Page 35 of The Duke that I Lost

AUTUMN HOUSE

T he next afternoon, as the carriage wound through London’s crowded streets, Ambrosia braced herself for the unknown. With every turn of the wheels, she recited silent affirmations: You are on your own. You are not dependent on any man. You are beginning anew .

She clutched Mr. Dog a little tighter as they passed bustling markets and well-dressed pedestrians. She was prepared to find the townhouse to be modest, perhaps slightly worn from neglect, with a skeletal staff and drafty rooms that would require her personal attention.

But when Mr. Daniels finally brought the carriage to a halt on a quiet, tree-lined street in Mayfair and Ambrosia stepped down onto the cobbled walk, her breath caught.

The townhouse before her was brick-fronted and elegant—three full stories high, its windows gleaming in the late afternoon light. A wrought iron railing bordered the steps. Autumn House , the deed had read. It looked nothing like something left to decay.

And then the door opened.

Out stepped a tall, elegant gentleman in formal livery. Behind him followed two uniformed footmen, then an older, pleasant-faced woman in a crisp apron, a younger pair of maids, and a flour-dusted cook who looked as though she'd come straight from kneading dough.

The gentleman bowed. “Mrs. Bloomington? Welcome to Autumn House. I am Mr. Carrington, your butler. And this”—he gestured with a subtle turn— “is Mrs. Smith, your housekeeper.”

Each of the servants stepped forward in turn, curtsying or bowing with practiced ease, as if this sort of greeting were not only expected, but rehearsed.

Ambrosia could only blink. “I—yes. Thank you.” She looked down at Mr. Dog in her arms and then, because she didn’t know what else to do, added, “This is Mr. Dog.”

Mrs. Smith smiled, unfazed. “We’ve prepared a cozy spot for him by the hearth in your private sitting room.”

They knew?

She hadn’t given a date. She hadn’t expected… well, anything, really. A dusty house. Locked doors. A sense of abandonment. And yet, someone had made certain this place felt like a home.

Still stunned, she followed Mrs. Smith inside, the warmth of the foyer wrapping around her like a shawl.

Behind her, Mr. Daniels began unloading her trunks with the footmen.

Ambrosia looked back only once—at the open doorway, the quiet London street beyond—and realized that, for the first time in days, she didn’t feel quite so lost. Or quite so alone.

Fresh flowers arranged in shining vases were displayed on pedestals, and an elegant staircase wound up and around to where a balcony encircled the foyer from above.

The wood gleamed, and along with the scent of the blooms, a faint hint of lemon oil hung in the air.

“Your suite has been prepared.”

Ambrosia shook her head in disbelief. Milton had mentioned that the townhouse had been sitting empty—that she would have to have it aired out, refurnished, and that she’d have to hire help. But that was not the case at all!

“If you wouldn’t mind showing me around a little?” she asked Mrs. Smith tentatively.

“But of course, Missus. I’m only just learning the layout of everything, myself.”

“So, you have not been working here long?” Ambrosia had planned on contacting an employment agency. Was it possible that Milton and Winifred’s hearts had softened, and they’d wanted to assist her in setting up her new home?

“Not long at all, Missus,” said Mrs. Smith as she led Ambrosia up the stairs.

“The agency sent all of us over just yesterday. Dust everywhere, there was. But we were told to have it in tip top shape for you. Required an army, for certain. New furniture was brought in, linens, dishes. But we got everything set to rights, don’t you worry.

Now, your room is right this way.” At the second floor, they turned down a cheerful hallway and Mrs. Smith opened one of the doors, holding it wide for Ambrosia to enter. “The mistress’s suite.”

Ambrosia stepped inside and came to an abrupt halt, unable to accept that all of this was real. She turned in a circle, struggling to take it all in—then snapped her mouth shut when she realized it’d been hanging open.

A massive canopied bed made up in greens and golds took up the center of the room, with matching curtains framing the tall windows on either side.

The midafternoon sunlight slanted in from the west, shining on an ornate and plush-looking rug.

All of the furniture did, in fact, appear brand new, and flowers had been set out in order to liven up the room, making it feel warm and welcoming.

One of the younger-looking maids appeared in the doorway and curtsied as Mrs. Smith turned to introduce her. “If I may, Missus, this here is Chrissy. She will act as your lady’s maid, and a modiste will arrive whenever you are settled to take your measurements.”

