CHAPTER 1
T he key turned in the lock of Esmeralda’s prison and she rose to her feet. She backed against the wall farthest from the door as had become her custom. She was well aware that she was much weaker than she had been, and dirtier as well, her battle against the filth of her environs lost in daily increments. She still gripped the comb she was prepared to use in her own defense, but she knew her hold upon it was less vigorous. The spark within her requiring that she fight to the bitter end was fading, compromised by hunger and exhaustion. There were days when she wished to close her eyes and never open them again. There were days when she did not wish for a future, if it was to be more of the same.
To her surprise, an unfamiliar older man appeared in the doorway. The jailor hung back, as if with deference, and did not indulge in his usual crude commentary. That was different. Esmeralda felt her eyes narrow with suspicion.
Her visitor had to have seen fifty summers. He was dressed well, but not flamboyantly, his jacket and breeches cut of good woolen tweed in muted shades of gray. His coat was slate grey, his stock was a silvery grey silk and held by a sapphire stud of tasteful but not extravagant size. His cane might have been ebony, his boots were polished to a gleam and his gloves were gleaming white. He lifted a pair of pince-nez to his face and peered through them at Esmeralda.
“Miss Ballantyne?” he said. “Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne?”
“The very same, sir.”
He nodded once and put his pince nez away. “I am Mr. Greene and bring you news, Miss Ballantyne, that you may find most welcome.”
Greene. Where had Esmeralda heard that name before? It seemed she lost her wits in this place, for so many details had become tantalizing hints instead of easily recallable facts. She knew she had heard that name recently, but could not place it.
She waited in silence.
“I am a solicitor,” he said kindly, as if guessing her malady.
“I believe I have heard your name mentioned, sir.”
“Doubtless by the Duke of Haynesdale. I am much occupied with the concerns of His Grace.”
Esmeralda nodded agreement, belatedly recalling that detail.
Mr. Greene cleared his throat. “I have come to tell you that the charges brought against you have been dismissed, Miss Ballantyne.” He gestured to the corridor behind himself. “As such, you are free to leave. It was suggested that you might appreciate me escorting you to your home. I did take the liberty of dispatching a message to your household staff that they might anticipate your arrival shortly.”
“Free to leave,” Esmeralda repeated, taking a step away from the wall. Was this a cruel jest?
“Indeed.” Mr. Greene nodded and the reticence of her jailor suddenly made more sense. That man was no more than a shadow behind the solicitor and one who looked likely to vanish entirely.
“But why were the charges dismissed?”
“Because the true culprit was arrested in the act of repeating his crime, and confessed to the theft for which you were charged.” The corners of Mr. Greene’s mouth lifted in a prim smile. He offered his elbow and she could not imagine that this fastidious man invited even the weight of her soiled hand upon his arm without qualms. “Shall we, Miss Ballantyne? I confess that even a single minute in this establishment is far too long.”
Esmeralda’s heart soared, though still she feared the worst. She seized her few belongings, realizing only after she had stepped out of her cell that she could have left them behind. She would burn them rather than ever use them again.
But then, if she abandoned them, her jailor would sell them and she wanted no advantage to come to that odious man. She lifted her chin as she walked past him, her heart thundering as Mr. Greene led her right out the gates of the prison. No one stepped into their path. No one protested. No one halted their progress and with each step, her heart beat a little faster with hope.
A carriage was outside the gates, waiting upon them. Esmeralda nearly wept when the door was swept open by a footman and Mr. Greene handed her into the interior.
It was so clean that her tears rose.
She gripped her hands tightly together as they rode through familiar streets that she’d never hoped to see again, and her throat tightened when the carriage finally halted before her own little house. Bert Latimer, her butler, and Doris Nelson, her cook and housekeeper, fairly tumbled out the front door to greet her, their faces alight.
They had stayed. Esmeralda’s relief weakened her knees. She knew them to be loyal but had feared there would not be sufficient funds for them to remain.
She straightened, though, and offered her hand to the solicitor, knowing she was far from at her best. “Thank you, Mr. Greene. I do apologize that I was not suitably prepared to receive you.”
This time, his smile was broader and more genuine. “There is no cause for apology, Miss Ballantyne. I am delighted to have been of service to a lady of such infamy as yourself.” His eyes twinkled. “It will quite elevate my own reputation.” He bowed over her hand but did not kiss it, though Esmeralda could scarce blame him for that. The sunlight was not kind to the state of her nails.
“How was the perpetrator caught, Mr. Greene? I had not understood that there was any investigation.”
He looked up at her, looking like a man who barely kept a secret in check. “That tale is not mine to share, Miss Ballantyne.”
Then whose might it be?
