How To Seduce A Duke

and Elizabeth certainly had no mind for ciphering, and Aunt Prudence, well, the dear was simply too old to manage.

She turned and gazed out the window onto Berkeley Square. Her sisters would have to be told, of course, but not until Mary called upon Lady Upperton and the Old Rakes to explain everything.

Laying her hand atop the lip of the faded leather, she closed the portmanteau and heaved it beneath her bed to conceal it from her curious sisters’ notice.

Lud, she should make her way to Cavendish Square right away. She couldn’t bear it if her sponsor learned of her disgrace from another.

Especially if that person was the absolute worst of debauchers, the Duke of Blackstone.

It was early yet when Rogan arrived in Cavendish Square.

He had arrived at Doctor’s Commons at first light and had waited for the archbishop’s office to open. Now, his business there completed, he held in his coat pocket the special license inscribed with both his title and Miss Royle’s name. They could be married this very day if she so desired, which he expected she would, since a wedding was obviously the purpose behind her clever plan.

He was not looking forward to this, but his own lust had cast him into this position, and there was naught he could do to change that.

He threw his leg across the saddle and dismounted, then wrapped the reins around the post ring outside of Number Two, Cavendish Square.

It was time to face Mary’s sponsor, Lady Upperton.

Within minutes of knocking at the door, Rogan was led down to the passage to the library where Lady Upperton was seated.

As his eyes fixed on the tiny woman, his ears picked up a distinctive metallic click, and from the corner of his eye he almost thought he saw a case of books move.

“Come, come in Your Grace.” Lady Upperton’s smile was as bright as the sun in the sky, and she beckoned to him to join her for tea. “We have-I have been expecting you.”

“Have you?”

“Indeed, I have.”

Rogan dropped his chin to his chest. This was going to be more difficult to stomach than he’d imagined.

He lifted his head. “Then you have already spoken to Miss Royle.”

“I was at the musicale last evening. Do you not recall speaking with me?” Lady Upperton chuckled merrily.

“I d-do.” What in blazes did she mean?

“Your Grace, do you forget that I was witness to your conversations with Miss Royle?”

Rogan stared blankly at the old woman.

“Oh, goodness me. Neither of you could say a civil word to the other. One might think the two of you dislike one another.” She leaned close and patted his knee. “And yet your eyes told a completely different tale.”

“I do apologize, Lady Upperton, but I do not understand.”

“Dear sir, everyone but the two of you could see how enamored you were with each other. Why, you and Miss Royle are the talk of the ton this day.”

“Are we?” Rogan did not like what he was hearing. Just how much did London society know of what had passed between him and Mary?

“I have heard rumors that White’s book is filled with wagers for a wedding before Michaelmas.”

Rogan cleared his throat and, without thinking, slipped his hand inside his coat pocket and touched the special license. “My good lady, you have seen my heart.”

Or rather, my conscience.

“If Miss Royle would accept me and you gave me your blessing, I would wed her this very day.”

The color ran from Lady Upperton’s face, and her lips began to tremble.

“Good heavens,” she stammered. “I must say, the depth of your feelings for each other are far more advanced than I had been aware. Why, this is wonderful!”

Rogan raised his hand. “I am wealthy and titled. I feel quite certain she will accept my offer.”

Lady Upperton narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Then why are you not more jubilant? If Miss Royle wishes to marry you, I will certainly offer my blessing, as will Lotharian.”

Rogan thrummed his fingers on his knee. “There is no question, she must marry me. My concern is only that she may still possess some fondness for my brother, Lord Wetherly.”

“Oh, dear.” She brought her fingers to her lips. “Are you certain?”

“No, I am not. I do not know her heart. However, I do know my brother’s…and his is held by Lady Tidwell.”

Suddenly there was a loud noise behind the bookcases. Rogan leapt to his feet, though Lady Upperton was quite unworried and remained in her seat.

He peered down at her for an explanation.

“Rats.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Just a few rats between the walls.”

“They must be rather large…rats.”

“Hmm, indeed.” She turned her round little face to the row of bookcases near the hearth and narrowed her eyes. “Do you, perhaps, know a good rat catcher?”

Mary swung her blue Bourbon mantle over her shoulders as she hurried down the stairs.

She hoped to slip out the front door unobserved and to walk unaccompanied by her sisters to see Lady Upperton and the Old Rakes of Marylebone.

Her hand had just skimmed the newel post when Mrs. Polkshank called out from the far end of the passage. “Heard you had nothin’ to eat this morn, Miss Royle.”

Mary stopped and remained standing on the bottom step. She listened, hoping her sisters would not have heard Mrs. Polkshank and realized she had emerged from her bedchamber.

“I can prepare somethin’ for you, if you like. Just set the water to boil. I can make some tea in no time at all. Baked some fresh biscuits, too.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Polkshank, I was heading-” Then Mary caught sight of a rich red swath of fabric wrapped around Cook’s waist.

Slowly, she came down from the last step and walked over to view the material closer. “Your sash, may I see it, Mrs. Polkshank?”

The cook dutifully untied the swath and handed it to Mary, who shook out its folds and ran her fingers over it.

It was soft, and though it was quite badly stained in the center, there was no mistaking the gold-shot crimson fabric.

It was Kashmir.

A Kashmir shawl.

Anxiously, Mary carried Mrs. Polkshank’s shawl into the parlor and held it up to the sunlight washing through the windows.

“Where did you get this?” Mary turned and pinned Mrs. Polkshank with her gaze. “Did you know this is a Kashmir shawl? A very expensive shawl-when this was new it probably cost as much as a house. But it’s ruined now, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Polkshank blanched. “I didn’t steal it or nothin’, Miss Royle. Found it in the dustbin, I did. I figured nobody would mind the least bit if I cut it up for rags.”

Mary couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You were going to cut up this for rags?”

“Well, it didn’t look like that then, did it now? It was all dark and mussed with soot and such, like it’d been stuffed up the chimney to keep the drafts out.”

Mary studied the shawl again. “It certainly doesn’t look that way now.”

“Cherie washed it up real nice for me. She’s a good girl, even if she’s French and all. But you can’t choose where you come from, now, can you?”

“No, you can’t.” She lowered the shawl and held it tightly to her middle. “Mrs. Polkshank, I believe this shawl is the rag Elizabeth found inside Papa’s document box. I should like to keep it.”

The cook stared hard at the shawl, and her fingers twitched as if they wanted to grab the Kashmir away. “You