Page 1 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)

Something was wrong. Lady Agatha Temperance Hale sensed it the moment she opened the sitting room door.

A stranger occupied the modest entrance hallway. He was young, short, and he held his top hat as if he’d been waiting. His pale pinkish skin, two sharp front teeth, and the way his eyes darted was strangely reminiscent of a rat.

“Forgive me…” He bowed as he saw her. “You seem pale… Are you all right, Miss…?”

He delicately inquired after her name, and fear cut through her.

Temperance moved out of the sitting room, into the hallway, and stepped towards the stairs. “Miss Fletcher.”

Despite her racing pulse, she forced herself to keep her face composed.

The world knew her as Lady Agatha Hale—that was how she was introduced at card parties and spoken to at balls.

Only her papa had known the middle name her mama had given her on her death bed…

Temperance . Only Papa had called her Temperance, but her affection for him meant she considered it her true name. A name not to be shared.

The name “Miss Fletcher” felt foreign on her tongue, but this rat-faced stranger deserved neither her name nor any hint of her real identity.

Not when her stepmother’s agents might still be searching for the supposedly Mad Heiress to marry her to the cruel Lord Bartholomew Langston—or put her away in an asylum.

Clearly the man was expecting some sort of explanation, so Temperance added, “I am Mrs. Barton’s new companion.”

The stranger bowed again. “Mr. Edmund Stokes, at your disposal, her son’s clerk. Mr. Barton asked me to pick up documents he left here yesterday.”

Temperance’s smile felt wooden. Could he see her fear? “Of course.” Despite her pleasant words, she took another step away from him.

Mr. Stokes’s small eyes flickered over her, head to toe. “Mr. Barton never mentioned you.”

Every drop of instinct she had was blaring that she was in danger. Mr. Stokes was showing too much curiosity for a stranger. “I’ve only joined Mrs. Barton last week.”

Temperance moved back to the staircase, her ankle hitting the first step as she refused to turn her back on the man. He stepped closer and her pulse raced.

She mumbled, “I’m—I’m afraid I’m not feeling well and need to lie down.”

“Most certainly. I trust you feel better soon.”

Temperance nodded, turned, and hastened up the stairs as calmly as she could.

Only when she reached the landing did she glance back to find Mr. Stokes still watching her, his head tilted, his eyes two slits.

As she hurried to her bedchamber, Temperance felt it in her gut: her hiding place had just been compromised.

She spent every hour remaining in the day at her window, which overlooked the street.

Mrs. Barton had assured her that Mr. Stokes could be trusted, as she’d known him to be employed in her son’s office for two years.

But Temperance’s nerves were still on edge.

Her stepmother would stop at nothing to take Temperance’s inheritance.

Her runaway bag with a change of clothes, a spare pair of shoes, a warm shawl, a few coins, and some bread and cheese was on the bed with her pelisse lying right next to it.

Sitting on the windowsill, she watched the occasional carriages drive by and the rare passersby walking down the modest street. Soon, afternoon slipped into darkness, and the sash windows of the brick houses of Cheapside began to glow.

It was a particularly early Stir-up Sunday, the second one since her papa had passed away from apoplexy; the day every family gathered to mix their Christmas pudding and make wishes for the year ahead.

Papa used to let her stir first, and she’d close her eyes and wish for new books, more time in his laboratory, another year of good health for him.

Sadness stabbed her in the chest like a knife. Eighteen months ago, she’d held his hand as his love-filled gray eyes gazed upon her for the last time. The pain had never quite left.

She missed Papa. She missed the Christmas preparations in Auster Court that he’d be starting about now. She missed the equipment for her electricity experiments. She missed her lady’s maid, Millie.

Temperance took a shaky breath, which blossomed against the windowpane.

Soon she’d be back home to her experiments, back to Millie, back to everything that reminded her of her dear father.

She had to hide only until Christmas Day, when she’d turn one and twenty; her stepmother wouldn’t be her legal guardian anymore—she’d sign the deed at Mr. Barton’s office and come into the inheritance Papa had left her.

No more of Lady Auster’s cold voice declaring her “unfit for society,” claiming she had an “unnatural fascination with electricity” and suffered from “hysteria brought on by excessive reading.” No more padlocks on her laboratory.

No more of Bartholomew’s—Lord Langston’s—cold hands grabbing her wrists; no more whispered threats about what husbands were allowed to do to wives.