Mr. Greene bowed again and climbed back into his carriage to take his leave, clearly content to keep the confidence of some individual. She stood, watching his departure, then turned toward her front door, aware that she was unsteady on her feet.
“Miss Ballantyne!” Doris said, catching her hands in relief. “We are so relieved to have you home again.”
“Indeed, my lady,” Latimer said, beaming at her as he swept open the door. He caught her elbow in one heavy hand and fairly lifted her over the threshold. Truly she was as weak as a kitten, but this pair seemed to have anticipated as much and appeared to have no qualms in ensuring that she was welcomed back to routine.
Her house was just as it had been, tidy with everything in its place. Esmeralda wanted to touch every item, to reassure herself that she was truly home. Instead, she was hustled up the stairs to her bedchamber. She might have just stepped out for an errand, so achingly familiar was each detail.
The tub reposed in the middle of the room. Steam rose from the hot water within it and the scent of roses and lavender filled the air. Her favored silk gown lay across the bed, awaiting her, and her throat tightened as the first tear spilled forth.
“Thank you, Doris,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
“I have beef for supper, my lady, and some lovely little tarts from the bakery if you desire something first. I would have baked myself but I was rushed off my feet to ensure that all was ready for your return. We only had the news this morning. The kettle is on and the fire is stoked.” Even as she spoke, Doris was unhooking Esmeralda’s clothes. “I never liked that maid Tessa but she left the first day you were away. We are well rid of her in my estimation.” Doris referred to the maid who had only recently been employed by Esmeralda and who had been, admittedly, less than energetic in the fulfillment of her duties. “I intend to assist you this time, the better that you get into the water sooner and we shall find a new maid in short order.”
In truth, Esmeralda could not have protested. Doris easily spun her around, then almost lifted her into the tub.
“Lord! You cannot have eaten a bite in all these weeks, my lady.”
Esmeralda could not bear to look upon herself. She ran a hand down her own side and felt her ribs. “I fear I will not do justice to your beef, Mrs. Nelson.”
“You will eat what you can and you will enjoy it, then you will sleep as long as you like. Bert and I have all in hand, my lady, with the assistance of His Grace.” Once Esmeralda was in the tub, eyes closing in bliss, Doris gathered up the soiled clothes. “ There is a man, my lady, and if he is to be your patron now, I for one will not regret it.”
That was when Esmeralda knew for certain that it had been Mr. Greene’s customary client who had ensured her release. Though she was proud of her independence and defended it vigorously, she found it difficult to mind the duke’s intervention in this instance. Indeed, she laid back in the glorious bathwater as Doris bustled away and let her tears fall freely.
She was home.
She had survived.
What all had the Duke of Haynesdale done in her defense? She knew his contribution had not been small. How much had he spent upon her comfort and concerns? She wagered it was no small sum, at least to her – although to a man of his wealth, it might have been a pittance.
How much did she owe him for his intervention?
Esmeralda recalled the sight of him arriving at her cell, so purposeful and grim. She thought of his feigned lovemaking that night and smiled for the first time in weeks. Doris was right. What a man he was. Despite her exhaustion, Esmeralda felt the stirring of a familiar tingle. She had only one way to repay him, though truly she could not regret surrendering herself to pay a debt to the Duke of Haynesdale.
In fact, she hoped she owed him a king’s ransom – and years of nightly pleasures.
Oh, she would ensure that the duke never regretted his choice, or doubted that his investment had been repaid. Esmeralda dozed in her bath, smiling at the possibilities. When would he call upon her to collect his due?
Despite herself, she could not wait.
She hoped that he also would share the entire tale of his efforts, though she would not have wagered upon it. No, the Duke of Haynesdale was possessed of an admirable reticence.
Esmeralda’s smile broadened as she imagined how she might persuade him to confide in her.
Truly, the man could not come to her door soon enough.
It was not, in the experience of Esmeralda Ballantyne, typical of men to linger over the claiming of any debt believed to be their due. It was not madness to anticipate the duke would arrive promptly to demand his compensation from her, but he proved himself to be unusual yet again.
He did not call.
Not that first night.
Not the next day, or the next evening.
His absence rapidly became vexing and even eroded Esmeralda’s satisfaction in his interference.
She dared not call upon him. She could not compel him to arrive. She had to wait, and though she did not like it a whit, she would use the time to her benefit.
She would heal.
In her first few days at home, Esmeralda slept a great deal. She consumed an inordinate amount of beef broth, and she indulged her preference for sweet trifles with no consideration of her waistline. She was painfully thin and she knew it. Her clothes hung upon her as if she were a child dressing in her mother’s finery. Her hair was less lustrous than it had been before her sojourn and the mirror showed her clearly that her weeks of incarceration had not been kind. She embarked upon a routine of every enhancement she knew, impatient for results.
