His Duchess in Disguise: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Read online

  His Duchess in Disguise

  A Historical Regency Romance Novel

  Emma Linfield

  Edited by

  Maggie Berry

  Contents

  A Thank You Gift

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  The Art of Catching a Marquess

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Also by Emma Linfield

  About the Author

  A Thank You Gift

  Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.

  As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called The Betrayed Lady Winters. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.

  Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.

  With love and appreciation,

  Emma Linfield

  About the Book

  A mysterious maid. A secret. A terrible choice...

  Groomed to be her estranged father’s ticket to social ascent, Miss Emma Hoskins lives in a cage. When her father, Lord Calber, announces that he bet and lost her hand in marriage to a heinous man, she does the first thing that comes to mind. She flees.

  There are few things Leo Brady dislikes and being Duke of Menhiransten is at the very top of his list. Especially when hiring a new maid nearly lands him in the grave.

  Accused of kidnapping Emma by the man hunting her, Leo is willing to do anything to protect her. Even dig up the most painful aspects of his past.

  As they quickly realize, crashing a wedding is not nearly enough. The only way to unmask the greatest treason London has ever seen is by staying apart forever.

  Chapter 1

  The former Admiral Leo Brady didn’t want to be the next Duke of Menhiransten; he had other goals in mind. He had risen quickly through the ranks. But here he was, back in London and about to return to the ancestral home.

  The grim irony of all this is that my father all but threw me out the door of Menhiransten the last time I was home for refusing to lend him the blunt for a new carriage. Now I shall be obliged to take care of Menhiransten and all her people. She was a lot more profitable as a figurehead on my last ship.

  Garth, his older brother, had been the result of the late Duke’s first marriage, which had doubled the size of the estate and given him connections to the King. The Duke’s first wife had birthed Garth readily enough, but her second lying in had not gone as well. She died of childbed fever along with her infant daughter.

  Leo was son to Lady Miriam, the late Duke’s second wife, a gentlewoman of impeccable breeding but little fortune. Or, to put it another way, the late Duke had fallen in love with her. His father and his mother had a wonderful relationship. She had gladly extended her love to the Duke’s oldest son and heir apparent. Unfortunately, Lady Miriam had gone into the arms of the grim reaper some weeks before Leo declared his independence and ran away to sea.

  I am not sure whether I am more grieved for the loss of my kin or the loss of my ship. Damn, but I miss her deck already. And if one more schmoosing nincompoop approaches me about “good investments,” I’ll find a yardarm to hang him from.

  Wooden faced, Leo took up a handful of earth from the mound beside the graves and sprinkled some over first his brother’s then his father’s casket. Garth was a good man. He just had a little too much tutelage from my father. Had my mother been able to sway him just a tiny bit more, my brother would have done well. I believe I shall miss him after all.

  Leo walked away from the ceremony, leaving the priest, his cousins, and the retainers to finish decently burying his father and brother. It was rude, but he could bear no more of the false wailing of the mourners, the worried faces of the servants, and the general air of uncertainty.

  Leo was not poorly dressed. His impeccable mourning attire was from Scott, the tailor who did for many military men. The black broadcloth of his coat fit his broad shoulders perfectly, narrowing to a slim waist that required no corseting to look trim. The skirts of his coat shrouded neatly fitting breeches that were by no means as tight as was fashionable but were still well made and nicely fitted. The clocks on his stockings were modest gray silk, depicting the standing stones from which his estate took its name. His shoes had sensible heels. The buckles were well burnished but plain. His dark brown hair was neatly cut militarily and topped with a well-made stovepipe hat of modest height.

  He did not stroll, but neither did he hurry toward the somber carriage that awaited him at the edge of the graveyard. Each footfall was placed with calm authority. When he reached the carriage, he stepped up into it and settled himself on the comfortable leather seats. Taking his hat from his head, he leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. This was his third funeral of the day, the other two had been to pay respects to members of his crew lost in his last battle at sea. They had won, and he had brought home both his own ship and the one they boarded, but it had been bloody hard work, with the emphasis on bloody.

  “Are you well, Your Grace?” a small man clad in the self-effacing modest clothing of a personal secretary asked.

