Chapter Sixteen #2
“Former libertine.” The duke held up his wine. “But I am enormously wealthy, thank you for noticing. Would you like some lemonade, Miss…?”
Helen froze listening to that crisp, utterly patrician accent. There was no rasp of coarseness around the edges. No odd cadence. The man before her was every inch a duke, from his glorious diamond stickpin to his perfectly tailored trousers.
The other guests had all turned in her direction. She was making a scene.
Searing mortification burned her cheeks as her resolve faded. Fear struck her as the duchess marched toward her with a great deal of menace. Protectively, she placed her small, generous form between Helen and the duke, ready to do battle.
Oh. Dear. I think possibly…it isn’t him.
Her eyes widened. How could it not be?
“Who, may I ask do you think you are to invade the Duke of Roxboro’s box during a performance of—” the duchess intoned, snapping her fingers at the duke.
“A Cousin’s Request,” Roxboro supplied helpfully in that crisp, cold ducal tone, eyes sparkling back at his duchess. Helen realized she’d never heard that accent before, only a version of it.
I can’t—
“Yes, well, the play is terrible. I’d forgot the name. But I,” the duchess took a step towards Helen. “Would like yours. I’m the Duchess of Roxboro. Who might you be?”
A sound of distress came from Helen. She pressed a palm to her lips to stop it.
His nose. Dear God. His nose.
“Impossible.” Helen took another step back, shaking her head as if that would make any of this better. Had she hit her head? Gone mad at some point? There was no freckle at the end of Roxboro’s nose. Nor any imperfection at all. This duke was flawless. Which meant—
The gaudy coat. The longer hair. His speech.
“Louder,” the duchess warned in her own crisp tone which brooked no disobedience. “No muttering in the duke’s box.”
Well, of course not. The duchess was daughter to the Earl of Canterbell. Lord Speaker of Parliament and Helen—
“I think I’ve made a mistake,” she choked, the absurd realization not so ridiculous after all, because there simply could be no other explanation. But she’d kissed that mouth. Stared into those eyes. Touched the freckle on that damned nose.
Oh, not this nose. Nor this man.
“There’s no freckle. There’s no freckle,” she said in a panicked tone. “Do you have it covered?” But Helen knew he didn’t. The freckle simply wasn’t there.
“I what?” Roxboro looked down at her, his lips pulling together in a ducal pout. Dark brows flew up. “Ah.”
“But how can there be two?” Helen fretted quietly, the shock so great she was certain she’d swoon. Faint. Fall at this man’s feet. The actual bloody Duke of Roxboro. “You are the Duke of Roxboro,” she said stupidly. “There’s only one and he said…”
Galway would surely sack her if he found out about this. He’d been looking for a reason to toss her out without references and the bonus promised her. This was it. Insulting a duke during a terrible play. No cottage. No cat.
Retreating is often the best course of action.
“I’ve—please excuse me.”
“You’ve seen him.” The duchess grabbed Helen’s arm in a tight grip. “The man who pretends to be the Duke of Roxboro. Because that,” she pointed at the stunning creature beside her. “Is my husband and I can most definitely confirm he has no freckle on his nose. Or anywhere else on his person.”
Helen swayed, wishing she could simply disappear.
Seemed ludicrous now, at seeing the real Roxboro that she’d ever thought the other man was really a duke.
There were small, barely visible differences between the two, so slight one might never notice had you not met both.
Their speech was entirely different, though the timbre of their voices, the tonal quality, was similar.
The man before her was elegant, with a bearing that suggested if he wasn’t a duke, he was bloody important all the same.
Her Roxboro was…rougher around the edges.
Bulkier in the shoulders. Not quite as lean. The clothing alone—
“You aren’t going anywhere,” the duke commanded. “Until you tell us who is going about London claiming to be me.”
“Incredibly ducal, you cloying dandy. You’re scaring her, Your Grace.
” The duchess said from beside him before turning to Helen.
“Come over here.” She steered Helen to the other side of the box away from the rest of the guests.
A stunning smile burst across her features as she said loudly so that everyone might hear.
“Goodness, how lovely to see you again. It’s been ages, I confess. ”
The whispers halted. The older matron who’d seen Helen enter shrugged and lost interest. As did everyone else.
I need to leave.
