Page 32 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Then, with a swiftness that caught him entirely off guard, she turned on her heel and left, the door closing behind her with a decisive click.

Leo stared at the empty space where she had stood, feeling that he had somehow managed to lose this skirmish despite his apparent victory.

When the morning light filtered through the heavy brocade curtains of the Stagmore townhouse, Beatrice was already awake, her mind having granted her little respite during the night.

The soft knock at her door prompted her to straighten her posture in the window seat, where she had been watching the street below with unseeing eyes.

“Enter,” she called, expecting her lady’s maid with a breakfast tray.

Instead, Mrs. Winters, the townhouse’s keeper, appeared in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral as she bobbed a perfect curtsy.

“Good morning, Your Grace. His Grace asked me to inform you that he has departed on business and does not anticipate returning until this evening.”

“I see,” Beatrice replied, masking her irritation with practiced composure. “Did His Grace mention the nature of this business?”

“No, Your Grace. He left shortly after dawn.” The housekeeper’s tone suggested this was not unusual behavior for the master of the house.

“Thank you, Mrs. Winters. Please have my breakfast served in the morning room.”

After the housekeeper departed, Beatrice moved to her dressing table, examining her reflection with critical assessment. The woman who gazed back at her appeared composed, every inch the duchess that Society expected. Yet beneath that serene exterior, a storm of frustration and determination brewed.

“So, this is how it shall be,” she murmured to her reflection. “He acts while I am expected to wait demurely for his return.”

Her husband’s high-handed dismissal the previous evening still rankled. Despite the practical nature of their arrangement, she had begun to hope they might forge a partnership of equals. Instead, he had reverted to treating her as a decorative accessory, useful for maintaining appearances but unsuitable for matters of substance.

By the time Emilia had dressed her in a morning gown of dove-gray silk, Beatrice had formulated her plan.

If Leo insisted on excluding her from the search for Philip and Anna, she would simply need to make her own inquiries through alternative channels.

After a perfunctory breakfast, she penned a brief note requesting her carriage be prepared. Within the hour, she found herself being conveyed through London’s fashionable streets toward a destination that would have raised eyebrows in certain circles—the residence of the Marquess of Tillfield.

“The Duchess of Stagmore to see Lord Tillfield,” she announced to the startled butler who answered the door. “On a matter of some urgency.”

The butler’s hesitation was palpable. “Your Grace! I… His Lordship is not accustomed to receiving visitors at this hour, particularly?—”

“Female visitors. Yes, I’m quite aware,” Beatrice interrupted with uncharacteristic brusqueness. “Please inform him thatI request a private audience regarding a matter of mutual concern.”

Without another word, the butler bowed and ushered her into a tasteful drawing room, promising to alert his master immediately.

The Marquess appeared remarkably quickly, his usual languid elegance somewhat disheveled, suggesting he had been hastily roused from late morning slumber.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a bow that managed to be both formal and slightly ironic. “What an unexpected pleasure. When my butler mentioned a duchess at my door before noon, I assumed he had overindulged in my port.”

“Lord Tillfield,” Beatrice acknowledged, declining to sit when he gestured toward a chair. “I apologize for the unconventional timing of my visit, but circumstances require discretion.”

“Discretion?” His eyebrows rose with theatrical precision. “Now you have my undivided attention. Please continue, though perhaps you might sit? Standing conversations always strike me as unnecessarily taxing.”

Beatrice hesitated before relenting, arranging her skirts as she perched on the edge of an elegantly upholstered chair. “I need information regarding my husband’s whereabouts. I believe you accompanied him tothe Gilded Lionlast night.”

The Marquess’s expression shifted, surprise briefly replacing his practiced nonchalance. “Your Grace, whatever would give you the impression that I?—”

“Please do not insult my intelligence, Lord Tillfield,” Beatrice interrupted. “Philip is my friend as well as His Grace’s cousin. If he is in danger, I cannot sit idly by while others determine his fate.”

For a moment, the Marquess merely studied her with an assessing gaze that belied his reputation for frivolity.

“Leo will have my head for this,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“I would speak with you privately, Lord Tillfield,” Beatrice pressed, her voice gentle but resolute. “I am not asking you to betray any confidences, merely to help me understand the situation better.”