The Forbidden Duchess (Sincerely Yours to Ruin #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“You run a tight ship, Miss Tate. I see why the vicar dotes on you as he does. It’s not often one meets a young woman in possession of as much intellect as she has heart.”

Amelia forced a smile, wringing a rag between her hands as she watched the deliverer deposit his goods into the coal hole before them. The autumn months were quickly passing, and the orphanage would need sufficient fuel to ward off the oncoming winter chill.

At the thought of the coming cold, a brisk wind swept through the alley, rustling her hair in its combs.

“Mr. Hayes, you flatter me,” Amelia replied, observing the folded figure of the man before her.

He grunted as he hauled another sack of coal down into the cellar.

“But there is really no need for such kind praise. There are many who work here to ensure the well-being of these children. And many more who contribute in their small ways. Or shall we say nothing of your most generous rates? I know what you charge my uncle’s household. It is twice what you charge here.”

He paused, looking over his shoulder, his ears turning pink with more than the growing cold. “A generosity which remains between us?”

“Why, of course,” Amelia assured him. “I am nothing if not an excellent secret-keeper.”

To say nothing of the fact, she thought miserably, that I so often forget what is said to me the moment it reaches my ears.

Once Mr. Hayes had completed his task, Amelia walked him back to the coal wagon. He straightened his cap, smearing his forehead with soot. Amelia sighed through a smile, offering him her rag before he climbed back into the wagon.

“Now, now,” she chided playfully. “You must make yourself presentable for your wife. Which reminds me—pray, do thank Mrs. Hayes for the sweetmeats she dropped off last week. The children were besides themselves with joy for her gift. She must return as soon as she is able so they may extend their thanks to her in person. I have them preparing a play at present. Perhaps it would please her to partake in the rehearsals?”

Mr. Hayes nodded, returning Amelia’s rag with a sheepish smile. “Will we see you on Sunday morning?” he asked with a tired grunt, positioning himself onto the driver’s bench.

“Most certainly.” Amelia nodded. “I would not disappoint our dear vicar, who, according to you, thinks most highly of me.”

With another laugh, Amelia waved Mr. Hayes away, stepping back from the road before the orphanage, her boots clicking against the cobbles.

She watched the coal wagon drive out of sight, turning once it disappeared to admire the modest whitewashed building behind her. The painted sign above the door read St. George’s Home for Children in green letters, commissioned two years prior for the opening of the orphanage.

The sight of it warmed her with pride.

Indoors, Amelia hurried down into the kitchens, where Philippa was complaining loudly. She paused in the doorway to listen, not wanting to intrude while her friend aired her grievances.

“It’s not a silly idea at all,” Philippa was saying, viciously scrubbing a pewter bowl. Once it was clean, she thrust it toward the woman beside her to be dried, plunging her delicate hands back into the basin. “There are girls’ schools all over this county which operate in much the same manner.”

“I will not have this argument with you again, Miss Ashwood. We cannot feed the children out of a trough, no matter how much more convenient you believe it would be to clean,” said Mrs. Thatcher, shaking her head.

“I would wager you have never set foot in a girls’ school besides, certainly no school for manners. ”

Philippa stopped scrubbing, aghast. “I had a governess for that exact purpose actually, one of the finest in all the country, whom I shall not hear a bad word against. Not that I expect a woman of your caliber to behave accordingly, of course... Your husband is a pig farmer, is he not? His farm is on the Avon lands? A trough should be most easy to acquire, that being the case.”

A tense silence followed Philippa’s question, and Amelia stood on tenterhooks, ready to intervene. To her relief, both Philippa and Mrs. Thatcher burst out laughing, quickly resuming their work—and their bickering.

“If the children were to hear you...” Amelia said, making her presence known.

The two women glanced at her and smiled as she entered and settled beside Mrs. Thatcher.

“A foul impression you would leave on their impressionable young minds. For their sake and for your own, you should not be so mean to one another.”

“Spoilsport,” Philippa quipped with a grin, wiping an errant ringlet of blond hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Trading jabs makes this job halfway tolerable.”

Mrs. Thatcher nodded, handing Amelia a bowl to put away. “How did you get on with Mr. Hayes?” she asked.

“Perfectly well,” Amelia replied. “I will send Mr. Marsh down to start the fires soon—assuming he can be woken from his post-prandial repose.”

