burst into tears, which was the very last thing Dany wanted.
“I’m so, so sorry,” the countess said, taking Dany’s hands in hers. “I’m a wretched sister. I’ve set a poor example, I make silly mistakes and now I’ve confined myself to my room until these nasty, horrid splotches go away, and the Little Season will be over before we know it. What can I do to make it up to you?”
“Well, um, I’m sure I can’t know. I mean, really, Mari, you’re the best of sisters, and I’m so delighted that I am to have a niece or nephew in a few months, and I truly love being here in London in any case, even if I don’t attend another ball or musical party. Although...”
Mari squeezed her hands. “Yes, yes? What is it? Honestly, Dany, unless you want to do something totally outrageous, I’m sure I can approve. Will I approve?”
“Oliver is still traveling?” Dany asked, getting down from the bed. “He won’t come strolling in the door in the next four and twenty hours?”
“No, no. I counted out on my fingers, from the day he first said he’d return. It will be at least another three days. I simply have to be healed by then. Mrs. Timmerly said I will be, using the cream she said her mother swore by, and her mother before that. Why? Isn’t that enough time for the baron to retrieve the letters? Tell me the truth, Dany. I must know the truth. You said he knew the identity of the blackmailer.”
“True enough, but he wouldn’t tell me. Aren’t you simply itching to know?”
Mari shrugged. “I suppose so. I may have to meet him in Society at some point.” Now she shivered. “Can’t the baron just shoot him or some such thing? After he retrieves my letters, I mean.”
So much for diverting her, Dany thought, smiling inwardly. Now we’re back, as always, to Mari’s favorite subject. Herself.
“You’d ask a near-stranger to sacrifice his freedom in order to retrieve your silly letters?”
The countess sank back against the pillows. “Not for me, Dany. For the child.”
“Oh, yes, of course. The child. How could I have been so silly. Babies need fathers, don’t they? Fathers and being named the heir without any niggling little questions as to just who that father might be.”
“You know very well I would never— Oh, Dany, this has to work. It just has to!”
Ah, and now, finally, they were where Dany wanted to be.
“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I wanted to be certain you were all right. Because the duchess has asked me to dinner, and possibly to spend the night, as she believes her guest, Miss Clarice Goodfellow of the Virginia Goodfellows, you understand, is pining for home and could use some female company more her own age. Are you certain you’d be all right here, on your own?”
“I’m surrounded by people, Dany,” her sister said, actually sounding reasonable. “Besides, how does one, especially one with no prospects or dowry of any import, turn down an invitation from a duchess? No, no, that’s not possible.”
Dany was already heading for the door. “Are you certain?”
Mrs. Timmerly herself entered the chamber, carrying a silver tray holding a china bowl filled to the brim with pickled cucumbers in cream sauce.
Mari sat up, all excitement, and fairly shook in anticipation of her treat.
“What? Oh, yes, yes. I’m sure. Just go. Ahhh,” she said, all attention turned to the tray placed in front of her, employing her fingers to lift one round slice and hold it in front of her eyes. “Heaven.”
Dany didn’t wait to see the dripping thing disappear into her sister’s mouth. As far as she could remember, Mari didn’t even like pickled cucumbers.
Within an hour, fresh from her bath, her short hair hopefully attractively mussed and blessedly dry, a stuffed bandbox already handed over to a footman—and assuring herself that Harry was resting in the servants’ quarters—she was standing in the foyer, awaiting the arrival of the earl’s town coach.
“Miss Foster?”
She turned about, to see Timmerly descending the staircase, a worried look on his face and a folded letter in his hand.
“Yes? Does my sister want to see me?”
The butler shook his head. “No, Mrs. Timmerly is with her. I don’t know if you are aware, Miss Foster, but longtime retainers, such as myself, are privy to information one might think withheld from them. Such...such is the case with her ladyship’s current dilemma. Not that I would say that I...snoop, but there are moments when it may be necessary to...”
Dany had been watching Timmerly’s hand, and the broken seal on the letter he held in that hand. “Give it to me.”
“Oh, thank you, miss. It arrived this morning, but Mrs. Timmerly said her ladyship is already too overset to...”
“‘My dearest wife,’” Dany read out loud, holding out her hand for silence. “‘I’ve left my luggage and the others to follow, frustrated by their slow pace when all I wish is to be home, to see your beautiful face again. Expect me within a day of receiving this. With loving affection...’ Oh, my God!”
“Yes, miss. Mrs. Timmerly is doing her all to soothe my lady’s, um, complexion. But it won’t do to overset her ladyship in her current condition.”
“Her splotches? Ah, Timmerly, if only that were her sole problem. Is the coach outside? I must get to the duchess to, um, assist her and her other guests with a small project.”
And to hopefully find out Coop’s plans for the evening, as they were sure to involve confronting Ferdie.
Ten minutes later, she was being ushered into the private sitting room of the Duchess of Cranbrook.
The duchess was already there, she and all her flounces and filmy draperies. As was Coop’s mother, the infamous Minerva, dressed much more severely and in her clearly favored purple. Clarice Goodfellow, blond curls hanging, was sitting at a writing desk, quill in hand, as the older ladies stood on either side, bent over her.
None of them appeared to have heard Dany being announced, and all the butler did was look at her, shrug and retire from the room, closing the double doors behind him.
“No, that’s not it, Minerva. Clandestine is spelled with two d’s, I’m certain. Clan...des...dine.”
“Did you hear that, Clarice? You shouldn’t. You should be clapping your hands over your ears, rather than to be exposed to such nonsense. The woman doesn’t even know how to pronounce it. Clan...des...tine. Go on, strike it out, write it correctly.”
“Yes, Minerva,” Clarice said, dipping the quill pen and attacking the page once more. “But what does it mean? What is a clandestine assig—assig—nation?”
The two older women exchanged glances, and the duchess put out her hand, indicating that her friend should answer.
“It means, my dear, meeting—lovers most usually—in secret, for reasons of amorous...exploration.”
“Oh, like