Perhaps the duke found her unappealing in her current state. Esmeralda would restore her stamina and beauty, and with speed.
Her return home was clearly known, for other callers began to arrive that first night. Had she been a woman to display calling cards, her silver salver would have been overflowing. Given her trade, though, discretion was of import. Latimer brought each one to her and she noted the time and date of the visit in her ledger, though she received no one. Each day, she was aware that it became more imperative for her to make a public appearance if she ever intended to resume her trade.
The truth was that Esmeralda had little interest in it. There was only one man she wished to see yet there was no hint of his presence.
Thus, every card prompted a wince. Here was the one who confessed too much. Here was the one who always strove always to leave her with a bruise, even one that could not be seen by others, as if that was a mark of his prowess as a lover. Here was the one inclined to be possessive. Here was the one who pleaded with her for favors, yet never could pay. It was so tedious. Though she was in the business of ensuring the pleasure of men, it might have been refreshing to have one patron consider her satisfaction.
That was new. She had never worried about her compensation beyond payment before, but the duke’s kiss in Fleet Prison had changed her thinking.
Or perhaps it had been the compilation of her book, the one purportedly written by her alter ego, Mrs. Delilah Oliver. Esmeralda was determined to ensure its publication, for it was a volume of intimate advice, intended for the good of women everywhere, as well as the potential financial rewards.
It might change the world as she knew it, and Esmeralda could only welcome that prospect.
As her fortitude increased, she reviewed the pages she had written and the corrections made by Baroness Trevelaine, as well as the comments and suggestions provided by Mrs. Eliza North. She had a number of pages that the actress Ophelia Pearl had collected for her from both – while Esmeralda had been imprisoned, Ophelia had donned Mrs. Oliver’s disguise as necessary. That not only helped the book’s progress to continue but ensured that no one realized Esmeralda and Mrs. Oliver were the same person.
She considered the prospect of the duke learning as much, and could easily imagine his fiery reaction to that. Though she would love to witness that event, she would not confide in him.
There was no such risk if he avoided her door so studiously.
Esmeralda’s household had grown slightly in her absence. There were now two former soldiers eating in her kitchen, tall and quiet men, both of whom she understood were in the employ of the duke. Pearson and Tate watched over the premises day and night, showing themselves the most vigilant of sentries, and ate Mrs. Nelson’s cooking with enthusiasm. Their loyalty to the duke was complete. Mrs. Nelson said they had been decommissioned after the war and were grateful to the duke for steady employment. Though she treated them like boys in need of copious amounts of food, it was clear that Mrs. Nelson was more confident with their presence. Even Latimer confessed that he felt safer, knowing they were around.
Esmeralda also learned that she owed the Duke of Haynesdale more than she had initially realized. He had ensured the financial security of her little household in her absence as well as providing for her own improved conditions at the prison. The prospect of owing more than she could ever repay became more troubling as the days passed and he neither appeared nor sent word to her.
How very irksome. Esmeralda disliked any delay in expressions of gratitude, even her own. She considered the merit of calling upon him at Haynesdale House, but decided she was not quite sufficiently fit for what might prove to be a flaming row.
The prospect did lift her spirits however. She could think of any number of ways to reconcile after a battle with Damien DeVries, each and every one of which would be made sweeter by a ferocious debate. Her blood heated at the prospect.
On the Sunday after her return home, there was a new production of The Tempest opening, a detail she learned when Ophelia Pearl sent her a notice of the show. Esmeralda resolved that it would offer an excellent opportunity to confer with the actress on a backstage visit, as well as quench rumors of her return and recovery.
She chose a crimson velvet dress, one that had not quite fit in recent years. It now had a little excess space in the bodice, which she augmented with some padding below her breasts. The addition pushed them upward in a most audacious display. She wore a choker of jet and ruby beads, knowing it would hide how thin her neck had become, and matching earrings dangled from her earlobes.
Her dark hair was wound into an elaborate style by her new maid – a quiet girl named Jones who helped in the kitchen as well – then studded with paste gems, indistinguishable from genuine stones in the lighting at the theater. There were red kid slippers to match the dress and a red satin reticule, as well as a fan of black ostrich feathers. Jones was in her glory reviewing Esmeralda’s finery. Esmeralda carried her opera glasses and wore a short cloak of black velvet, with long black satin gloves. She rouged her lips and used a tiny measure of kohl to outline her eyes, making them look more green than ever. The reflection in the mirror showed the proper balance of resilience and recovery, and she smiled at her own reflection.
Jones fluttered with approval.
Pearson accompanied Esmeralda, handing her into the hired coach and riding like a footman. She knew he would not let her out of his sight and found that comforting. She did not care what conclusions people made about his presence. His manners were impeccable and he was attractive, even with his grim demeanor.
