The Making of a Duchess (3 page)

   "Ma'am." Wrisley's voice floated up the stairs, and Sarah rushed to follow him. She was always chastising Anne for sounding like a herd of horses on her way down the stairs, and Sarah was careful to descend gracefully, though her knees were shaking as she drew nearer to Sir Northrop's library.

   Not for the first time, she wished she had just a little of the beauty some girls seemed to have in abundance. It might give her a boost of confidence. But she was stuck with plain brown eyes, drab brown hair, and a freckled complexion from forgetting her hat out in the garden once too often. And she did not want to even think about her mouth. It was much too large for her face. Growing up, she had practiced sucking in those swollen lips to make them look smaller, but the exercise only made her appear stranger. Still, she was tempted to try it today.

   How she wished she had just one—
just one—
admirable physical feature!

   Wrisley reached the vestibule on the ground floor and turned toward Sir Northrop's library. Sarah hurried to follow, the weakness in her knees spreading so that now her head was spinning as well.

   
Could
she have done something wrong?

   No.

   Perhaps Sir Northrop wanted a report on the progress of his progeny. In that case, what would she say? Anne's French was quite good, but Edmund's geography was poor indeed.

   Wrisley motioned for her to wait as he opened the ornate library door and stepped inside. Sarah took one last deep breath and reminded herself of the Academy's motto: Chin up.

   It was a maxim that had served her well both in her employment as a governess and in life. No matter what trials she must face, she could always keep her chin up and her courage intact.

   "Sir Northrop, I present Miss Smith." Wrisley opened the door wider, and Sarah entered. She curtsied quickly, catching only a glimpse of her employer seated behind an enormous mahogany desk. She kept her chin high but her gaze on the Turkey carpet, patterned in green and gold.

   "Thank you, Wrisley. That will be all."

   Sarah kept her eyes downcast as the butler retreated, closing the door behind him.

   "At ease, Miss Smith," Sir Northrop said, and Sarah realized she was still curtseying. She rose and saw that Sir Northrop was studying her. His brow was furrowed with intensity, and Sarah wanted to die with shame.

   She focused her gaze on the shelves of books lining the wall behind her employer. "I'm sorry about the mud stains, Sir Northrop," she rattled. "I took the children into the garden this morning and was showing them the new dahlias. There was quite an interesting insect on one. It was green and orange and black and had oh so many legs—eight or ten or—anyway, I knelt down to show the children. I didn't realize the ground was—"

   "Do you always talk this much?"

   Sarah blinked. "No." Resisting the urge to explain further, she pressed her lips together.

   "Good." Sir Northrop rose and strode around his desk. He was a tall man, well-built and muscular. Sarah understood he had been in the Royal Navy before retiring to London, marrying, and starting a family. He had been knighted by the King for his service to his country. Because many of his exploits were well known and heralded, he was accepted into the highest social circles.

   Sir Northrop passed her, and she fumbled with her hands, finally clenching them in front of her. She would
not
smooth her dress. Behind her, she heard him turn the lock on the door. Sarah froze, not daring to look around.

   "Do not be alarmed, Miss Smith."

   "I'm not alarmed," she squeaked.

   He made a dubious sound then stood in front of her again, his expression grim. She waited for him to speak, but he did nothing except stare at her for what felt like at least five full minutes.

   Finally, she ventured, "Is something wrong?"

   "Yes." He crossed his arms and leaned back against his large desk. "I have a very serious problem."

   She swallowed. "Oh."

   So she had done something wrong. It was probably Edmund's geography. The poor boy could hardly identify the main rivers on the Continent.

   It had to be Edmund. Unless…

   The way Sir Northrop was studying her. The way he was looking at her. He wasn't thinking of…

   No, certainly not.

   But Sarah did recall that Pippa, one of her favorite teachers at the Academy, had told the girls a story about a former employer who had so wanted the teacher in his bed that he had chased her halfway around the house, finally cornering her in the—Sarah took a sharp breath—library. Pippa had managed to fight the man off only by wielding a fire poker.

   Was there a fire poker in this library? Sarah had not thought to check. She turned surreptitiously to glance at the fireplace.

   "Miss Smith, I need your help, and this request is—how do I say it?—rather unconventional."

   Sarah's eyes fixed on the fireplace. No poker!

   "Un—" Sarah cleared her throat. "Unconventional?" There was a clock on the mantel. Perhaps that would serve if she became desperate.

   "Miss Smith, I think you'd better come into the music room with me." He gestured to the door at the other end of the library. Sarah and Anne had spent quite a few hours in the music room, and she knew this door from the other side. She had not realized it led into the library. Which meant that Sir Northrop might have spent hours listening to Sarah and Anne practice.

   He gestured at the door, and Sarah, relieved, hurried toward it. He was not going to chase her about the house after all. He just wanted… what did he want?

   She opened the door and was immediately taken aback. The music room was usually light and airy, the draperies secured to allow sunlight from the garden to pour in. Today the heavy drapes were shut and the French doors closed tightly. In the center of the room, one of the velvet chaise longues squatted before the fireplace, and Sarah could make out a single delicate slipper dangling off the end.

   "Is that her?" a female voice croaked from the direction of the chaise longue.

   "It's her," Sir Northrop answered.

   "Let me see her."

   Sarah looked in confusion from the chaise longue to Sir Northrop. Sir Northrop nodded at her. "Go around to the front of the chaise longue. Madam would like to see you."

   Madam? Sarah spoke with Lady Merton every day, and this woman sounded nothing like Lady Merton. Lady Merton was young and a bit silly. This woman's voice was smoke and fog. And she sounded pained.

