Page 3 of Her Temporary Duke (Rakes and Roses #2)

PRESCOTT ESTATE, LONDON

A month after receiving the letter from Amelia and Charlotte found herself standing at the gates of the Prescott Estate.

She had forgotten how large it was.

Behind her, Brook Street bustled with carriages and pedestrians.

The sun was bright, and Hanover Square was verdant.

Ladies and gentlemen walked there or sat on its benches in the shade of trees.

Charlotte knew that she was Amelia Nightingale to anyone looking at her, anyone who knew the Willoughby family.

It only felt to Charlotte that everyone must be staring and wondering who the stranger was that stood at the gates of the Prescott Estate.

She took a deep breath and stepped through the gates, beginning the long way up the winding drive to the house. Along the way, a baker’s cart passed her, its driver tipping his cap.

“Mornin’, Lady Nightingale!” he boomed in a cheery voice.

Charlotte jumped, but then remembered to smile brightly as Amelia would when passing the time of day.

“Good morning to you!” she replied.

Good Lord, but I wish we had kept this up as regularly as we did as youths. I am quite out of practice. It does not seem nearly as much fun as it once was.

As Charlotte approached the house, a gardener was hard at work scything the grass of the park. He gave her a nod of the head and a greeting, to which she replied as she hoped Amelia was accustomed to.

So far, two people have greeted me as though they know who I am, which I must take as a good sign. Amelia is my identical twin, after all. Our own parents sometimes could not tell us apart, and our governess never could. Have some confidence, Charlotte!

Prescott House was a five-story house of red brick and white plaster, set in its own grounds amid the clutter of London’s buildings. Its park was screened from the rest of the city by tall trees and hedges, creating an oasis within the cold stone of the city.

Charlotte did not recognize the gardener and could not remember a name. She hoped that Amelia’s notes would act as an aide to memory, as she would not be able to keep up the pretense of being her sister if she could not remember the names of any of the household.

She opened the front door and found herself in a busy hall.

Servants were at work, dusting and sweeping.

With a sense of dread, Charlotte realized that she did not recognize any of them.

They all seemed to know her, though, falling into bows or curtsies as she walked through the house to the stairs.

“Claire, did you borrow my good bonnet again?” came a female voice from the stairs, just ahead.

Charlotte stopped, recognizing the voice of her cousin Francis. She was ascending when Francis Willoughby appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Amelia, I thought you were Claire! Have you seen my sister? I cannot find my new bonnet.”

Francis was slender and petite with brown hair and a button nose.

“I have not. I have just returned from a walk, taking the air,” Charlotte replied, haltingly.

Francis turned to go back up the stairs and then glanced back.

“A walk? Odd time is it not?”

Charlotte was at a loss, not knowing what made it seem an odd time to go for a walk.

What can be happening that going for a walk in the morning sunshine would seem odd?

“Is that what you’re wearing? Mama will not be pleased after the expense she went to for our dresses,” Francis said without waiting for an answer. “Claire! Stop hiding and produce my bonnet this instant!”

For such a delicate-seeming young woman, she had a loud and strident voice.

She disappeared upstairs, leaving Charlotte to breathe a sigh of relief.

She hurried after her cousin, ascending to the third floor.

She proceeded along a wide hallway, counting doors and praying that she was remembering correctly.

At the seventh door, she paused, hesitating before reaching for the doorknob and entering the room.

To her relief, the rooms beyond Amelia’s chambers looked much as she remembered. The first time she had set foot here was when she was thirteen. The last was before her debut when they were both seventeen. Still, the furniture looked new, and the rug seemed barely to have been stepped on at all.

It seems that Amelia is not a second-class citizen in her home as I am in mine. I do not recall that being the case before, however. From what I remember, Amelia had the worst rooms and was treated as little better than a servant, too.

She opened the wardrobe and ran her hand over the dresses that hung within. Then she held the nearest to her face, taking a deep breath. The scent reminded her of Amelia, and she felt a yearning for her sister.

For someone who remembers Mother and Father and those happy days at Carlisle when we were children. When Mother passed away, it was such a shame that twins were considered such a handful by our families. Too much for any one branch of the family to take on. So, we were separated.

