Chapter Two

      Joan massaged her temples to ease her headache, then rolled on to her stomach, pulling a plump feather pillow over her head in an attempt to block out the sound of raised voices.

      She had been in the process of replying to a letter from her beloved Fiona when her father’s bellows threatened to blow the roof off his opulent Mayfair mansion. Unable to concentrate, she’d abandoned the parchment and pen on her desk and curled up on her bed. Joan realised that her aunt had, despite being asked not to, blabbed to the Duke of Thornley about their disastrous trip that afternoon.

      As the noise reached a crescendo, Joan swung her stockinged feet to the floor and felt for her slippers with her toes.

      At any minute she was expecting to be summoned by her irate father so brushed the creases from her skirt and tidied straggling tendrils of conker-coloured hair into their pins. She knew the Duke would be livid...with good reason...and she would sooner go downstairs of her own volition than remain on tenterhooks till a sympathetic-looking servant tapped on her door. She knew that she must protect her aunt and Pip—especially Pip—from her father’s wrath. In a way she didn’t pity Dorothea; she’d asked the woman to keep quiet about the incident, as no harm had been done to them in the end. But it seemed her aunt had not been able to simply rest in her chamber while recovering from her scare.

      Joan guessed Dorothea had found her brother in the small library, as that was from where the cacophony seemed to be issuing. Sighing, Joan immediately set off to own up to her father and take her punishment.

      ‘Ah...there you are,’ his Grace barked as his daughter entered the room. ‘You have saved me the task of sending a servant to summon you, miss. Philip Rook is on his way, as I hear he drove you on this madcap excursion. While we wait for him to arrive let me have your version of this afternoon’s folly.’

      ‘There is no need for Pip, or for Aunt Dorothea for that matter, to give an account, Papa,’ Joan said. She gave her aunt a rather disappointed look. ‘I can tell you what occurred and that it was all my fault.’

      ‘Very noble,’ the Duke said scathingly before snapping a harsh stare on his grizzling sister. ‘You can turn off the waterworks, madam. You were brought here to chaperon my daughter in my wife’s absence...a task as I recall you avowed was well within your capabilities.’ Alfred Thornley strode to and fro in front of the ornate chimneypiece. ‘There have been other instances when I have had to reprimand you over your inability to control a situation.’

      ‘I do my best, Brother,’ Dorothea mewled from behind her lace hanky. ‘I tried to dissuade her from having anything to do with the vicar. He is not suitable company for a person of Joan’s station...and neither are the brutes with whom he associates.’

      ‘The Reverend is perfectly nice!’ Joan retorted. ‘And the fact that he dedicates much time to those far less fortunate does him credit.’

      ‘Has Vincent Walters asked you to stump up any funds to assist him in his good deeds?’ Alfred demanded to know, depressingly aware of how alluring was his daughter to fortune hunters.

      ‘He has not, Papa,’ Joan replied flatly. ‘It was my idea to offer to teach the children to learn to read. How else are the disadvantaged ever to better themselves if they are denied skills to make accessible to them shop or clerical positions?’

      The Duke’s expression softened slightly. ‘Your sincere concern for these vagabonds is very worthy, Joan. But you will not correct society’s ills by placing yourself in mortal danger.’

      ‘Getting lost was foolish...I admit it. But we arrived home safely,’ Joan argued. ‘We have so much and take it all for granted. It is our duty to endeavour to brighten the bleak futures facing those youngsters.’

      ‘I cannot gainsay you on that, my dear, but it doesn’t alter the fact that I might have been arranging the funerals of my daughter and sister and a member of my staff had things turned bad for you all. The Ratcliffe Highway murders are fresh in my mind, if not yours. You were but a schoolgirl at the time of the heinous crimes, of course,’ the Duke pointed out, but less robustly than he might have minutes before.

      He despaired of his daughter’s impetuousness, but he grudgingly admired her, too, for her independence and benevolence. But from what he’d heard from Dorothea, and he believed it to be the truth, his travelling coach had been almost overrun with beggars threatening robbery and violence. And as a responsible parent he must punish his daughter’s bad behaviour.

      The door opened and the butler, looking stern, ushered Philip Rook into the room.

      Joan guessed that poor Pip had felt the rough side of Tobias Bartlett’s tongue; the youth looked terrified to be summoned into his eminent employer’s presence for the very first time. In the past the lad had merely seen the Duke in the stable yard from beneath the forelock he tugged. Pip’s complexion was alternating between scarlet and white as he stood, Adam’s apple bobbing, waiting to hear his fate.

      ‘You, Rook, were driving the coach this afternoon that got beset by a mob,’ the Duke stated.

      ‘I was, your Grace,’ Pip answered faintly, as his master continued to glare at him.

      ‘Pray why were you doing so and without a footman at least accompanying you?’

      Pip licked his lips and blinked a glance Joan’s way.

      ‘He was doing so at my behest, Papa.’

      Dorothea flapped her handkerchief at her brother, nodding vigorously to indicate the extent of the task confronting her to manage his wayward child.

      ‘And in this way you guessed the escapade might evade my notice, did you?’ the Duke suggested drily.

      Joan winced as the barb hit home. Nothing escaped her father’s sharp mind.

      ‘In fact, had one of the other drivers taken you to St George’s in the East you might have avoided getting lost at all and returned home without me being aware of any of it.’

      Joan’s blush deepened at the hint that she was an incompetent schemer.

      ‘My sister tells me that you were extremely fortunate that one of the locals did the decent thing and steered you out of the rookery before a disaster occurred.’ His Grace was frowning fiercely at his novice driver.

      ‘He weren’t a local, your Grace, he were Mr Rockleigh.’

      The Duke of Thornley had been marching to and fro with his hands clasped behind his back and his head lowered in concentration. Now he halted and pivoted on a heel to gawp at his servant. Joan also stared Pip’s way. She’d not believed for a second that her driver had recognised Drew Rockleigh from that one brief meeting, in the dark, over two years ago.

      ‘Mr Rockleigh?’ Alfred parroted in utter disbelief. ‘Do you mean Drew Rockleigh?’ The Duke looked to his daughter for a reply.

      ‘Yes, it was him, Papa,’ Joan answered quietly.

      ‘You knew that ruffian?’ Dorothea snorted. ‘I believed him to be one of them.’ She flapped a hand in disgust.

      ‘I believe he is now one of them,’ Joan said with genuine sorrow trembling her voice.

      ‘You may return to your post, Rook, and you, Sister, may also retire.’

      ‘I certainly did not know the ruffian was your stepson-in-law’s friend,’ Dorothea avowed while trotting towards the door. ‘I swear I got no proper look at him, Alfred...just his back was to me as he leapt down.’

      His Grace hurried his sister on her way with a hand flap, but as Joan also approached the exit he halted her with a curt, ‘You stay, miss. I have much to discuss with you.’

      Once the door had been closed the Duke again prowled about, much to his daughter’s relief. Joan had been expecting an