   Reluctantly, Sarah inched around the chaise longue until she stood before the woman. The stranger was lying on her side, one hand supporting her head and the other clutched protectively at her ribs. The woman was younger than she sounded; Sarah guessed twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She had glossy black hair and large coffee-colored eyes. Her lips were red, the color matching the burgundy gown she wore. The gown had been loosened, and the bodice fell quite low, revealing the swells of an ample bosom.

   She was a beautiful woman, catlike in her repose. And yet instantly Sarah knew something was wrong.

   "I'm injured," the woman told her. "I've been shot."

   "Shot?" The word burst out of her mouth before she could contain it. "How? Why?"

   Sir Northrop stood on Sarah's other side, and the woman looked at him now. "Didn't you tell her?"

   "No. You said you wanted to see her. Do you agree now that she'll do?"

   Sarah frowned, a chill running up her spine. "Will I do for what?"

   The woman was looking at her again, assessing her. "Come closer, Miss—"

   "Smith." Sarah looked at Sir Northrop. "Sir, should we not call for a surgeon?"

   "I've already done so, Miss Smith."

   The woman gave her a wry smile. "No need to worry about me. I'm not so easy to kill. Come closer."

   Sarah bent, and the woman reached out and cupped her chin. Sarah saw that her hand had held a towel, and the towel was red with blood. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to ignore the dizziness. Could she not just return to Edmund and Anne and the geography lesson?

   
Chin up.

   The woman released Sarah's chin and looked up at Sir Northrop. "Is this our only choice?"

   "Yes."

   "Are you certain?" The woman frowned.

   "Perfectly. She has patience and intelligence. She's fluent in French, and with a bit of work, she will look the part."

   The woman looked dubious. "What about—"

   "All our female operatives are on the Continent," Sir Northrop said, interrupting. "I can't wait for one to return."

   The woman nodded reluctantly. "I know. If we wait, everything we've put into place is ruined." She looked at Sarah again. "But can she do it?"

   Sarah raised a brow. "Do what?"

   The woman ignored her question. "Your name is Smith?"

   "Yes," Sarah answered reluctantly.

   "Is that your family name"—the woman winced in pain—"or are you an orphan?" It was a reasonable question. The custom was to give all orphans the surname
Smith.

   Sarah glanced at Sir Northrop, who nodded at her. "Answer, Miss Smith."

   "I'm an orphan," she said, feeling her cheeks heat in shame. "I was left on the steps of the Ladies Benevolent Society. I didn't come with a name, so I was given the name Sarah Smith."

   "And you know nothing of your mother?" the woman asked.

   Sarah shook her head. She hated speaking of this— how she had been abandoned with only a slip of paper on which the name
Sarah
had been scrawled. And even that had been misspelled.

   But although Sarah had been told countless times that she had been left at the Academy as an infant just a few days old, sometimes she had dreams or vague memories of a mother and a father. The feeling of love and happiness was strong in what Sarah called her phantom memories. Yet, she knew they could not be true.

   What was true, though no one ever spoke of it, was that all assumed Sarah's mother had been either a prostitute or a loose woman who found herself pregnant and without a husband. Unable to care for the child, she had given her up to charity.

   Sarah was, in essence, a bastard. Unwanted. Unloved.

   And yet, she had made something of her life. She was a respectable woman—a good governess, too. After all, she had secured this position—though she might come to regret it.

   "Whom do you know in London?"

   Sarah blinked, surprised at the question. "I… ah." She paused, uncertain how to answer.

   "She doesn't know anyone," Sir Northrop offered impatiently. "My butler tells me no one has called for her, and she spends her day off in her room, reading."

   Sarah stared at him. Why should he care what she did on her own time? Why should he care if she preferred to retreat to her room—not much more than a closet really—and read about far-off places or daydream that one day she would have a home and family of her own?

   "Then you have no friends?" the woman asked.

   Sarah straightened. "I have friends." She realized her chin had drooped and raised it again. "I'm close to several of the girls at the Academy, but we all work. Most are governesses in the country, and we communicate through writing."

   "But no one in London."

   "The teachers at the Academy," Sarah said, trying not to sound defensive.

   The woman waved that away. "You're unlikely to meet with any of them." She looked at Sir Northrop. "And you said she had been a governess for another family?"

   "Yes. She came with a good recommendation. She was dismissed because the boys went off to school, and she was no longer needed. The family had no daughters."

   Sarah stared at him. "Sir, may I ask to what all of these questions pertain? Is there a problem with my work or my family history?"

   "Oh, no!" the woman exclaimed then succumbed to a fit of coughing. When she recovered, she croaked, "Your history is perfect."

   "Perfect?" Sarah gave her a long look. She had thought being born penniless, without a surname, and a likely bastard many things over the years, but never
perfect.

   "Miss Smith," Sir Northrop said now, turning to her. "I need your help."

   Sarah nodded. "With the children?"

   "No. With the duc de Valère."

   Sarah blinked. "Who?"

   "Julien Harcourt, duc de Valère," the woman repeated. "He's a traitor and an informant, and we need you to spy on him."

"You want me to do what?" Sarah sputtered. She could not have heard them correctly. They wanted her to spy? On a duc? She was a governess. She did not know anything about ducs or spies.

   "Calm down," Sir Northrop ordered. He retrieved a chair and pushed it toward the fire for her. "Here, take a seat."

   "I'd rather stand, thank you."

   "Very well." She saw him glance at the injured woman—was
she
a spy?—before he continued. "I know all this must come as a shock to you, Miss Smith. But I don't have time for niceties. Your country needs your help. Will you do it?"