Page 71 of To Seduce a Stranger

“Oh.” Mrs. Yates grew pale. “Oh, my.”

The curtsy into which she lowered herself was so deep she required her sister’s aid to rise again, and the absurdity of the situation—a clean, well-dressed, respectable woman prostrating herself to the dirty, disheveled daughter of nobody—made Charlotte begin to giggle. And once she had begun, she found she could not stop. The hiccups of laughter soon gave way to tears, which made the good Mrs. Yates even more frantic.

“Here, my lady—er, no, that’s not right, is it?—here’s a chair, ma’am. Should I fetch some smelling salts?” she asked, turning away, then back again. “I don’t—I don’t believe I have any smelling salts, now that I think of it. I’ve never been prone to fainting, myself. Maybe an onion? Or a—uh—”

“Kitty! Just let her breathe for a moment,” Jane said, handing Charlotte a handkerchief. “Can’t you see she’s had a difficult time of it?” At that moment, two boys whooped through the hall from the back and ran up the stairs, the elder gripping some prize snatched from the kitchen, the younger trying and failing to get his share. “Boys! Richard, Charles! Stop your tomfoolery this instant!”

Charlotte waved the handkerchief in a feeble hand, trying to forestall Jane’s protest. The tears became laughter again. It was good to see Jane among the loving chaos of her family.

“Would you—that is, do you think you could manage the stairs, my—er, Your Grace?” Mrs. Yates asked.

Jane added, “There’s a proper sitting room upstairs, if the children haven’t made a toss of it.”

“You’re too kind,” Charlotte said, and surrendered herself to their care. Curious children were shooed from the best parlor, though they persisted in peeking through the crack in the door at the visitor. A maid brought tea, which Charlotte fell upon with such unladylike eagerness that an invitation to dinner soon followed. Finally, after a great deal of whispering with her sister and the maid in the corridor, Mrs. Yates extended the offer of a room for the night.

“Merci,” said Charlotte, which resulted in a surreptitious exchange of glances.

Perhaps an hour later, when the bustle of interest surrounding her arrival had died down, when Mrs. Yates had gone to urge the cook to her best efforts, and the maid had fetched up hot water, Charlotte and Jane were left alone in the bedroom Charlotte had been given.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, ma’am.” Jane poured the water in the basin and made as if to help Charlotte out of her dress.

Too tired to protest, Charlotte lifted her arms like a child and allowed herself to be washed and dressed and combed and tressed. “It really was not my intention to come here, to inconvenience your family. But I—I did not know where else to turn.”

“Don’t you worry about Kitty and the rest,” Jane mumbled around a mouthful of hairpins. “This will give them conversation for the rest of the year.”

“Oh, but they mustn’t! What if Robert—what if the Duke of Langerton finds out and makes trouble for them?”

Jane smiled indulgently. “He’s not often spotted in Clerkenwell, ma’am, truth be told.”

“Well, no. I don’t suppose . . .”

“And Kitty’ll have the name mixed up. One side of the street will hear that Lady Somesuch came to call, and the other side will be sayin’ it was the Queen herself.”

Charlotte wrinkled her brow, uncertain whether Jane was teasing. “You weren’t . . . he did not cause you any difficulty, then?”

“Pshaw. He’s enough to do, what with disappearin’ duchesses an’ the like,” she said with a wink. “He had his secretary out to yell at me one morning, told me lyin’ was a sin, and stealin’ too—”

“Stealing?”

“Your trunk went on to Blakemore House, ’course, but I kept your bag right with me. Told ’im it was mine and he hadn’t any cause to go poking his nose in it. Well, eventually, he gave up, and I haven’t heard another peep, ’cept a note sent round with my last quarter’s wages. See for yourself.”

Reaching around, she fumbled through a small drawer in the top of the dressing table, and Charlotte realized the room they were in belonged to Jane. “I can’t—you mustn’t give up your room for me, Jane.”

“Don’t think anything of it, ma’am. I’m up and down the stairs to the nursery so many times of an evening, I might as well sleep there as here,” she insisted, laughing. “Now, see.” She extended the paper for Charlotte’s inspection. “Ten pounds, minus one pound six for missing bag and contents,” she read, and laughed again.

“Do you—?” Charlotte hardly dared hope. “Do you still have the bag?”

“’Course. I hung the dresses in the press, but everything else is just as you left it.” This necessitated rummaging through the bottom of a corner cupboard, but when Jane reemerged, she bore a small carpet-sided satchel in her arms and laid it easily in Charlotte’s lap. “La, ma’am. There you be. Safe and sound.”

With one trembling finger, Charlotte traced a pattern in the rough nap of the fabric. Inside, she could feel the sharp corners of what could only be a book. “Thank you, Jane. I’m afraid I left your bag behind in Gloucestershire.”

“Gloucestershire. That’s west, ain’t it?” Jane asked. Charlotte nodded. “And is the bit about the man true, too, then?”

“Man?”

Jane slid her fingers into her drawer once more and this time withdrew a folded newspaper whose print was distressingly familiar to Charlotte. When Jane held it out for her to see, Charlotte read once more the words about Robert’s suit. But this time, her eyes traveled farther down the page.

Meanwhile, the Disappearing Duchess was last seen headed west in the company of a dark-haired stranger. No doubt she hopes he is possessed of a cure for her late husband’s “infirmities.”