Violence, regrettably, was out of the question.
Miss Poppy Delamere—or Flora Deaver as she’d called herself since arriving in London two years ago—had never been one to suffer fools gladly. And as she waited impatiently for the clerk manning the ticket window to finish chatting with the matron he was serving, she truly wished she could shove the older woman aside. Taking a deep breath, she tried to emulate her employer, the redoubtable Lady Katherine Eversham, who always managed to get her point across without resorting to rudeness.
At the thought of Lady Katherine, Poppy felt her gut clench with anxiety. What would the circle of friends she’d amassed during her time in London think when they learned she’d been hiding her true identity? She knew both Kate and her writing partner, Miss Caroline Hardcastle—no, she was Lady Wrackham as of this morning, Poppy reminded herself—championed the plight of downtrodden women, but how could they not be hurt by Poppy’s deception?
She hated the idea of disappointing them, but it couldn’t be helped. Nor could her flight from town now. Some things were more important even than friendship, and the bond between sisters was one of them. From the moment she’d read her sister Violet’s name in The London Gazette that morning, Poppy had known she had to go to her.
“My Mary’s family is from Dorset,” the ticket agent said with excitement, while at the same time moving as slowly as humanly possible. “What a funny old world it is, innit?”
“What part, if you don’t mind my asking?” the matron asked. “You must know Bournemouth, surely?”
Biting back a curse she’d once heard from a pressman at The London Gazette, Poppy clutched her valise tighter and waited.
The woman ahead of her was finally moving away from the window when Poppy felt someone lurch against her.
“Sorry, miss,” the shabbily dressed man in a brown suit said, pulling his bowler hat down low as he hurried away. Poppy, intent on purchasing her ticket, didn’t waste time replying.
“One for Little Kidding, Buckinghamshire,” she told the agent, as she reached for the purse dangling at her wrist. But she realized even before her hand touched her arm that the cloth bag was no longer there. Oh no. Everything she’d saved, with the exception of a few pounds she’d put in the bank for safekeeping, had been in that bag.
“Miss?” the agent asked sharply.
Without bothering to explain, Poppy clutched her valise tight and took off running. “Stop! Thief!”
The station was busy with afternoon travelers and more than one person was thumped by her bag as she wended her way through the crowd, but she couldn’t afford politeness at the moment. If she didn’t get her money back, she wouldn’t be able to afford anything for a good long while. Much less make it to Little Kidding to stop her sister from being hanged for murder.
And it was with Violet’s plight in mind that she scanned the crowds for the familiar bowler hat and brown suit. Poppy was tall for a woman and was able to see above many of those in the crowd as she got closer and closer to the exit leading to Praed Street. If he managed to get outside, she’d never see her money again, nor would she make it to Violet in time to save her.
She’d just paused for breath when she spotted a brown serge–covered back disappearing behind a porter pushing a baggage-filled cart. Feeling a renewed burst of energy, Poppy set off at a near-run, shouting, “Stop! Thief! The man in brown stole my purse!”
For the barest moment, the man in the bowler looked back at her, and seeing she was gaining on him, he sprinted toward the doors leading to the street outside. Her quarry in her sights, but weighed down by her valise, Poppy called upon her every ounce of strength and threw herself forward. Her legs pumping until they burned, she could see he was slowed down ahead by an influx of travelers arriving at the station and felt a surge of triumph. She was going to catch him.
But her exultation was short lived.
One minute she was hurtling toward the man in the brown suit. The next she was brought to a sudden stop against a hard masculine chest. Cursing under her breath, Poppy would have disentangled herself and continued her pursuit if the man she’d run into, who was far taller and stronger than she, hadn’t grasped her by the arms.
“I don’t know where you’re off to in such a hurry, my dove,” drawled a familiar baritone, “but I must insist you do so by going around and not thr— Oh! It’s you, Miss Deaver.”
Looking past the Duke of Langham, Poppy saw that the man she’d been chasing was long gone. On a sigh, she pulled back from the duke and scowled up at him. “Yes, it’s me, Your Grace. And you’ve just cost me everything but the last few pounds to my name.”