As such thoughts always did, Charlotte felt a sense of intense loneliness.

She closed the wardrobe door, turning and looking for the escritoire in which Amelia would usually leave instructions for her.

She eventually found it in a small sitting room adjoining the bedroom.

But opening the lid, she found nothing—no note from Amelia written in the code they had developed as children with which they could converse secretly.

Charlotte felt an abrupt wave of anxiety.

This was not usual.

She herself had left detailed instructions for Amelia.

Usually, an extensive correspondence would precede an exchange of lives, followed by a meeting at a halfway point between Yorkshire and London.

Add to that the fact that Lucy Robins and Marrie Perrin, the pair’s respective maids, were fully aware of the game.

That is the answer, of course. I shall send for Marie, and she will brief me on Amelia’s life and everything I need to know. How silly of me.

Charlotte saw the bellpull and gave it a tug before sitting on a chaise and composing herself for a few minutes. A short while later, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” she called out.

But the maid who entered was not Marie Perrin, Amelia’s maid. The dark-haired woman who stood attentively awaiting her mistress’s instructions was a stranger. Charlotte’s mouth went dry, and for a moment, her mind was blank.

“You rang, my lady?” the woman said.

Those were the words she spoke, but what Charlotte heard was... “ You are not Mistress Amelia !”

“Yes, could I have some tea, please?” Charlotte managed at last.

“Tea, of course, mistress. Lady Prescott asked me to relay a message. She asks that you put on the new dress as soon as you may.”

“Of course. I will do that now. Remind me, what is my diary looking like today?”

The maid looked confused, and Charlotte thought she should elaborate.

“It is such a nice day. I thought I would take a stroll in Hyde Park, but I can’t quite remember if I have any appointments today.”

Still, the maid seemed confused, and Charlotte realized with despair that there must be something important happening that Amelia would not have forgotten. Hence the bustle of activity among the servants and Francis’ hunt for her best bonnet.

“I am being silly. Never mind. I will dress now, tell Lady Prescott I shall be ready.”

The maid murmured her obedience and left the room.

“Amelia, whatever are you up to? Why did you not warn me?” Charlotte wondered aloud.

She went back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe.

There were many dresses within, and she realized that she did not know which one was new.

A couple looked very fine, but she could not tell if one was newer than the other.

Another knock came at the door, and Charlotte took out both of the dresses and laid them on the bed, trying to decide which Aunt Phyllis wanted her to wear.

“Cousin?” came a male voice.

“Come in, Reginald,” Charlotte replied, for it could be no one else.

Cousin Reginald was the eldest child of Phyllis and the late Percival Willoughby. Francis was next, then Claire. Aunt Phyllis was the sister to Lucy Nightingale, Charlotte, and Amelia’s mother. A simple family, complicated by the hostilities of in-laws and siblings.

Reginald entered the room, dressed in sumptuous purple satin and sporting an onyx stone in his cravat pin. Charlotte remembered that Reginald had always cared deeply for clothes and was glad that she had remembered correctly.

“There you are. You are not dressed yet. I will not tell Mother; she will pull her hair out. I should not delay you much longer, though. There is little time. I was surprised to see you walking this morning, today of all days.”

“I needed to take the air. Perhaps because the house has been so hectic this morning,” Charlotte replied airily, “but as time is of the essence, was there something you wanted, Reginald?”

Reginald looked back over his shoulder and then closed the door, advancing into the room. He lowered his voice.

“Simply to ask if you have had an opportunity to speak to Victoria on my behalf? To explain? After our last conversation, I have been searching for an opportunity to get you on your own, but first, you were away, and then there was all this damnable fuss. I feel like I have had no opportunity to speak to you in private for a fortnight!”

His eyes were wide and imploring, his voice earnest. Charlotte felt sympathy for him and wondered at her sister for leaving her cousin in the middle of a situation she had clearly promised to help him with.

If there was something to be done, then why would she suddenly want to switch places? And if I am expected to make good on her promise, why would she leave no word? I must find Marie and discover what is happening!

“I have not, I am afraid, Reginald. But I will rest assured,” Charlotte replied with as much confidence as she could muster, hoping Reginald would accept it.