  “As well as can be expected, Hamilton. Too many graveyard visits today. What is next on my itinerary?”

  “You are expected in chambers to discuss naval and military efforts, Your Grace. The Prince Regent will not be in attendance, but . . .”

  “Thank heaven for small favors. How did you manage to wrangle that, Hamilton?”

  “I? How could I possibly arrange such a thing? It seems that His Highness was called to an exceptionally important dinner across town. A certain lady has a new cook and called upon him for his opinion.”

  “Hamilton, you are a complete hand. But I thank you. This meeting will go much better without Prinny’s input. In fact, if I pace it just right, I might get to lay my head upon my pillow before daybreak tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no, Your Grace. Your presence is required by her Majesty, Queen Charlotte. It seems that tonight is presentations.”

  Leo groaned. “Did you not tell her that I am in deep mourning, having only just buried my father and brother tod
ay?”

  Hamilton permitted himself a small smile. “You must realize, Your Grace, that I did not speak with Her Majesty myself. Rather, I spoke with her secretary. He assures me that you need not dance, but merely attend. I believe the Widow Pearthorne will be in attendance.”

  Leo sat up in astonishment. “Jemmie Pearthorne is dead?”

  “I am sorry, Your Grace. I thought you knew. He fell last fall, not long after you sailed.”

  “Well, that explains it. I am sorry to hear it. Captain Pearthorne was a good man. I’ll be sure to say a word or two to his widow. How is she carrying on?”

  “Rumor has it that she is writing a memoir. Everyone is in a twit because she has a very caustic way of looking at things, and all the members of the court are sure that they are about to be lampooned by her rapier wit.”

  “That somehow does not seem quite like her.”

  “You would be amazed, Your Grace. But as it happens, I have spoken with her. While she is not above letting the courtiers fret, she is actually writing about her experiences in France.”

  “Well, well, that does sound like her. Hamilton, if you would, please see if you can find some excuse that I might come away shortly after dinner. It will not do to leave before since that would upset Her Majesty’s table arrangement.”

  “Quite so, Your Grace. I believe that after brandy is served, you could handily make your excuses. Her Majesty is worn to a thread with His Majesty’s illness and Prinny’s antics.”

  “His Majesty grows no better?”

  The little secretary shrugged. “It is not my place to say, Your Grace.”

  “Ah, Hamilton. You were more outspoken as my first mate.”

  “Other times, other places, Your Grace. We must don our masks and dance the social quadrille.”

  “True enough. True enough, my friend.” Leo leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The carriage swayed, but it was nothing like the HMS Menhiransten as she rode the waves. Nor was he likely to be back onboard a sailing vessel any time soon.

  Chapter 2

  Miss Emma Hoskins surveyed herself in the dim, crackly mirror. Her sunny blond hair was neatly done up in a figure-eight knot, which was not at all modish but easy to manage on her own. She scarcely needed to wear a corset and was, therefore, able to get away with one that was only lightly boned and that laced up the front.

  Her gown was of her own design. The neckline was higher than was fashionable, cut well above her modest bosom. The lace edging was starched and pressed, creating a neat frill that framed her delicate skin. The soft, sprigged muslin of the gown was also starched and pressed in an effort to refresh the fabric that had, in truth, seen better days.

  Emma’s skin was lightly tanned, and there was a dusting of golden freckles across her pert nose. She had high cheekbones, a generous mouth that seemed ready to laugh, and her blue eyes were framed in long, dark eyelashes that curled just a little at the corners. These features were set in a delicate, heart-shaped face. The effect was such that she could have easily been cast as an angel or an abandoned castaway had she been inclined to take to the stage.

  Alas, such an undertaking was unlikely, even though Emma fancied that she might enjoy it. As the only daughter of Gilbert Haskins, Baron of Calber, becoming an actress was undoubtedly one of her many ambitions that were proscribed.

  “Although,” Emma remarked to her mirror, “I’m not sure he would notice. I might as well still be in the nursery with a governess.”

  It would hardly be charitable to say that the Baron was a stingy nipcheese, but it would be accurate to say that whatever fortune he had rarely trickled down to Emma. She received a tiny allowance from her mother’s dowry investments, and the occasional largess when her father had won at cards or when betting on the horses. Otherwise, he tended to ignore her.

