Page 17 of Duke of Moonstone
“Come.”
Graves entered with the expression he wore when he had something to report that he anticipated would require a response. “Mr. Holt has arrived, Your Grace.”
“Send him in.”
Reginald Holt was not the sort of man who looked impressive which was exactly why Alexander hired him. He was small, middle-aged, and unremarkable in appearance with a special talent for finding people who wanted to stay hidden—an ability Alexander had relied on twice before. He entered quietly, standing across the desk with his hat in his hands.
“Holt,” Alexander said. “I have a matter that requires your particular skills. My sister, Lady Eleanor, left London three nights ago with a man named Malcolm Fraser. They are traveling north. I want to know where they are.”
Holt nodded once. “Scotland, Your Grace?”
“In all likelihood. Gretna, possibly, or further north if he has family there.” Alexander paused. “I want her location. I want it within the week.”
“And when I have found her, Your Grace?”
Alexander looked at him steadily. There was a version of this in which he said, “Bring her back,” and he had been intending to say it since the night he read Eleanor’s letter. He opened his mouth. “Report to me directly,” he said instead. “Do not approach her. Find where she is and come back to me.”
Holt nodded again, replaced his hat, and left.
Alexander sat for a moment after the door closed.I am not going after her.He had reasons—legitimate, practical reasons: thescandal, the wedding to arrange, and the fact that he could not leave London at the moment without it being noticed and added to the ongoing commentary on the papers. All of this was true, but none of it was entirely why. He was self-aware enough to realize that, but he was not ready to examine the rest of it closely.
“Graves, I need Whitmore here this afternoon.”
“Your solicitor, Your Grace?”
“I need the paperwork for a special license to begin today. The Archbishop’s office will need to be contacted. I will write the letter myself.” He was already reaching for a fresh sheet. “I also need Whitmore to draw up the marriage settlement. Quickly and correctly. Tell him I do not expect it to take more than a day.”
“Very good, Your Grace. And the date of the ceremony?”
“End of the week.” Alexander was already writing. “Friday, if the license can be secured by Thursday. Saturday at the latest.”
“Shall I notify the household staff?”
“Yes. Quietly. I do not want this in the papers before the ceremony.” He paused then added, without looking up, “Ensure the Duchess’ rooms are prepared. Fresh linens, flowers, whatever is appropriate. Ask Mrs. Wells what is required and ensure she has what she needs.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And Graves, there is the other matter.” He set down his quill. This was the part he had been turning over all morning, the part that sat alongside the wedding arrangements and the solicitor and the letters to Scotland with a different kind of weight. “I will need to write to Mrs. Hartley as well. In Wiltshire.” He paused. “Tell her that circumstances have changed and that I am making new arrangements. She will understand.”
Graves’s expression did not alter. “Shall I have the letter sent express, Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
When Graves had gone, Alexander sat for a moment with the quill in his hand and thought about Wiltshire and about a child he had not seen since Christmas and about what it meant that he was now making arrangements that would change the shape of everything.
She needs a home, a father,his mother had said, more than once, with the patience of a woman who believed repetition would eventually accomplish what directness had not.
He was not certain what kind of father he would make. He was not certain he was capable of being the sort of man a child needed. But he was beginning to think, with the particular discomfort of a conclusion he had been resisting for some time, that satisfactory was not a sufficient answer to that question.
He wrote the letter to Mrs. Hartley, sealed it, and set it aside for Graves.
Then he turned to the next problem.
Madame Leclerc was the finest dressmaker in London; he knew this because his sister had told him so on approximately forty separate occasions and because every woman of consequence in his acquaintance went to her and had done so for twenty years.
Madame Leclerc arrived at Whitestone House at two o’clock with two assistants, a great many fabric samples, and opinions.
“Your Grace.” She was a small woman, French, somewhere between fifty and seventy, with the air of someone who had long ago decided that her expertise entitled her to a frankness that other people were not permitted. “You wish for a wedding dress.”