Philippa paused her work and leaned over. “Trying to soften up old Robinson with a warm house? He is calling around today, is he not?”

A wave of fear passed through Amelia at the mention of the building’s landlord. She pressed her lips together, gingerly taking another bowl from Mrs. Thatcher.

“He is arriving sometime this afternoon,” Amelia admitted, diverting her eyes to the ground. “I tried to prepare a speech for him, hoping to convince him of the importance of the orphanage, that a month really is no time at all to wait for us to secure the funds for rent...”

“There is a heart of stone in that man’s breast, I swear it,” Mrs. Thatcher said, scowling in displeasure.

A stout woman with a ruddy face, she was a strange sight beside tall and fair Philippa, who looked down at her with amusement.

“Shall we cut him open and find out?” Philippa asked.

“No,” Amelia cut in, suppressing a smile so as not to encourage her friend. “No violence, and no japes, Philippa. Not where Mr. Robinson is concerned.”

“Your speech then...” Philippa waved a hand toward her, then sank it back beneath the soapy water to continue her task. “Let us see how convincing the daughter of Viscount Tate can be when it avails her to be charming.”

Amelia chewed on her lip, racking her mind for the words she had desperately tried to memorize that morning in the looking glass.

But the words would not manifest in her mind.

She felt a familiar panic rise within her, grasping at knowledge she knew existed somewhere within her but was just out of reach. Her eyes closed tight as she tried to summon the text she had rehearsed, her frustration mounting by the second.

“Miss Tate,” came the soft voice of Mrs. Thatcher, as she placed a hand over Amelia’s on the counter.

When Amelia looked down, her knuckles had turned white. She relaxed her hand immediately.

“Forgive me,” Amelia said, putting down the bowl and stepping back. “I should not over-rehearse, or my words will sound quite performative.”

She glanced at Philippa, hoping she had not noticed her lapse in memory. Her friend seemed chiefly concerned with finishing the washing up as quickly as possible.

“Excuse me. There is much to do before Mr. Robinson arrives,” Amelia said meekly, slipping her hand out from Mrs. Thatcher’s hold and quickly leaving the room.

I cannot allow my shortcomings to compromise the future of this orphanage, she thought as she mounted the stairs in search of Mr. Marsh, heart hammering in her chest. Mr. Robinson must be convinced to allow us to remain here a while more...

Mr. Robinson may have had a heart of stone, but at least he was punctual.

Amelia had been watching the clock closely for his arrival.

The moment it struck two o’clock, someone knocked on the front door.

The children were reading with the other volunteers on the second floor—the house was mostly quiet.

As she raced into the entrance hall, she found Mr. Marsh climbing the stairs with a coal scuttle, a young girl, no older than four, shadowing him. Amelia waved them away with a pained look. There were only two sights Mr. Robinson would not brook: that of the working man and that of children.

“Miss Tate,” Mr. Robinson said upon entering. “I do not appreciate being left outside in the cold—especially not on the doorstep of a house I own.”

Amelia swallowed hard, closing the door behind him, and not daring to argue that he had knocked merely seconds before.

Mr. Robinson was a tall man with a protruding stomach, and he carried a steel-tipped cane wherever he went. It rapped against the floor as he marched into the entrance hall, turning in a circle to observe his surroundings.

“Certainly not, sir,” Amelia replied, folding her hands in front of her. “Allow me to apologize. May I offer you some tea?”

“I will not be remaining long enough for tea.”

“No.” Amelia winced. “Of course not.”

Without asking permission, Mr. Robinson promptly turned and proceeded into the nearest room.

Amelia had barely reached him by the time he exited, continuing his immediate and silent tour of the house.

He visited the downstairs playroom, the schoolroom, the dining hall, dodging Amelia’s weak attempts at trying to stop him.

“Are you looking for something, sir?” Amelia successfully asked at last, halting him as he reached the base of the stairs.

He sent her a cold look, and Amelia shrank into herself.

“The children are occupied upstairs,” she said timidly. “It pleasing you, I would not wish them... disturbed.”

Mr. Robinson extended his silence, broken eventually by a sigh. He stepped away from the stairs and folded his hands over the top of his cane.

“How many months have you rented number twelve from me?” he asked.

Amelia performed quick calculations in her mind, sensing this was a trick question. “Twenty-five, Mr. Robinson.”