Page 20 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

C harlotte skipped into her Aunt and Uncle’s house. The morning sun was hiding itself behind scudding clouds, promising rain, but to her, it might as well have been shining lustrously.

“Good morning to you!” she chimed brightly to a maid who was dusting a vase in the entrance hall, “and what a fine morning it is!”

“Good morning to you, too, Lady Amelia,” the maid replied cheerily before furrowing her brows, “though it does appear to be the onset of a storm.”

“We won’t melt. Besides, it’s good for the flowers,” Charlotte replied as she breezed past.

The maid chuckled as Charlotte sprang up the stairs. The previous evening had been, well, magical was not too hyperbolic an adjective.

I floated down the Thames under the stars. It was like being in a cocoon, the city all around, but unable to touch me. To touch us. Oh, but I yearn for this magic every day!

She knew that it was an intangible dream. Seth had shared the evening with Amelia , or so he believed. Eventually, the dream would end for Charlotte, though she hoped it would continue for her sister.

When she eventually makes her appearance. I do hope that all is well. There must be a good reason for this silence. Perhaps those bad rains that lashed the country before I traveled have disrupted the post coaches? There must be roads washed away in a flood between Yorkshire and London.

She would regret the end of the dream, but perhaps she could seek one of her own at home.

And not with some staid, conventional man, but with a rakish rogue of mine...

Though Seth was far from a wicked man. Just one who was adjusting to the notion of marriage after a life spent ruled by none but his own whims.

Charlotte froze the moment she crossed the threshold. A figure was shuttling briskly about the chamber, flicking her duster with the kind of cheerful efficiency that only one maid in all of London possessed.

Fiery red hair. Freckles like spilled cinnamon. A round face with a button nose, and blue eyes as brilliant as a summer sky.

“Marie!” Charlotte exclaimed, astonishment and relief tumbling over one another. She rushed forward, throwing her arms around the woman before she could even drop her duster. “Heavens, I thought—Reginald said—what happened? Are you well?”

“Oh, Lady Charlotte,” Marie burst out, her accent thick with emotion. It was only then that Charlotte noticed the young maid’s eyes were glossy with tears, “I’ve made a right mess of things, haven’t I? Gone off just when you needed me most!”

Charlotte steered the girl firmly toward the nearest chair, already tugging the bellpull with her free hand. “Nonsense! Sit down this instant. I shall order us tea—and you can tell me everything.”

Marie obeyed with a trembling smile, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve. Charlotte took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“I had to go to Rouen,” Marie began, voice catching.

“My Mama took a fall. Doctor said she’d be weeks mending.

Lady Willoughby gave me leave to care for her.

Said I might be gone a while, and I was.

But I told myself everything would be fine, since Lady Amelia left instructions in your old puzzle box, clear as crystal. ”

Charlotte remembered the puzzle box, the final toy given to the pair of them by their mother as a birthday present. Both girls had spent hours trying to understand its mystery, eventually solving it together. Since then, it had been their shared secret.

“Of course! The puzzle box!” Charlotte exclaimed, “I have been so caught up in Amelia’s situation that I did not even think to look for it. Where does she keep it?”

Charlotte plopped up a pillow to no avail before scanning around the rest of the room for it. But the maid shook her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

“I have it. I am so sorry. In all the ruckus before my sudden departure, I hadn’t realized I had taken it with me when I went to my Mama’s at Rouen. I’ve had it all along, and you’ve had no way of knowing what’s been going on…”

Charlotte blinked, the weight of a dozen recent confusions suddenly shifting into place. “So that’s why I never found a note. I’d half convinced myself Amelia meant to abandon me to flounder…”

“She’d never,” Marie said fiercely. “Not her. She had a plan and a message and all the rest—just…”

“Oh, Marie.” Charlotte hugged her again, tighter this time. “You have always been the most dependable soul alive. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. I am only sorry you were carrying that guilt on top of the worry you must have endured for your mother’s well-being.”

Marie nodded tearfully and rose, crossing into the next room.

There was a knock at the door, and another maid entered with tea.

After she had left, Marie emerged holding a small, lacquered wooden box.

It was carved with images of dashing foxes, hares, trees, and birds.

