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While cleaning and organizing the office of my predecessor, I came upon a file that had slipped behind a cabinet and contained a letter you sent nearly twenty years ago. You expressed concern regarding the circumstances surrounding a child placed into your care. It appears my predecessor made a few initial inquiries but, for reasons unknown, didn’t finish the investigation.
At this late date, I dare say, the trail has run cold. However, if you still have concerns or possess additional information, I am at your service.
I apologize on behalf of my predecessor.
~Detective Cyril Dankworth, in a letter to Mrs. Hester Shepherd
Still in the Duchess of Landrith’s private salon
Ten strained seconds later
Impossible. I shan’t do it.
Utterly nonplussed, Faith couldn’t prevent her slack jaw as she gaped incredulously at the duchess. Her heart cavorting behind her ribcage, she cast a panicked glance toward Lord Constantine.
It gave her a great deal of satisfaction to see his strong jaw unhinged and his flabbergasted expression. He was as flummoxed by his mother’s preposterous suggestion as Faith was.
“Affianced?” Faith croaked through the tightness strangling her throat. “Are you suggesting his lordship and I pretend to be betrothed?”
Good Lord.
The scheme was as cliché as a penny novel.
“Precisely.” Her Grace beamed as if it were the simplest solution, and everyone should be as thrilled as she. She waved her hand in the air, the gemstones on three fingers glinting with the movement. “Given the distance from you and the eavesdropper, and that the Misses Breadalbane and Looram don’t have the acumen of a potato between them, I’m positive neither knows what an amanuensis is. Whomever our nefarious spy is, she’ll presume she misheard.”
“Now, Mother.”
Lord Constantine perched on the arm of the settee opposite her in a rather charming and childish fashion, giving Faith a glimpse of the boy he’d once been.
His buff-colored trousers pulled tautly over muscular thighs. For a man obsessed with science and bugs, he was remarkably fit. Hadn’t Mr. Camberg-Trainer mentioned his lordship trained at Gentleman Jackson’s thrice weekly?
Why, pray tell, was Faith noticing those disquieting facts at this critical juncture?
Lord Constantine gave his mother a cajoling smile—one that, no doubt, he’d used to finagle his way out of trouble many times before.
“Be reasonable, Mother dearest. It’s one thing to ask Miss Roth to play the role of a cousin, but my betrothed?” A deep, resonating chuckle bubbled forth as he shook his head and a lock of sandy blond hair flopped onto his forehead. “I cannot agree to the farce. The scandal will be far worse when no marriage takes place.”
“Yes.” Faith gave a vigorous nod. “He’s right. The ton will descend upon that inconvenient truth like vultures on rotting carrion. Besides, I’m not nobility. I’m an orphan, raised in a foundling home. I have no idea who my parents were.”
She was no fool.
The real scandal would be a duke’s son’s betrothal to a nobody.
Worse than a nobody.
A discarded orphan with no breeding or dowry.
Probably, people would mistakenly assume a love match.
Faith barely controlled a snort of horrified hilarity.
Love match?
Anyone with eyes in their heads would know that farcical twaddle for the colossal lie it was. Neither Faith nor Lord Constantine were good enough actors to fool anyone into believing such balderdash.
More often than not, she and his lordship were at odds.
“Pshaw. Stuff and nonsense.” A thread of steel entered Her Grace’s tone. “As there’s been no formal announcement, we can later claim the arrangement was discreetly terminated. It’s only for the duration of the house party, in any event.”