Not unless she shook the duchess free which wasn’t happening. Helen’s heart was bumping so loudly in her chest that was all she could hear. She tried to take a deep breath and failed.
The duchess turned her back on the rest of the box and faced Helen. She wasn’t…threatening. Not exactly. More relentless in her pursuit.
Roxboro, the real duke, joined them, sauntering up beside his duchess, hand possessively dropping to her waist.
They don’t walk the same either.
“What is your name?” the duchess asked.
Helen swallowed. The Duchess of Roxboro was a force to be reckoned with even she could see it. “Miss Helen Cosgrove. I am a lady’s companion and chaperone, Your Grace, in the employ of Lord Galway.”
“Galway.” Roxboro made a sound of dislike.
Helen tried not to look at him. It was far too distracting. “I first encountered the…other Roxboro, I mean the man impersonating the duke, during a ball held by Lady Stout. He was…attempting to engage my charge, Lady Cerise.”
The duchess cocked her head. “He stole something.”
Not a question. “Yes, an emerald pendant right from Lady Cerise’s neck. I only looked away for a moment and—”
“But that is not the only time you have seen him,” the duke interrupted in a mild tone.
“No,” Helen murmured. “I have…conversed with him twice since that night.”
The duchess raised a brow.
“He is identical to the duke in every way. Physically, at least. I know it seems…impossible but—even the eyes.”
“My eyes?”
“Well your eyes are very distinctive, Your Grace. Unusual. I would venture to say no one else shares that particular color, but he does. Save for the freckle,” she tapped the end of her nose. “And your manner of speech, there is little difference.”
“Ah yes, the freckle.” The duchess was nodding slowly. “I thought it a spot of wine.”
How astounding. The duchess had seen him too. Helen wasn’t going mad. And she’d been under the impression she was having a flirtation with Roxboro and hated herself for it. So it was a relief to know she wasn’t—
“He is the man I met at the Perswick ball,” the duchess interrupted Helen’s thoughts. “The sapphire bracelet I wore that night went missing after I was ruined.”
“But not by me,” the real Roxboro said. “Though I’ve remedied the matter since.”
The duchess elbowed him.
“He took it,” Helen said with certainty, knowing she was right. “Just as he did the emerald pendant Lady Cerise wore to the ball.”
“Allow me to guess, Miss Cosgrove. He lured Lady Cerise into a dark corner with the promise of courtship, perhaps?” the duchess asked. “Perhaps he claimed to be struck dumb at the sight of her walking in the park. Rather a grand scheme, isn’t it.”
“Everyone at the Stout ball was bowing to you, Your Grace. I mean him. The imposter.” Helen cocked her head, taking in the duke once more. “The resemblance is remarkable.”
So who was the man she’d been flirting with? That kissed her and asked Helen to leave with him?
“Miss Cosgrove, by your own words you claim he has sought you out twice which is interesting because you’ve no jewels for him to steal, unless I’m mistaken. Was Lady Cerise with you on either of those occasions?”
“She was not,” Helen answered, her cheeks warming.
“I see. There is more to your tale, I think, Miss Cosgrove.” The duchess regarded her. “I’m dying to hear it. Who is he?”
This wasn’t at all how this evening had been meant to unfold. She’d come here to confront Roxboro, only to find out he wasn’t her Roxboro. “I don’t know,” Helen finally said.
“I don’t have any male relatives save my uncle.” Roxboro took a sip from the glass in his hand, frowned and set it down. “This imposter has disguised himself to resemble me.”
“It isn’t a disguise.” The duchess’s eyes never left Helen. “You know that I’ve been close to this man as well, Roxboro. I can confirm that everything Miss Cosgrove says is correct. He is identical to you. Except for the freckle, which I mistook for a wine stain.”
“A twin?” The duke’s brow wrinkled. “But that isn’t possible.”
“But what if it is?” his duchess breathed, giving voice to Helen’s own suspicions. “Everything you know of your birth, your parents, all of it comes from Damon.” A hint of dislike colored her words.
“I know you don’t care for my uncle, Sophie. But a brother or a male cousin isn’t something he would keep from me.” Distress was stamped on the duke’s beautiful features. Which served to make him even more handsome. Even Helen had the urge to comfort him. “I know what you’re thinking but it isn’t—”