11. Chapter 11
“For days you’ve held your tongue,” Jane says, crossing her arms. “Days! Have I fallen so far in your estimation that you never thought to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
She pauses in the arched hallway, taking me by the shoulders. “Ros, my love, you’ve brought home the future Duke of Ashbourne.”
I blink.
“Your stranger. The suitor! The one who came as Saint Nicholas. I knew he looked familiar.”
“Simon?” I stifle a laugh. “That isn’t possible.” I picture him hunched before the fire under the bridge.
Pulling peat moss from his coat sleeve.
Starting a fire as if he’d done so all his life.
Using the wrong fork.
Ragged clothing.
Unkempt hair.
And yet… that bold stare. The unshakable confidence. The restrained dignity that I’ve only ever seen in the most affluent drawing rooms. And that voice—it could not possibly belong to a destitute man. More like…
I clutch the back of the sofa, suddenly feeling faint. “No. No, it cannot be.”
“I took a good look at his face, now that a body can actually see it. There’s no mistaking it. Look here.” She urges me into the study where she has the thick London Society Album open on the table.
I gasp, grabbing the book. “Where did you find this?”
There, staring up at me from an oval lithograph, is the very same high cheekbones, narrow chin, expressively arched eyebrows, and those remarkable eyes—dark brown and piercing, slits that narrow easily—yet all on a slightly older man.
Inscribed on a banner below the image is George Ravenshaw Hamblin, the 8th Duke of Ashbourne.
I bite my lip. “His father?”
“One of the most beloved dukes in England.” She presses her lips together as her eyes shine.
“And the most fascinating part—his only son has been missing for two and a half years. The duke has nearly gone mad looking for him, and half the country has taken up the search.” She slides a bound copy of the London Illustrated, 1878, across the table and flips it open to a marked page.
“Rumor has it the duke is afraid of leaving the dukedom without a proper heir.”
“You found all this just now?”
“No, silly, my maid did. The moment I suspected who your stranger was, I sent her scouring the reading room.”
“On Christmas?”
“Not to worry, she’ll find a rather nice brooch of Grandmama’s in her stocking this year.”
“You’re a demanding mistress.”
“Just a nosy one.” She smiles with a very Jane-like nose-scrunch, then twirls around and lifts the article for me to see.
“Oh Rosalyn, you absolutely must marry him. Think of what fun you’ll have, announcing it to all those ninnies who said you wouldn’t ever—well, never you mind.
He’s a perfect match. And your uncle would never object to you marrying a future duke! ”
I’m faint. I stumble to the window and look out at the drifting snow lacing the cliffs. “You cannot be suggesting that he—that I should—”
“I am, and you should. Immediately. Shall I teach you again how to flirt?”
“Jane!” I blush to the roots of my hair.
“Listen to me, Ros. This duke is known for his heart of gold. His pure goodness in a corrupt world. And for teaching others to serve the destitute. If his son is anything like him…”
He’s my perfect match.
“I shall tell your Uncle Elias myself who the man is. He’ll maneuver an alliance faster than even I could.”
I spin on her. “You’ll do no such thing. This is his secret to share, not ours.” I stare down at the notice in the personals begging for news of him. “What if he has a reason for disappearing?”
Jane’s studying me. “This comes as a disappointment to you.” It isn’t a question, but an assessment of something in my face.
I force a smile. “Certainly not. How wonderful to hear that he is not a man of diminished means after all. I should not wish that upon anyone.”
Yet somehow he isn’t the same man now.
She tilts her delicate head. “Oh dearest—are you in danger of losing your heart to him?”