked when Emma and I gave chase. He dropped the hatbox and tried to run when he was cornered, no doubt thinking he’d get away and continue to look for the woman who had the hatbox he was supposed to take. No one could have foreseen how many Gautier hatboxes were being carried that morning.”
Blackford smiled. “I take it Emma had her knife with her?”
“Yes. Suggest to Whitehall they keep an eye on Fortier, the jeweler. She came in with a hatbox and looked unhappy to see us in his shop, Your Grace.”
“I will.”
I looked out the window at the sunny afternoon. The weather was ideal. “Did Lady Bennett leave?”
“She’s taken over the nursing duties for Sir Henry. Apparently she’s bossing the servants around unmercifully.”
“And everyone still thinks I’m Georgina Monthalf?”
Blackford lifted my gloved hand and kissed the back of it. “Yes, my love.” In a drier voice, he continued, “Although people are starting to wonder why I’m not visiting you at night. As a widow, it would be appropriate if we were discreet.”
I held his gaze. “And what does His Grace think?”
He squeezed my hand before he let it go. “His Grace is conflicted. Do you want me to visit you in your room tonight?”
I did, but my heart would be ground to dust when he chose a suitable duchess. “I appreciate you not beginning something that will end badly when you marry Miss Amanda Weycross.”
He jerked his head back. “Miss Amanda Weycross? Good God, woman, I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life with that addle-brained female for all the crown jewels and Buckingham Palace.”
“Lady Anne Stewart, then.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Have you met her mother?”
“Briefly.” At dinner and the ball the evening before. I planned never to make that mistake again.
“She’ll turn into her mother. She’s already a close approximation.” He started laughing. “Georgia, are you jealous? Don’t be. There isn’t a woman in the British Isles to match you.”
“But you have to produce an heir.”
“That necessity is the curse of being a peer.” He looked out the far side window of the carriage, giving me a clear view of the short, damp curls at the nape of his neck.
I studied that stiff neck, memorizing it for the times ahead. He’d soon be gone from my life, while I’d be back in my bookshop dreaming of becoming a duchess.
And he’d said there was no other woman in England to match me.
When he faced me and said, “We’re here,” it took me a moment to remember where “here” was. It took me longer to give up on the pleasant daydream of being the Duchess of Blackford.