She’d learned her lesson. Most of all she wanted independence and freedom. She’d never marry—not Langston, not anyone.

The future would be hers alone.

Dinner was a quiet affair, and Mrs. Barton had already retired to bed when Temperance returned to her place by the window—and saw three men cross the street and approach Mrs. Barton’s house. Her stomach roiled. This was bad.

Temperance darted into the hallway to hear who it was. From there she could see down the stairs into the entrance hall as the housekeeper had opened the front door.

One of the three men inquired, “Is Lady Agatha Hale at home? My name is Mr. Finch.”

Mr. Finch was a short man whose round, maternal face was surprisingly kind. His double-breasted brown wool coat stretched taut across his large stomach and chest. It was hard to be afraid of such a man.

“I’ve been looking for Lady Agatha on behalf of her beloved stepmama,” Mr. Finch continued, “the Countess of Auster. She and her physician are very worried for her stepdaughter’s…mental state.”

Temperance’s heart sunk to her feet.

No one knew she was here, save Mr. Barton, his mother, and their household staff.

Mr. Barton had been her father’s loyal solicitor, and he wanted to protect her.

She had no doubt about that. No visitors had come to Mrs. Barton’s in the two weeks she’d stayed here.

No one had seen her in this house except for the servants… and Mr. Stokes earlier today.

Whether her instinct about Mr. Stokes had been right or not, she might never know. The fact was, she’d been right to be worried and to trust her gut. Someone was here, asking for her by her real name…

There was only one possible explanation.

They had found her. They came to take her to the Countess of Auster and Bartholomew, to force her to marry him to take control of her money… And then God knew how many more bruises she’d be given.

Or if she kept refusing, to put her in Bethlem Royal Hospital—Bedlam.

The asylum.

All for thirty thousand pounds’ worth of inheritance.

Temperance’s stomach twisted in knots. This was it.

She was trapped.

“Oh, I—I—I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” the housekeeper stuttered. “There is n-no such lady here. Good night.”

She tried to close the door, but before she could do so, Mr. Finch’s gaze flickered up the stairs and collided with Temperance’s.

In that moment the friendly, polite mask fell from his face and revealed a true hunter. Sharp brown eyes. Cold. Smart. A bloodhound’s.

Temperance took an unsteady step back.

As the housekeeper attempted to shut the door, Mr. Finch slammed it open so strongly that he crushed the housekeeper between the door and the wall. Surprisingly fast for his short legs, he was soon running up the stairs, his two companions at his heels.

No!

Temperance darted down the hallway towards her bedchamber, snatched her escape bag and her pelisse, and ran towards the servants’ stairs. She barely felt the floor under her shoes, nor heard her loud breathing in her ears, nor the sound of pounding shoes of the three men behind her.

“There’s no more running, Lady Agatha!”

Temperance opened the door and pelted down the narrow stone stairs, lungs tight with panic.

Just breathe. Breathe—and run.

She tried not to miss the next stair as the fabric of her dress tangled between her fast-moving ankles and she awkwardly put on her pelisse.

Only then did she have her hands free to lift her damned skirts.

Her pursuers were faster, stronger, and had no gowns to hamper them.

Temperance tugged her skirts up as high as she could and flew down the stairs.

“Lady Agatha!” came Mr. Finch’s call above her. “Stop!”

Not likely.

She raced along the servants’ corridor and past the kitchen, the cook and kitchen maid exclaiming in surprise. At the end of the hallway, she swung open the door and ran across the back court, through the back gate, and down the street into the darkness of the November night.

They were right behind her, but she still had a slight head start.

At the end of the street, Temperance looked back over her shoulder.

Three large silhouettes shot out from the back gate.

Panic flooded through her. She sped up as she turned the corner and almost slipped on the iced-over cobblestones, but she scrabbled to regain her balance.

She kept going, her lungs burning as she gasped for air, her ears filled with the drum of her heart.

Streets flashed by with shifting architecture as she sped through Cheapside. Simple frontages gave way to decorative cornices, each home with glowing windows and presumably happy families within. Families like that which she had lost.

Temperance kept crossing street after street, turning left and right and then left again at every corner she could. She needed to put Mr. Finch and his men as far behind her as possible, even as her chest ached and her legs pleaded with her to stop.