The Seduction of a Duke (4 page)

Gentleman? Her pulse picked up in surprise, but she maintained her outward calm. What gentleman?

Her glance slipped to the window. True to the proprietor’s description, a man dressed in evening attire detained the two bloodhounds. He was handsome enough. Handsome, single, and wealthy, if Mrs. Kravitz’s posturing with her daughter was any indication.

Fran turned to her side so as to get a better view. Mrs. Kravitz and her daughter were too preoccupied with the broad-shouldered stranger to pay attention to the happenings inside the shop. If they had just ambled a little bit farther along the walk, their conversation would have been kept them too engrossed to see her leave. But with the women blocking the entrance, even a potential suitor for Phoebe Kravitz couldn’t distract sufficiently from Fran’s exit.

The stranger had a strong chin that imbued him with a sense of authority, she noted. Unfortunately, that was Randolph’s weakness. Randolph’s chin seemed to retreat backward toward his neck. A bit of guilt at comparing her true love’s attributes to those of this man flashed through her thoughts, but she dismissed it. She was merely being observant, not judging unfairly.

Perhaps Randolph’s lack of chin had inspired those scratchy muttonchops that he favored. Why did men believe that fashion to be attractive? This man certainly didn’t require facial hair to create interest. His intriguing smile and strong, firm lips certainly had Phoebe Kravitz moonfaced. Although in truth, just watching the way his lips wrapped around words caused a ripple of excitement beneath Fran’s stays as well. She almost envied Phoebe as the target of the stranger’s rapt attention.

She raised her gaze to his eyes, dark blue intelligent eyes that missed nothing. Including her, she realized as his gaze shifted slightly, and he raised one dark brow in acknowledgment. Her heart pounding, she slid back against the wall. Oh, why did he have to intervene at this moment?

The whistle from the Fall River steamer rent the air, announcing its anticipated departure for Long Island. She was running out of time! She needed to be on that ship. She needed to find a way to Randolph, to the quiet, uncomplicated life of a barrister’s wife.

“Miss Winthrop, are you sure there is nothing I can show you?” the persistent shopkeeper inquired. “I just received a new shipment of Turkish cigarettes? Perhaps your father would like a box of some Havanas?”

“Is there another exit from your store?” Fran asked. She tilted her head toward the window. “I don’t wish to disturb the patrons at your front entrance.”

“Why, yes,” the proprietor replied cautiously. “We would have to go through the back storeroom, though. It’s a bit dusty.” He frowned down at her skirts. “We’re not accustomed to fine ladies, like yourself, visiting our establishment. I’m afraid your beautiful skirts—”

“That is of little concern.” Hope leapt to her throat. If she hurried, she still might make it. “Can you show me the way?”

She followed the man through a pair of curtains and wove her way around stacked wooden crates and wood shavings. A light covering of ash and dust mingled with brown flakes littering the floor. Mary would have a fit when she saw the state of her hems resulting from this quick detour, but no matter, that was of little import. Her guide reached the back door, opening it to a less traveled though much steeper Newport street. Fran ushered through. Once free of the establishment, she raced down the hill toward the port.

I’m coming, Randolph. I’m coming.
Her hat slipped its moorings about midway down the hill and tumbled off to the side of the road. She lost one of her fine slippers, but continued in her madcap race. Slippers could always be replaced, but an opportunity to change the course of her future, less so. She approached the wharfmaster’s building and foot traffic increased. She stopped short, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, her stays making breath difficult. All those people! Panic fueled her self-doubts. Could she do it? Could she plow through that crowd of strangers?

The steam whistle blasted two bursts, the warning signal that it was pulling away from the dock. Fran lifted her skirt so as not to trip and rushed toward the melee. She raced around the building and down to the ramp before she stopped, her chest heaving from the exertion, her hair long and loose from the loss of hairpins, her skin tingling from the assault of the wind, to see the steamer approaching Castle Rock on its departure from the bay.