“Unless you were taking part in the world’s most asinine foot race in order to win a wager,” the duke said with a raised brow, “then I fail to see how that is possible.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?” Poppy demanded, noting not for the first time that it was one of life’s great ironies that a man who looked so much like an angel should thrive on devilry. With his gold-gilded light brown hair, features that might have been copied from an Italian sculpture, and a body that owed much to his penchant for pugilism, he might well have made a bargain with the devil to obtain his good looks, though Poppy knew it was just cruel happenstance. “It would never occur to you that you might have your fortune stolen from you in one fell swoop. People like you have so much money, you very likely don’t know how much. Well, not everyone is so gifted by fate, Your bloody Grace.”
They were drawing a crowd, but honestly, Poppy didn’t care. Langham, however, did care and was soon hustling Poppy out of the main area of the station and toward an antechamber where baggage was being collected. She wasn’t surprised when he was able to send the clerk scurrying away with one pointed look. Men like the duke got what they wanted, even without speaking a word.
Once they were inside, she pulled away from him and collapsed onto a large trunk.
“I know you aren’t particularly enamored of me, Miss Deaver,” Langham said, his pale blue eyes narrow with puzzlement, “but that was a harsh outburst even for you. If I weren’t so self-confident, you might have hurt my feelings.”
“You’d have to have feelings in the first place for that to happen,” Poppy groused, but it was half-hearted. She likely wouldn’t have been able to catch up with the thief even without Langham’s interruption.
Ignoring her barb, Langham pressed on, a lock of light brown hair falling upon his brow as he tilted his head with the question. “Now tell me. Who were you chasing after as if the hounds of hell were at your heels?”
The arrogance in his belief that she would answer him set her teeth on edge. And yet, if an answer would get her free of him she would gladly give it. “My purse was stolen. I was trying to get it back. And now if you’ll excuse me…” Standing, she brushed off her gown and started to walk away.
“Not so fast, my girl.” For the second time that day, Langham took her by the arm. “I have a few more questions.”
She gave him a look that she hoped conveyed what she thought about his “more questions” and stared pointedly at his hand until he removed it.
“Now,” he said, reaching into his coat and withdrawing his purse. “I presume you were here to catch a train. How much was the ticket?”
If it was possible, Poppy would have vibrated with indignation. “I don’t need your money.”
“I haven’t offered you any yet,” Langham said wryly. “But, if I did, how much would I offer you?”
“It doesn’t matter because I won’t take your money,” Poppy said tightly. “Now, I really must be off. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”
She heard the duke murmur what sounded like “pig-headed” as she stalked toward the door.
“I’m trying, Miss Deaver, to help out a friend if you’ll simply look past your pride to see it.”
That stopped Poppy in her tracks, and she turned to stare at him. “A friend? I don’t believe a duke can ever be friends with an impecunious spinster, Your Grace.” He’d made his opinion of her plain enough when they’d met earlier that week during Kate and Caro’s investigation into the disappearance of a London actress.
To say he’d been dismissive might be overstating things, but his toplofty attitude and cutting remarks had made clear that he wasn’t giving Poppy’s theories—or Poppy—much thought.
As if she’d torn through the last of his patience, Langham cut a hand through the air dismissively. “Then let me pay your fare at least.” When she opened her mouth to object, he continued, “You may not consider me a friend, but I consider both Lord and Lady Wrackham friends, as do you. So, while they aren’t here to offer assistance, let me do so.”
Then, to her astonishment, he spoke a word she suspected the Duke of Langham had never once in his adult life uttered before: “Please.”
* * *
Joshua Fielding, Duke of Langham, wasn’t used to making requests, and he’d certainly never considered himself a knight in shining armor. And yet, he felt an inexplicable need to come to Miss Deaver’s rescue.
It was true she was lovely enough—assuming of course you looked past her unfashionable gown and abomination of a hat. Not to mention the way her fine features were downplayed by the way her guinea gold hair was bound at her nape in so tight a coil there was no possibility of a single strand escaping. Yet, despite her almost purposeful dowdiness, there was also a vulnerability in her slumped shoulders that tugged at some latent sense of chivalry within him. When they’d met he’d been pleasantly surprised by her lack of deference to his position. Indeed, her pointed remarks and quick wit had been refreshing. He disliked seeing her brought low by something as commonplace as a railway pickpocket. Especially when it was something he could so easily set to rights for her.
Still, it would not do to give her the wrong impression.
“Don’t think this gallantry is part of a trend,” he warned Miss Deaver. “I don’t intend to make a habit of this kind of thing.”
Her thickly lashed blue eyes rolled heavenward. “You mean acts of kindness? Never fear, Your Grace. I would never expect such a thing of you.”