  Since there was rarely a lot of money for new gowns, Mrs. Able, the housekeeper, taught Emma how to mend and eventually how to make her own clothing. The Baron might have been mortified to learn of this, but since he blamed Emma for her mother’s death in childbirth, he avoided her as much as possible. Therefore, he was unlikely to be aware of any domestic arrangements.

  She carefully inspected her kid slippers, making sure Rags, her nondescript, pint-sized terrier, had not nibbled any holes in them and lightly hopped down the grand front stairs just as she had done since she was ten–at least when no one was looking. Emma liked the way her soft slippers tapped on the marble stair, and the spring in her ankles as she jumped down from one step to the next. Usually, Rags was right there with her, his shaggy coat displacing the dust on the steps. But he was shut in his kennel tonight so that he would not try to follow her.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she shook out her skirts, making sure that the point lace on the hem had not picked up any dust or dog fur. Then she stood in the foyer to wait because one of her father’s recent economies had been to dismiss the butler.

  In a few minutes, a very fine coach drew up in front of the house. Emma mustered up her dignity and walked down the steps from the front door in a proper, sedate manner as was appropriate for a young lady of nine and ten years of age.

  A liveried attendant let down the steps to the coach, opened the door, and offered his hand to assist Emma up the steps. Although she did not need it, Emma placed one gloved hand in his. “Thank you for your help,” she said, with a sweet smile. It was all she had to offer, although she was sure that the man really expected a coin for his efforts. However, he let his eyes flick down and up, taking in her attire, and said, “You are welcome, Miss.”

  Once she was inside the coach, her Aunt Alicia made the introductions. “Emma, this is my dear friend, the Honorable Janet Pearthorne. Janet, my niece Emma Haskins.”

  Aunt Alicia’s friend was dressed all in black, from the lace scarf draped over a high comb to the immaculate little kid boots that peeked from beneath the hem of her lovely silk gown. It was clear that the friend was in heavy mourning.

  “Ah-lee-cee-a,” said Janet Pearthorne drawing out the syllables, “She is wearing a walking dress.”

  “What do you propose, Janet? We shall be late. There really is no time.”

  “We shall make time.” Again, the woman spoke in soft, drawn-out syllables that made the most of each word. “It would be better to be slightly late than to give offense. I believe she and I are of a size. I have a sweet rose silk that I had set aside for Jemmie’s homecoming.” There was a little tremble in her voice, and she dabbed at her eyes.

  Aunt Alicia’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you certain? What if she soils it or spills something on it?”

  The Honorable Mrs. Pearthorne shrugged. “Then, she does. I do not believe I shall ever be able to bear wearing it. Just as well that it should do someone some good.” And she dabbed at her eyes again. “Dear me,” she added with a smile, “You must have such an impression of me. I do not ordinarily go about crying.”

  “It is quite all right,” Emma said. “I can clearly see that you are in mourning.”

  “Yes, well, actually it has been long enough that I could simply be in black gloves, but I find being in mourning rather useful. I do miss Jemmie dreadfully, but being a widow gives one a certain amount of personal freedom. I have been writing my memoirs,” she added, leaning toward Emma as if imparting a confidence. “My publisher assures me that I am likely to gain some interest. Jemmie and I were living in Calais when Napoleon began his campaign. While I cannot impart anything of confidence, my publisher thinks our personal adventures will garner interest. Even though it is difficult to write of those times, for a little while I can imagine that Jemmie and I are together again.” She dabbed at her eyes once more, then gave them both a bright smile.

  Without waiting for anyone else to say a word, the little widow tapped on the roof of the carriage. The driver pulled over to the curb, then opened a little aperture that let him peer back into the cab. “Yes, m’lady? Did you forget something?”

  “I did. Or I might. We need to stop by the
townhouse for just the briefest moment. You can walk the horses up and down or whatever.”

  The man harrumphed, and there was the sound of spitting on the sidewalk. “Old family retainer,” Mrs. Pearthorne said. “And one of the members of my husband’s regiment. He lost a foot in the same skirmish that cost Jemmie his life.”