The Wallflower Duchess. Liz Tyner
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Gaunt added. ‘Not even a hackney.’
‘Maid?’
‘She’s alone.’
Edge shook his head. This sounded like a jest his cousin Foxworthy would try. Sending some lightskirt on a mission of seduction and then waiting outside with a group of friends who’d wagered on how long before the woman left. Fox had done something similar in the past—more than once—but he should know better than to try such a thing on Edge.
Edge would give Fox a chance to gauge his own recovery skills.
* * *
When Edge stepped into the sitting room, the housekeeper’s eyes darted from the sombre handkerchief-clasping form to him.
Pausing to think back to the mourning attire he’d seen, he didn’t remember seeing anyone dressed so completely in black, although the veil over the bonnet did have a bit of yellow ribbon peeking through.
The woman’s clothing wasn’t dashed together and had no frayed edges or worn seams, and yet he didn’t think it entirely new. She held a wadded handkerchief in each hand and moved the one in her right clasp beneath the veil to daub at her face.
‘Someone has passed from this life?’ he asked the grim form.
‘Yes. Might I speak with you about it privately?’ The soft, velvety smooth words fluttered the veil. A lightskirt’s voice if he’d ever heard one. Foxworthy would pay.
At Edge’s side, the housekeeper’s arms tightened.
‘No,’ he answered.
Her fingers reached up, grasping an edge of the veil to lift it. But she paused.
‘Tell me your news,’ he said. ‘I would hate to keep a grieving person about on an errand when she could be finding solace in her home with loved ones around her.’
He heard her exhale and her arms tightened.
She stood, one sweeping movement. ‘Your Grace, I regret to inform you that your mother’s fifth cousin, Lady Cumberson, has passed on.’
Edge remained motionless, sorting out something, but he couldn’t quite place it. Lady Cumberson had died some months back. Then he let out a breath. ‘Lady Cumberson passed on? For a moment I had forgotten her. A dear, sweet woman. About so high.’ He moved his arm out to his side, indicating just below his shoulder. ‘Sainted woman. Grey hair.’
Lady Cumberson had stood taller than any woman he’d ever seen, had a vulgar sense of humour and coal-black hair.
‘No. Quite stately. Dark hair. And I suppose you could call her a saint, but I didn’t see her that way.’
He paused, recognising the voice. He forced himself not to react.
Lily? Lily Hightower? Fox would never dare send her. He had nothing to do with women like Lily. And when did Lily get such a sultry voice?
‘Could you spare a moment to tell me about her last days?’ he asked, turning to dismiss the housekeeper. The older woman scurried out.
‘What is going on causing you to attempt a masquerade?’ Edge asked.
She raised her veil just enough so that he could see a chin, a well-shaped mouth that caused him to take note and then two brown eyes peered out from under the edge of the veil. He swallowed.
‘I can’t visit you openly without my father knowing. I can’t wait until your mother returns from the country so I can pretend to visit her and hope you might walk by and we might chance a few moments to talk privately...’ She shook her head as if trying to remove unsure thoughts. ‘I suppose I didn’t think anyone else could help. And I had no idea what to do if you didn’t recover—soon.’
‘Thank you for your concern about my health.’
‘Of course.’ The words burst out. Her voice tightened and she lowered the veil over her face. ‘I heard of your accident—goodness, another one—but then the next thing I knew you were back in London, brought home in a wagon, and we didn’t know if you were going to live or die. My family would have been so distraught if you’d...’
‘Your...family...would have been distraught?’ He managed to inflect the words with just enough emphasis to point the question her way.
‘Of course, all of us would have been.’
The veil popped up again. The handkerchief bundled so that she could use two fingers to raise the covering and the dark eyes studied him. Then the fabric fluttered down again. ‘I feared for the worst, but then your mother took me to your bedside.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘You looked... But you recovered quickly after that.’
He waved her words away. ‘I only had two choices and I thought this one the best.’
‘It was horrible to see you so ill.’
A fogged memory of hearing his mother begging him not to die on his birthday surfaced, but he batted it away. Dwelling on those thoughts would do him no good.
‘Your Grace,’ she said. He leaned forward to hear her. ‘I am very relieved you are yourself again.’
‘If I had awoke to find that I was my cousin Foxworthy, I would not have recovered.’ He had to lighten Lily’s words.
He waited, watching for reaction. Blasted veil.
‘It would be a shame to die after you finally grew into your boots.’ Her voice regained strength.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Your boots. I remember looking at them years ago when you studied outside. It was as if someone had taken you by your ears and just stretched you right up from the boot-tops to the chin. You fit yourself now.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I did rather think you were quite handsome until that day you made me fall out of the tree.’
‘I kept you from killing yourself.’ And it hadn’t been easy. He’d realised she was going after the kite which was tangled in a small, half-broken branch near the top of the tree. He’d shouted for her to stop. She’d moved faster.
He’d darted forward, getting to the trunk in time to grab her by the ankle, but she’d had a firm grip on a tree limb. She’d tried to kick free of his grasp. He’d explained, methodically, that he should get the kite by another method. She was going to break the kite’s limb if she put her weight on it.
‘Oh,’ she’d said, looking up, eyes squinted.
He’d released her ankle, thinking she understood, and she’d lunged for the next higher limb. He’d caught her bootlace and she’d lost her grip, tumbling backwards on to him. He’d landed on his back, cushioning her. Spindly as she was, she’d plopped like a boulder on to his stomach. He’d laid on the ground, struggling for air while looking up at the kite fluttering happily overhead.
She’d screeched and jumped up, staring down at him. Apparently she’d bumped her face against the tree on her way down. He’d seen a split lip before, but not on a little girl.
‘You booby-head,’ she’d called out, eyes blazing into him.
Booby-head? He’d stared at her. Booby-head? Apparently little girls swore differently from other people.
‘You booby-head. You made me fall.’
‘You—’
He’d been planning to explain again how she’d been going to fall from a much higher limb and he wouldn’t have been able to catch her, but the blood on her face stopped his words.
At that moment, she put her hand to her lip, lowered her fingers so she could see the crimson liquid and wailed out a terrifying sound. She’d raced into her house before he could stand.
Later, he’d seen the thread-like scar, resting a finger-width from the bow of her mouth. Lip stain covered