“Good,” he said gruffly. “Now, come along with me and we’ll get your ticket sorted. Where are you traveling to, anyway?”
Miss Deaver sighed but allowed him to steer her toward the door. “A small village in Buckinghamshire. You’ve probably never heard of it. Little Kidding.”
Of course, that would be her destination. “I know it. As it happens, I’m going in the same direction. You’d better just ride in my private car with me. You’ll be more comfortable, and there will be no danger you’ll be accosted by a stranger.” He hadn’t missed the glances she’d received from the men passing by them in the station.
As he spoke, Langham reached down to take her valise and was rewarded with a scowl from Miss Deaver and predictable resistance to his gesture. “Who will save me from being accosted by you?” she demanded, clutching the bag to her chest.
He stopped, and they locked eyes for a moment. He tried to recall the last time he’d faced this much opposition from a woman, and failed. When she refused to blink first, he let go of the bag and tipped his hat. “Very well. If you don’t want my help, then I will bid you good day.”
He turned away from her and took a step toward the ticket counter. As he’d expected, she wasn’t quite so stubborn as she made herself out to be.
“Wait,” he heard her say from behind him. Turning back to her he raised a brow and gestured for her to continue.
“I don’t mean to be churlish,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I simply am unaccustomed to accepting help from…well…from people like you.”
He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Dukes?”
“Men,” she replied, raising those cornflower blue eyes to his, and revealing a vulnerability that he wasn’t sure she’d meant to show him. “Not since I’ve come to London, at any rate. And not before that either, if truth be told. But I do appreciate your kindness.”
As if it were a token of her apology, she held out her battered brown bag. He took it with a nod, and then they headed together toward the ticket agent.
Soon they were safely ensconced in the private train carriage he’d hired for his journey. It had been months since he’d been back to his family estate, and if he’d had his way he’d not be going there now. But it would not do to miss the dowager Duchess of Langham’s annual birthday house party. He was quite fond of his grandmother, and though returning home to his country estate for the event would mean Grandmama would parade a half dozen or more eligible young ladies before him in the hopes he’d choose one for his duchess, he would endure it.
In truth, seeing how smitten his friend Val was with his new bride had roused an unusual sort of jealousy in Langham at their wedding yesterday. Not over Caro, who, while spirited and lovely enough, wasn’t a temptation for him. No, it had been the connection between the newlyweds that left Langham feeling envious. Because he knew quite well that as appealing as Val and Caro’s easy affection might seem, he was not made for that sort of easy intimacy. The realization had left him feeling wistful.
Which is why he’d determined to give Grandmama’s bridal parade a closer look this year than he had in the past. He might not find the sort of happiness that his friends had, but perhaps a comfortable match would be possible. He only knew that the restlessness he’d been feeling of late was in need of a remedy and much as he disliked to admit it, he wasn’t getting any younger. Much as he would prefer to put it off forever, he would like to marry before he was too old and decrepit to lift his children.
“Is this how you travel all the time?” Miss Deaver asked, interrupting his thoughts as she looked around the interior of the private car with wide-eyed shock. His luggage, which was a dashed sight more than one valise, had been stowed by his valet earlier, and the man himself was seated in the rear of the car, where he couldn’t overhear them.
Langham frowned and tried to see his surroundings as she did, but couldn’t understand her question. “It’s much faster and more comfortable than going by horse and carriage.”
“I don’t mean by train,” she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “I mean, this.” She gestured to the plush green velvet upholstery on the seats and the polished mahogany lining the interior ceiling and walls. “This sort of luxury.”
“I’m a duke, darling,” he said with feigned innocence, deciding to ignore the implied criticism of her words. “You can’t very well expect me to ride in the cheap seats. That would be uncomfortable for everyone involved.”
“It might teach you a little humility,” she groused, frowning at the velvet seat as if it had personally wronged her. “Though you may have a point. I’d never considered that the other riders might find your presence upsetting.”
Upsetting was putting it mildly. Langham knew from experience that his presence often made it impossible for even his fellow nobles to relax. Unless he was in the boxing ring, where all men were considered contenders, if not equals, then he was liable to set people on edge.
One of the reasons he was so amused by Miss Deaver, he realized, was that she didn’t treat him like he pissed gold. She gave him a hard time of it, and it was refreshing.
