Page 2 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
“I promise,” she whispered.
Her husband was dead.
Her father was dead.
She had one chance to save the home she’d shared with Rufus; the only real home Merida had ever known. If this failed, neither of them would have any place to go.
You could go live with Georgia.
Her older sister was married to a reclusive—and extremely foul-tempered—duke. They spent their time in Scotland and were very much in love. And Georgia was expecting their first child in a month.
The Duke of Lickwick wouldnotappreciate his wife’s sister showing up on his doorstep at a time like this, particularly with Merida in tow.
Ellie needed to find a way to save the poor lass—to savebothof them—without bothering her sister’s new family.
The address of tonight’s liaison was far enough away from Rufus’s gilded townhouse that—blessedly—Merida fell back asleep before they arrived. As the coach slowed, Ellie carefully slipped from beneath the girl’s head, popped a cushion underneath her soft cheek, and tucked the blanket more securely around her small shoulders.
God willing, the wee sprite would stay asleep.
Taking a deep breath, Ellie adjusted her shawl. The coach was cozy enough thanks to the heated bricks, but outside, the December wind could bite through any exposed skin.
For this errand, she’d agonized over her wardrobe.
It had been a bold choice to slip into something besides a mourning gown.
Her husband had finally died thirteen days ago, and her father the month before that. While her tears at Rufus’s funeral were real—although more for the future of the young girl whose hand she clasped than any real sorrow at lost memories—she’d been stoic when they interred Father in the family vault.
Mainly because of what she’d found in his library when going through his papers…damning evidence she couldn’t think of right now.
She was officially in mourning. But black wouldn’t do tonight.
She’d never met Fawkes MacMillan, and only knew what her private investigator had learned in a few short days. He was a gentleman—educated, having trained as a chemist—and the illegitimate son of an earl’s disgraced sister. Whatever career he held, it paid for a modest flat in a modest part of London.
For what Ellie was about to ask—tobeg—him to do, she’d carefully chosen an unadorned shirtwaist and skirt, in a pale blue. Something simple, unlike this dratted situation.
But since this errand was nothing like a social call, she’d made certain the ensemble could be easily donned—and removed. And she’d neglected to wear a chemise or a corset.
Another fortifying breath, and she felt as ready as she’d ever be to face what was to come. Slipping from the coach, she started when the coachman appeared out of the mist behind her.
“Matthews! I did not expect—” She composed herself. “Whatare you doing, climbing down on a night like this?”
In the light of the streetlamp, the old man looked hurt. “Milady, I weren’t gunna let ye pop out all by yerself, was I?”
She laid a gentle hand on the servant’s arm. “Matthews, I am perfectly capable of opening a coach door by myself, I promise.”
“This errand—”
“And I am perfectly capable of knocking on a perfectly respectable door by myself as well.”
The old man was eyeing the building in front of which they’d stopped. “It don’tlooksuspicious, milady, but my left knee’s been tingling. Ye know what that means?”
Yes, it meant the old coot needed to stay seated and snug under a pile of blankets. But Ellie was well aware of Matthews’ various prophetic body parts. “Snow in the forecast?”
“Nay—well, aye. There’s snow a’coming, and a harsh one, by the pricking of me earlobe. The right one, seeing as how I lost the left one in the wars.”
She patted his arm again. “You lost your left knee in the wars, as I recall, as well.” He was never clear onwhichwars. It may have been a long offensive with the butler.
“Aye, but that doesn’t stop the thing fro’ telling me when danger approaches. This place mightlookrespectable, milady, but danger’s a’coming!”