“Oh, but…” Ambrosia would need to speak with her solicitor. She wasn’t certain that her annuity was going to be able to pay for all of these expenses.

“Simply inform me when you are ready, and we’ll send for her immediately.”

Ambrosia blinked back the tears that were suddenly pricking at her eyes. All of this, it was so much more than she’d expected—or even known to hope for as a possibility. It seemed that her brother and sister-in-law hadn’t hated her so very much after all.

“Thank you,” she finally managed.

* * *

Feeling refreshed after a hot bath, a good meal, and a surprisingly satisfying night’s sleep, early the next morning, Ambrosia explored her new home, unable still to overcome her feelings or awe.

Everything from the kitchen, to the library, to the two connected drawing rooms were perfect for the salons she hoped to host. She pictured a poetry reading going on in one space while discussions could be carried on in the other.

A pianoforte had even been placed in one corner, and the furniture looked rather inviting.

As she stood in the largest of the two drawing rooms, Mr. Carrington appeared.

“Mrs. Smith said you have questions for me, Madam. How may I be of service to you?”

Ambrosia nodded. In all her life, she had never imagined that she’d come to have her very own butler.

And Mr. Carrington was no slouch of a butler either, it seemed.

Mrs. Smith had said he’d formerly worked at a duke’s residence.

She placed him in age to be somewhere between his late forties and his early sixties.

He retained a full head of hair, was sturdy-looking and fit, and might very well be considered handsome, even.

Overall, he encompassed an air of dependability.

“I—” she began. “I did not expect—” She gestured all around. “—everything to have been prepared so… exquisitely for my arrival. I cannot help but wonder… how?” She really was not explaining her question very well.

But her butler had no difficulty in making sense of what she meant.

“My understanding, madam, is that Mr. Burleson has taken over your affairs and is in charge of managing everything according to the terms of your late husband’s will.

He works out of an office on Bond Street.

Mr. Daniels can take you today, if you wish. ”

“Is not Mr. Daniels returning to Rockford Beach?”

“He is to remain in service to you. That is my understanding.”

Ambrosia nodded thoughtfully though she was now even more confused. “Yes, yes. But wait. Who is this Mr. Burleson ? I understood that Mr. Bloomington had employed a Mr. Moyers to handle his London affairs.”

“Mr. Burleson will answer all your questions.”

Less than an hour later, Ambrosia sat in a high-backed leather chair, the polished mahogany desk between her and the gentleman who now handled her affairs.

Mr. Burleson was a neatly-kept man with thinning hair and a mild expression, made all the more so by his round spectacles and the gentle clink of a teaspoon against his porcelain teacup.

He set the cup down and folded his hands, lacing his fingers. “I do hope the transition has not been too inconvenient. The firm has undergone a number of changes in this year, and I only acquired Mr. Moyers’ client list… recently.”

“Of course, but…” Ambrosia hesitated, then gave a faint, embarrassed smile. “How did the staff know I was arriving yesterday? I didn’t send word ahead. At least, not with any specific date.”

There was the barest flicker in his expression.

“Ah,” he said lightly. “Well… the arrangements for Autumn House have been in place for some time. I was instructed to keep the household prepared for your arrival at any point. These things tend to move faster than expected once they’re set in motion. ”

“I see.” She didn’t, not really. But she didn’t press him further. Maybe that was how London worked—lawyers and staff anticipating your needs before you voiced them. It felt strange. Luxurious. A little unreal.

He nodded, businesslike. “Quite so. That said, you’ll be pleased to know that all of your holdings were transferred intact. The Autumn House property is in your name, and the deed recorded accordingly. More importantly, I’ve been directed to ensure that your living expenses are well covered.”

He slid a folder toward her across the desk. “A private fund has been established. You will find it sufficient for all personal needs—servants, household maintenance, gowns, entertainment, travel. And a full-time lady’s maid, of course. Quite generous, actually.”

Ambrosia blinked, unsure how to respond. She hadn't expected poverty, exactly. But she hadn’t expected comfort either. She’d hoped only for security.

And it seemed instead she had… luxury. Abundance, even.

“And the driver,” Mr. Burleson continued, flipping to the next page. “Mr. Daniels is now employed by yourself, not Mr. Milton Bloomington. You are, of course, welcome to secure a coachman more familiar with the city, but I understand he’s served you well thus far.”