“You may find it difficult to believe,” he told her, “but inheriting a dukedom at a young age teaches one to be sensitive to the way your presence affects others.” He’d found out soon enough when he returned to school after his father’s funeral and discovered all his old alliances and friendships had shifted. Subtly in some cases, and drastically in others. But the change had happened, nonetheless. And his life had never been the same.
For the merest moment, he thought he saw sympathy in her eyes, but just as soon as it appeared it was gone. “I imagine it does,” she said, glancing out the window, as if trying to evade whatever emotion his words had inspired in her.
Some imp of mischief prompted him to add, “This is actually far more sedate than the usual fanfare that accompanies my travels to the country. I left earlier than scheduled, which means the customary battalion of footmen and various other servants who would have accompanied will follow tomorrow. What you see now is practically incognito by ducal standards.”
Her eyes widened with shock. “But you are only one person. Surely it does not take so many servants to accompany a single man to his country house.”
There was a hint of censure in her tone that set his back up. He hadn’t been the one to invent the bloody aristocracy, for pity’s sake. Sorry he’d brought it up, he changed the subject. “To whom are you traveling to visit in Little Kidding? Do you have family there?”
But even so innocuous a question did not pass muster with the contrary Miss Deaver. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be the sort to pry,” Miss Deaver said, pursing her lips.
“Do not fly up into the boughs. I’m merely attempting to take an interest in the life of my fellow man—well, woman, I suppose.” Not that Langham could possibly forget she was a woman, and a deuced lovely one at that. She might be as prickly as a cocklebur, but his body didn’t care about such niceties.
And when it wasn’t her looks tempting him, it was the soft floral scent she wore, a blend of roses and just the barest hint of lemon that made him want to bury his face in her neck. It was a damned shame he couldn’t do just that, but he only consorted with women who were willing.
He enjoyed his ballocks where they were, thank you very much.
Perhaps recognizing that she’d been harsh, she unbent a little. “My mother and sister are there,” she said stiffly. “I hadn’t made the connection with Langham Abbey, but it’s near Little Kidding, isn’t it?”
He didn’t question how she knew the location of his primary estate. Anyone with a copy of Debrett’s or a passing familiarity with the London gossip sheets would know.
“It is,” he confirmed. “Though I don’t recall a family by the name of Deaver in the neighborhood.”
“That’s because my mother remarried after my father’s death.” For a moment she stared down at her gloved hands, and Langham got the sense there was more to the story.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, thinking grief must have prompted her uncustomary reticence. “Were you very young?”
“I was three years old when my father died,” she said, looking up at him, having regained her composure. “He was a vicar in a small village near Norwich. My mother remarried not long after and had my sister.”
“And who is your stepfather?” he asked, sensing that there was no love lost between Miss Deaver and the man who’d married her mother.
Her laugh was bitter, and he was surprised by how much he disliked hearing that emotion from her.
“Lord Short,” Miss Deaver said with a scowl. “If the truth be told, he’s the primary reason I left home. And if I had my choice, I’d stay away. But my sister needs me. And however awful my stepfather has been to me, Mama and Violet did nothing wrong.”
Try as he might, Langham couldn’t recall anyone by the name Short in the ton. He was about to ask more about the fellow’s title when Miss Deaver spoke again.
“You’ll find out as soon as we arrive in Little Kidding, so I may as well tell you the truth. I daresay I won’t be able to go back to my old life in London after this fracas, anyway.” She paused, as if to strengthen her resolve. “Flora Deaver isn’t my real name. I was born Poppy Delamere, and though I am the impoverished vicar’s daughter I led Lady Katherine and Lady Wrackham and everyone else to believe, that’s not the whole story. I left my family home two years ago to avoid an unwanted marriage which my stepfather had insisted upon against my wishes.”
Langham was stunned.
But even if he’d found the wherewithal to say something—anything—in response to her revelation, her next words would have robbed him of speech again.
“I’m not on my way to Little Kidding for a cheerful reunion with my family,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “I’m going there to do what I can to ensure my sister doesn’t hang for the murder of her husband. The blackguard my parents forced her to marry in my stead.”
When she was finished, she sagged back against the velvet seat, as if making her confession had sapped her of strength. He felt an unaccountable impulse to gather her in his arms, but knew that would be met with about as much welcome as a head cold in summer.
“I’ll say this for you, Miss Delamere,” Langham said with a raised brow, “conversation with you is never dull.”