He nodded, smiling gratefully.

“The thought of dear Victoria continuing in ignorance, believing me to be interested in that... other woman is maddening. I wish there were a way out of this situation where I could simply follow my heart. I fear the responsibility of being heir to the Prescott line is a heavy one.”

Charlotte smiled. “It must be. Do not fret. I shall speak to Victoria and explain as soon as today is done with.”

Reginald nodded, and Charlotte decided to take a chance. She picked one of the two dresses and held it up in front of her.

“What do you think? Does it suit?”

Reginald glanced at the other dress.

“I think Mama would rather you wore the new one. It was expensive enough. If she sees you in anything else, she will not be best pleased. She regards today as the culmination of a great deal of time and effort. Like a peace treaty negotiated between two warring nations.”

Charlotte smiled brightly and picked up the other dress.

At least I know what I am supposed to be wearing, though I know precious little else.

Today is an important social event for Aunt Phyllis, but I do not know what is expected of me.

I know my cousin is in love with a lady called Victoria, but is she expected to marry another?

At least that is my deduction. I hope Grace can tell me who Victoria is.

“Have you seen Marie this morning?” Charlotte asked.

Reginald was turning to leave, but this seemed to stop him in his tracks.

“Marie? Your old maid?”

“Hardly old, Reginald,” Charlotte replied, “she is of an age with me.”

“Old as in previous , Amelia. As in no longer with us,” Reginald said as though stating the perfectly obvious.

Charlotte’s heart sank. There would be no help forthcoming. She was alone.

“Yes, I know. I-I was being silly,” Charlotte managed, stuttering, “I shall have to dig out her forwarding address...”

“Forwarding address?” Reginald furrowed his brows, “are you quite well, Amelia? Marie returned to France, as you should know. Quite unexpectedly. You were devastated for a while. Perhaps I should ask Doctor Fox to pay you a visit.”

“No, no, Reginald! I am quite well. I am merely a little... overwhelmed by the circumstances,” Charlotte stammered in panic. “I really must dress now, if you will excuse me.”

She ushered him from the room and closed the door behind him. Then she paced the room, hands to her head.

What have you landed me in, Amelia? I should come clean with Aunt Phyllis, admit everything. Except that would end any chance of Amelia and me ever doing this again. And it has been so exciting in the past. Exchanging a quiet country life for one of society balls in London.

She reached a decision and hurried to the escritoire.

The only course of action was to write to Amelia at Hamilton House—or rather, write to herself, for then it would be delivered to Amelia, posing as her.

She would tell Amelia that she had forgotten the usual routine and needed to tell Charlotte urgently all she needed to know.

The letter was half written when there came a short, sharp rap on the door.

“I am nearly ready and do not need any help getting dressed!” she called out.

Quickly, she shed her dress and took up the new gown.

It was far more elaborate than anything she had worn before.

Stepping into it, she began to struggle with the intricate buttons.

She heard the door open and looked around, expecting to see the maid who had attended her or perhaps Aunt Phyllis, informed by her son that Amelia was acting very strangely.

It was neither.

A tall, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired young man stood in the doorway—or filled the doorway rather. He had the frame of a warrior chieftain, a physical presence that made it feel as though she were standing close to him even when he was several feet away.

His hair hung to his shoulders, and his cheekbones were high and slanted. He looked like a prince of the distant east, strange and exotic. And quite the most beautiful man Charlotte had ever seen…

“I am glad, for once, that it is not I who is late,” he murmured.

“Who are you?!” Charlotte breathed before flushing deeply.

Amelia clearly knows him, why else would he walk into her bedroom unannounced and uninvited?

The man arched an eyebrow, one of his mouths quirking into a smile.

“How odd. But I shall play along, Amelia. I am Seth Redmaine, Duke of Bellmonte, and...”

He advanced into the room, moving with impossible grace for a man of his stature.

Charlotte found herself breathless with anticipation as he neared her.

When he was close enough to touch, he stopped.

Charlotte found herself disappointed, wild thoughts of being swept into his arms running through her mind.

“And?” she asked with a gasp.

“Your betrothed ,” Seth grinned.