Page 51 of Her Rake Fiancé

“What is it?” Atticus pressed, an expression of concern on his face.

“It’s about the Duke of Grandhampton,” said Jane, and Atticus’s face darkened. “What exactly happened that night when you were supposed to beat him up?”

“How do you know about that?” growled Atticus, all friendliness gone.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is, the duke’s family knows he may not be dead. That it was not his body that was buried. And they want to find him. If he’s in trouble, he needs help.”

Atticus glared at Richard. “You know I’m his brother, Atticus,” said Richard. “And I’m the one looking for him. Please, tell me.”

Richard’s heart drummed heavily in his chest. Atticus’s eyes softened for the briefest of a moments.

“I get it, it’s a tough spot,” said Atticus. “And I wish I could give you a hand, Janie, and you, Lord Richard. I really do. But I can’t break Thorne’s trust, and neither should you.”

Disappointment lashed at Richard. Jane sighed deeply. “Please, at least don’t tell him you saw us here…and that we asked about that. For my sake.”

Atticus shook his head slowly. “You’re playing with fire, girlie.”

“Perhaps. But a man’s life is at stake.”

Finally, Atticus nodded. “Fine. I won’t say nothing to him. But only if he don’t ask. If he does, I’ll have no choice but to tell him.”

23

Five days until the wedding…

Three days later, Jane found herself in Sumhall Place, in the center of a whirlwind. Calliope’s rooms hummed like a beehive, with Mrs. Newman and her diligent seamstresses bustling about, needles dancing and thread weaving a tangible energy around Jane. She stood still, a serene statue despite the tumultuous thoughts in her head.

Her wedding was in only five days. She’d tried asking Ned and John if they were with Reuben and Atticus the night the Duke of Grandhampton disappeared, but both refused to tell her anything, and she’d stopped trying, afraid word would get back to Thorne.

She had heard from Ruby that Reuben was supposed to be back tonight. But the hope that Reuben would tell her what happened to the duke was shrinking. If Atticus, Ned, and John refused to tell her, would her special bond with Reuben be enough for him to break his master’s trust and confide in her?

With every day that passed, she felt more anxious to find the information before it was too late. Each day seemed to etch Richard’s image deeper into her heart. And his words—“my wife”—still echoed within her, the sound rippling through her soul like a stone skipped across a placid lake.

Her reflection in the mirror stole her breath away. The dress she was being fitted into was a vision of the morning sky—a soft blue gray, adorned with patterns of crystals that resembled delicate frost-kissed flowers. The bodice was elegant, a thin layer of lace applied with such a deft hand that it appeared painted onto her skin. The gown was undoubtedly beautiful, but it was her reflection that stirred something profound within her.

Calliope, standing by the mirror, smiled, her eyes twinkling with pride. “What a transformation!”

Penelope chimed in, a ginger biscuit clasped in her hand to keep her morning sickness at bay, “Oh, Jane. You look stunning!”

“Mrs. Newman”—Calliope turned to the modiste—“you have outdone yourself. And so quickly! Jane, you could wear this for your wedding.”

Jane’s breath hitched, a cold wave of reality washing over her. Of course, there would be no wedding. She forced a smile, meeting Calliope’s eyes in the reflection.

“Or not,” Calliope faltered, the smile on her face fading like a wilting flower. “You should, of course, have a proper wedding dress. It’s just, there’s not a lot of time left.”

Emma, the Duchess of Loxchester, stood nearby, her fingers tracing the silky fabric of a stunning silvery-pink ball gown. Next to it lay three day dresses—two in muted tones of silver and blue, and one a brilliant splash of red. Jane had never dared to wear anything so audacious, so attention-grabbing.

“Whatever you wear, Richard will be delighted,” Emma assured her. “But most importantly, you will be. Won’t you?”

Jane’s lower lip found refuge between her teeth as a subtle, gnawing uncertainty stirred within her. Could she ever see herself as one of those ladies, dressed in the finest gowns, with their hair done in the latest fashions, sparkling in the center of admiring glances? Or was she destined to return to Whitemouth, to blend into the backdrop of modest browns and grays, her hair done in a simple knot, her eyes shielded by spectacles?

The lady looking back in her reflection was a stranger, an apparition from another life. This wasn’t the awkward adolescent of her past, but a woman who knew the allure of a man’s embrace, the tantalizing potential of a temporary betrothal.

The lady in the mirror, adorned in silken fabric and intricate lace, seemed to demand the grandeur of London’s finest ballrooms. She appeared ready to command respect, capable of standing up to unkind critics. Could this woman truly belong in Mayfair’s grand houses, beneath their tall, paned windows, surrounded by art and servants?

“I will be delighted,” Jane affirmed, her voice laced with newfound conviction. “I already am. And I certainly can wear this for the wedding.”

She had experienced a similar elation when trying on Calliope’s dress, but this time, the sensation was different—these clothes were her own, tailored specifically for her, complementing her figure and skin tone.