When the carriage halted before the theater, Pearson opened the door and offered his hand. Esmeralda heard the gasps as she stepped out, allowing him to guide her around several puddles like a gallant courtier. “You will accompany me?” she asked softly.
“I will be as your shadow, my lady,” he replied in an undertone and she smiled. She reached up to touch his cheek, as if he were a toy she could not bear to leave behind, and he followed her mutely as she continued to the theater. Her arrival was a performance made to a rapt audience, each gesture carefully chosen for effect. This was what she did best.
The crowds parted, murmuring, and Esmeralda knew every detail of her appearance was noted. She nodded and smiled, all the while taking in the welcome details of the theater she thought she might never see again.
It was good to be at liberty again. Had her name been entirely cleared? Did some enduring stain explain the duke’s reticence in calling?
Her box was prepared, a bottle of champagne opened as she stepped into it, and she stood for a moment, looking over the crowded house at all the faces turned in her direction. She was almost tempted to wave, but instead let Pearson take her cloak. She sank onto one of the chairs, tired even from this small foray, and accepted a glass of champagne.
Attention did not linger on her for long, for the performance was about to begin. The lights on the stage were lit and people settled into their seats, quieting in anticipation. The theater was not darkened, as this gave the attendees the opportunity to view each other as well as the performance on stage. There were always people coming and going, and Esmeralda watched the audience as much as the performers. Some moments later, there was an unexpected fanfare and a ripple passed through the attendees.
“The Duke of Haynesdale!” cried a performer upon the stage, taking a deep bow as he gestured toward a larger box than the one rented by Esmeralda. Her heart leapt as the duke appeared, casting a skeptical glance over the theater before turning back to his guest. He looked well, to Esmeralda’s thinking. No, he looked better than he had. As dashing and handsome as ever, but more virile and vigorous. She would not be the only lady fanning herself in admiration of the view. In fact, she thought he was leaning less upon his cane than had once been the case.
What had so improved his demeanor? He did not even look to be in foul temper. Was it the prospect of encountering her? Or of her being in his debt? Esmeralda hoped as much.
Indeed, he even smiled. Esmeralda straightened with interest for she knew a scowl was more characteristic of Damien DeVries.
Then he turned and offered a hand to a young lady entering his box, and Esmeralda frowned.
It was a young girl. A very pretty young girl, who looked up at him with adoration.
Perhaps his companion was the reason for his absence from Esmeralda’s door. Perhaps he had a betrothed now, which would be infinitely simpler for Esmeralda. Men were more readily managed when they had wives. It should suit her well enough to be the duke’s lover, perhaps even his mistress. She would not have to surrender a great deal in exchange then, simply repay the debt she already owed.
Oddly, though, the notion of the duke having a betrothed was vexing.
Esmeralda knew that wives came in various types and she was curious which kind the duke had chosen. An heiress with a fortune to bring to the match could have no hold over him, given his wealth, nor could an aristocrat with a title. Unless he wed a crown princess, his own title would be ascendant. A beauty who had captured his heart completely? No, it was difficult to imagine the duke being emotionally bound to anyone, no matter how fine her features. A virago who would demand his undivided attention, at least until she delivered of an heir? That might explain his choices these past few days.
Esmeralda was not the sole one to seek a better view. The lady in question was young and slender, dressed in white with her dark hair artfully coiled. Were those emeralds at her throat? The parure sparkled so brilliantly that Esmeralda would have guessed there were many diamonds in the setting. The young lady was lovely beyond all expectation and the duke led her to the best seat in his box, seating her with a deference that implied he held her in great affection.
The shock was that she was no stranger.
Whispers ran rampant through the theater as Esmeralda deliberately turned her attention to the stage. Fury rose within her, hot and white, demanding satisfaction.
It could not be.
But it was. Esmeralda knew it was. Her Sylvie accompanied the Duke of Haynesdale, which meant Sylvie was no longer hidden in Brittany, where Esmeralda had secured her for her own safety. There was no doubt who had brought Sylvie to London, and done so without any discussion with Esmeralda.
How dare the duke so interfere? How dare he put Sylvie at risk? How dare he undermine all that Esmeralda had done to protect Sylvie, and done as much as if the choice was his alone to make?
How dare he?
How had he even found Sylvie? What were his intentions? Esmeralda did not care. He had betrayed her own trust by putting Sylvie in peril and Esmeralda would never forgive Damien DeVries for that crime.
The fiend! The wretched fiend! She clutched her hands together in her lap, knowing her knuckles were white, and seethed with a need to be avenged.
She would call upon the duke in the morning, regardless of social convention, and he would not turn her away without granting her satisfaction.
Esmeralda Ballantyne on a quest was not a woman readily put aside.