Page 62 of Three Rules to Wed a Duke

“What’s the matter, Your Grace?” Sara whispered as the proprietor of the bookshop peered around a shelf of volumes at them.

“Look! It’s the duke,” Frances replied, craning her neck to see Anthony through the shop’s front window.

“Well, this is the perfect chance for you to speak with him! He would never dismiss you or ignore you in plain sight of everyone. Go to him and talk to him,” Sara suggested excitedly, but Frances shook her head.

“No. I owe him a sincere apology. That’s not the sort of conversation to have while a blacksmith is hammering away at his anvil behind you,” she said, sighing. “Besides, he looks as though he’s going some—”

Frances stopped. Right before her eyes, Anthony approached the butcher, the very same one whose wayward son was hopefully with Juliet. The two men spoke, then they disappeared inside the butcher’s store. Frances and Sara exchanged confused looks.

“How does His Grace even know this man?” Sara asked softly, but Frances only shook her head.

“Come, let’s go out the door behind the shop so he won’t see us,” Frances suggested, leading Sara by the hand until they were outside once more. They hurried away from the marketplace and back towards the main road that ran through this part of the city, not slowing down until they approached the house.

“Sara, isn’t that Sir Perry? That awful man who barged in and acted like such a fool?” Frances asked, leaning closer to whisper from behind the brim of her bonnet.

“The one in that carriage? It does resemble him, yes.”

“What on earth could he be doing sitting in a carriage outside of our house?”

“Shall I inform Mr. Vickers?” Sara asked, sounding worried now.

“I think that’s for the best.”

Frances tried to keep a watch on the man as they drew closer while still keeping him from recognizing her. Unfortunately, there were few people milling about on the straight at this house of the day, so it was hard to remain inconspicuous.

“Your Grace! Duchess!” the man called out, hurrying out of his carriage after he’d spotted them.

“Don’t look at him, just pretend we haven’t heard him. Go, Sara!” Frances urged her.

Too late, she felt a swift jerk on her arm, one that turned her around to face her assailant. Frances cried out in alarm as she came face to face with the baronet.

“I was calling out to you, for you—” he began, but his words were cut off with a gurgling cry of surprise. He fell to the ground at Frances’ feet, while Sara stood over him, clutching the torn cord of her reticule.

“You’ll not be puttin’ yer hands on a duchess, least not when I’m ‘round to thrash ya!” Sara shouted, her carefully practiced diction slipping as she leaned down to direct her angry words at the man.

“Sara, how did you…” Frances began, but she was too astonished to continue.

“Old trick me mum taught me,” Sara said, standing upright and grinning. She reached into her reticule and withdrew a rock that was slightly larger than her fist. “I always carry one o’ these when I go out.”

“My word,” Frances whispered, unsure of how else to respond.

“Come on, before he gets his feet under him. We’ll have Vickers call for the constable.”

Sara led her inside, but Frances could only follow numbly behind her. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the heap of a man on the sidewalk, faintly relieved to see that he was at least sitting up. He pressed a hand to his hand where Sara’s well-aimed weapon had struck him, then he scrambled to his feet and slowly made his way to his carriage.

“Remind me never to anger you,” Frances said with a weak smile as the door safely closed behind them.

CHAPTER 24

The events of the morning were still fresh in Frances’ mind when Mrs. Barrett came to find her in the library. The housekeeper smiled endearingly and held out a piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Frances asked politely, taking the page and starting to unfold it.

“You’ve had a reply to your message,” the older woman said with a knowing look before leaving Frances alone.

Frances carried the paper to the window and smoothed it open with her hand, staring down at the shaky handwriting. It looked like something a child might pen, though she knew that the woman who’d written it had to be close to her age.

“To the new Duchess of Preston,” Frances read aloud softly, “greetings and welcome to my house!”

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