“You’re too late,” Mary called amidst several pieces of luggage further down the dock. “I tried to tell them, Miss Winthrop. I really did. But they left anyway. They said they couldn’t wait and to try again next time.”

Too late.
The words stabbed her heart as tears burned her eyes.
Too late.
She could tell Mary that there wouldn’t be a “next time.” Once her mother heard tales of her reckless run through the heart of town to catch a boat that wouldn’t wait, she would be locked in her room again. Her mother held no tolerance for public inappropriateness. She could tell Mary that this was her one shot at freedom and it had disappeared in a blue gray wake and a steam cloud trail. She could say many things if the lump in her throat wasn’t squeezing the ability to talk right out of her.
Too late!
Her lip trembled.

“Miss Winthrop?” Mary approached, her eyes wide and her mouth twisted in a concerned moue. Her gaze swept from her untidy hair, past the twisted day dress to a bare toe poking through a rip in her stocking, visible beneath a dusty hem. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “What happened to you?”

A vision of the overdressed stranger with a raised eyebrow and an intriguing smile slipped into her mind. He happened. He was responsible. And with whatever means she could find at her disposal, he would pay.

WILLIAM THANKED MRS. KRAVITZ FOR HER RECOMMENDATIONS of suitable housing establishments and returned across the avenue. Although he had heard that Americans were a bit forthright, he hadn’t appreciated the difference until just now. Back home, a proper lady would never speak to a strange man without introduction. Yet this matron introduced herself and her daughter only a moment before listing her daughter’s rather ordinary attributes. He shuddered. Heavens be praised that the daughter was not the woman he sought. A king’s ransom would hardly prove sufficient for a sane man to go through eternity with Miss Kravitz and her mother in his pocket.

He should feel relief that this young miss was not his betrothed, yet instead he felt apprehension. What if his Miss Winthrop was as plain and dull as Miss Kravitz? He hadn’t considered that his future wife would be dim-witted, but now he supposed he would have to face the possibility. He could deal with his wife being plain, but pleasant features would be appreciated. A wicked smile crept to his lips. Pleasant features like those arranged on the woman in the window. Just what was she doing spying on his conversation? Just when he thought this might be yet another American tradition, the angel disappeared. One could well relish being tied through eternity with someone resembling that young miss. Pity that such refined attributes would be wasted on a servant girl as no self-respecting lady would patronize a tobacco shop.

Still, he must be realistic. At the advanced age of twenty-six, his Miss Winthrop was most likely a dour-faced simpleton. He truly hoped that the appalling reference to “Frosty Franny” was not an attribute to some deformity of her features, but perhaps it was. Given her considerable financial assets, why else would she still be available? No, better to forget about the beauty in the window and prepare oneself for someone like Miss Kravitz. The future of the Chambers legacy depended on his sacrifice, and sacrifice he must.

William stepped into the Ocean View lobby and discovered Stephen Young in deep conversation with a familiar face.

“Percival? Percival Hunt, you old dog. What are you doing here?”

A wide grin spread across his friend’s face. He stood and offered his hand. “Stephen was just telling me you were in town. Look at you!” A sparkle lit Percival’s eye. “Were you pulled from the captain’s table?”

William waved his hearty chuckle aside. “It’s a bit of a long story, and I’m in no mood for the retelling. You, however, did not answer my question. I’m surprised to see a familiar face this far from our old haunts.”

“I’ve been in New York learning a bit about my father’s shipping interests when we received an invitation to a rather grand soiree. To decline such an invitation here is akin to denying the Queen.”

“Well, you mustn’t do that,” William said, wondering if the “grand soiree” was the same fancy dress ball Mrs. Winthrop insisted on holding in his honor. If so, his arranged engagement would soon be known to all and sundry tomorrow. Would the sizeable fortunes involved make him the object of envy? Or would he become the butt of laughter and ridicule as suggested by that nickname? Already he felt the target of curious glances and sly smiles.