At first glance, there was no indication of where the lid was, of the hinge, nor a method of opening.

“I hope no damage has been done,” Marie mumbled, handing it over.

Charlotte felt immense relief as she took it. Her fingers found parts of the carving that could be manipulated to reveal hidden catches. With the smallest of clicks, the box unlocked, and a thin line revealed the lid. Charlotte found herself breathless as she opened the box.

At last, I can find out what truly has been going on in Amelia’s life…

Inside was a letter, neatly folded and, as Charlotte saw when she unfolded the paper, written in Amelia’s elegant hand.

It was stiff and crinkly, as though it had been wet and then dried.

Beneath it was a mass of soggy pulp, paper that had been soaked beyond usefulness. She turned to the first page.

My dearest Cherry,

By now, I trust you are safely arrived at Prescott and that Marie is running circles around you with her usual fussing. Indulge her—she means well, as you know. I do hope the house feels like yours before long.

There is something I wished to say before you left, but the words felt clumsy on my tongue, and you know how I dislike causing a scene. So I write instead.

Of late, I’ve been feeling a touch out of sorts. Nothing of concern, I assure you—just a weariness I can’t quite shake. Perhaps it’s the endless whirl of London seasons finally catching up to me, or simply the need for a little air and quiet. I decided a change of scene would do me some good.

Please don’t trouble yourself over this—I am quite comfortable where I am, and taking things rather gently. I spend my days reading, writing letters, and thinking of you, and that is more than enough to keep me content.

I daresay your world will be far more exciting than mine in the coming weeks. And I do hope it is. Live, dearest. Do all the things I might once have wished to do but never dared. Be bold for both of us.

Charlotte paused, her eyes lingering on those last lines.

Live for both of us? It was a curious turn of phrase—strangely final for someone merely needing rest. But she brushed the thought aside.

Her sister had always been prone to little flights of feeling when writing.

She shook her head and continued reading.

We shall see each other again before too long—I’ve every intention of it.

Now, to more pressing matters. Regarding my engagement to the Duke of Bellmonte, I

Charlotte had reached the end of the page. The rest was completely unreadable, the ink washed away, and the substance reduced to a solid mass.

“Marie, are there more pages?” she asked vainly.

Marie’s tears came back with a vengeance. She shook her head, unable to speak. Charlotte suppressed a rueful sigh and rubbed the other woman’s back.

“Do not worry, old friend, tell me what happened,” she said soothingly.

“There was a terrible rain, my lady. It made the stream that runs by my Mama’s house burst its banks, and the house flooded. The box was carried away, I thought I’d lost it, but someone found it washed up when the flood had gone. Thank heavens! But the water must have gotten inside.”

A strange letter, not at all what I was expecting. But I have no idea about anything else in her life, including what to do about Seth!

“Marie, did Amelia tell you anything about her feelings for the Duke of Bellmonte, to whom she was betrothed?” Charlotte asked.

Marie wiped her eyes.

“I don’t know, my lady. I know that there was a man that she was very taken with. She wrote to him a lot. Always giving me letters to post, she was.”

“Do you remember who those letters were addressed to?” Charlotte asked, feeling suddenly excited at the possibility of discovering the answer, “or even where?”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I haven’t been keeping up with me learning. I can’t read English very well, and only when it’s spelled out plain like. Lady Amelia’s hand was very proper and very nice, I’m sure. But I could never make head nor tail of all those squiggles.”

A dead end. Unless she could find something in Amelia’s escritoire to indicate who she was writing to. A rough draft of a letter, perhaps, which mentioned the man by name, to discover whether it was indeed the Duke or not.

“Join me for some tea, Marie. I’ll be mother,” Charlotte said, pouring a cup for the young maid and adding milk and sugar. Marie took the cup gratefully, blowing on it and then sipping.

“What will you do, my lady?” she asked hesitantly.

“I suppose all there is to do is write to Amelia again...”

I now know for certain her intentions were to arrive at Hamilton House. It might yet be some time before I can expect a reply, so until then, I’m left to puzzle through her life like half- finished embroidery—threads trailing where I can’t quite see the pattern.

I only hope I do not make any irreparable mistakes.