Percival tilted his head toward the third man in their midst. “Whitby and Essex handle many of our contracts. They usually keep Stephen buried beneath law volumes. I was rather surprised to see him here.”

“It seems Whitby and Essex are involved in a great many contracts,” William murmured.

“And then to see you.” Percival slapped William on the back. “By God, I would never have expected to see you summering in Newport.”

“To be honest, I have been invited to a grand soiree, myself.” He lifted a hopeful eyebrow toward Stephen. “Do they do that frequently here?”

Percival laughed. “Newport is like London in season. Each family tries to outdo the other. And if you’ve come for the ladies, you’ve come to the right place.” He winked. “You’re still a widower, are you not?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“You and I shall have a great time. I’m anxious to hear of your family. How’s Arianne?”

Stephen took that moment to hand William his room key and exchange handshakes. It seemed the senior partner, Mr. Whitby, would be expecting him back at the law firm. After offering future assistance if required, he left the two men to continue their discussion in the limited privacy of a hotel lobby.

William leaned forward. “Tell me, Percy, have you made the acquaintance of a Miss Francesca Winthrop?”

“Why, that’s the very family I alluded to earlier.” Percy smiled. “But no. I arrived in New York earlier in the summer after the grand dames of society had left for cooler climes. I was rather hoping I’d be fortunate enough to gain an introduction at the costumed affair.”

“I suspect that can be arranged,” William murmured, taking some relief in the fact that Percy hadn’t mentioned any missing frozen appendages in connection with Miss Winthrop.

“Pardon?” Percy asked.

“Nothing. Nothing. Just idle speculation on my part.” William settled back, eager to turn his mind away from Frosty Franny. “I noticed a patron of the racetrack on the boat coming over. Is there any chance of a confluence of horseflesh in the area?”

 

 

AS ANTICIPATED AFTER THE MORNING’S FAILED ATTEMPT at escape, Fran had been locked within the sparsely furnished prison of her bedroom. Her options for escaping tomorrow’s mandated engagement had narrowed as she was no longer trusted or allowed outside of the house, even to tend her hives.

“Trust me,” the mother had said as she turned the key in the lock. “I know what is best.”

The time spent isolated allowed her anger to cool into a quiet desperation. She couldn’t blame the handsome stranger for her demise. He wasn’t responsible for her mother’s heavy-handed manipulations. Besides, she most likely would never see him again. She wouldn’t see any familiar faces again if she was forced into this marriage and shipped away to London.

The exile to her room did, however, allow her time to work on her translations. She’d finished one volume of German fairy tales that she’d begun a month earlier. However, when she reached for the next volume, she uncovered the French courtesan’s diary. She’d forgotten that at Madame Aglionby’s suggestion, she’d hidden the purchase amongst the children’s volumes she’d also procured that day. Her face warmed as she thought of the scandalous letter she’d written Randolph at the tutor’s suggestion.

Was that why he hadn’t returned her correspondence? Was he shamed by her candor? It would be like Randolph to question her sense of propriety. After all, he was the one who insisted they remain proper and respectable.
Until the time is right,
his voice murmured in her head.

“Too late,” she gave voice to her thoughts in the empty room. She drew her fingers across the unmarked cover of the diary, experiencing a tingling deep inside. She hadn’t read much beyond the few early entries where the woman described how life had forced her hand to sell favors to men for money. The woman’s hand was light and artful, her grammar and construction superb, but the situation she described, deplorable.

Another world existed on that furthest end of society. A world whose inhabitants were identified by a quickened step and a furtive glance, whose antics were whispered about in dimly lit corridors. Her father had frequented that world from time to time, it was no secret. He would shout his exploits when the arguments with Maman left the house still and cold. Had Randolph? Had his silence meant that he had turned away from her, just as her father had turned away from Maman?