Page 3 of Secrets of a Duke's Heart
“Tell me more about your niece’s marriage,” Miss Penfirth said, breaking his thoughts like a stray sunbeam through storm clouds. “Was she excited about it? Nervous?”
“Of course she was excited. She was on the shelf, too. Any woman would be relieved to find a husband after five fruitless Seasons.”
“Any woman?” his companion asked sharply. She kicked a pebble into the grass.
“Yes, any woman.” He ignored Miss Penfirth’s sharp sidelong glance. Tetchy. No wonder she hadn’t found a husband. “Particularly since she is fortunate enough to be betrothed to an earl.”
Guilt gnawed at him. Lord Lucarran was more than twice Harriet’s age and generally of a cantankerous disposition, but beggars could not be choosers. By any external measure, Jude had done well by his niece.
If Harriet had gone quieter than usual before their departure, and remained that way throughout their journey, wasn’t that merely a sign of a nervous bride? She would adapt. He knew she wanted children. She adored babies. But how much of this information should he share with the inquisitive Miss Penfirth?
“Not every woman wishes to marry into the aristocracy,” she said. “I, for example, would vastly prefer a mere mister. All those formal dinners and the public expectations.” She gave a delicate shudder. “Personally, I commend myself for avoiding matrimonial entanglements.”
Her self-congratulatory attitude rankled him. “I’ll allow there might be a rare exception. Whether you approve or not, I went to great lengths to secure Harriet’s engagement.”
“But did you consult your niece as to her opinion of the groom?”
Jude’s temple throbbed. Storms sometimes provoked headaches, but this was an inconvenient time for one to start. “What are you implying, Miss Penfirth?”
“I wonder, Mr. Monty?—”
“It’s Montague,” he snapped. He ought to have used his other name, Walsingham, but in the panic after Harriet’s abduction, he’d forgotten. He could only hope that she failed to recognize his distinctive title and take greater care not to give this observant woman any additional clues to his true identity. Harriet’s future depended upon his ability to keep this catastrophe a secret.
Thunder rolled overhead. Rain pelted the bay in the distance.
“Mr. Montague, is it possible that your niece ran off intentionally?” Miss Penfirth asked, picking up her pace.
“No, it is not,” Mr. Montague bit out as they strode quickly down the path.
CHAPTERTWO
Clarissa wished she had waited to have the coach brought round. The afternoon had been sunny, but the weather could turn quickly here in Cavalier Cove. She eyed the storm brewing over the ocean with growing trepidation.
“This way,” she said briskly, pointing to the barely-discernible plume of smoke rising from a tidy cottage in the distance. “If we hurry and keep our visit short, we should be able to make it home before the storm.”
She hoped, anyway.
Ahead, a sturdy fence marked a vegetable garden. White geese waddled slowly near the edge of a small pond. Mr. Montague kept pace easily, his long legs eating up the ground. Not one to be outdone by a man, particularly one as surly as this one, Clarissa quickened her step. By the time they reached the flagstone steps, she was all but jogging and rather embarrassingly out of breath.
The door opened to reveal a pretty young woman with dark curls wearing an apron. She peered anxiously at them and said, “Yes?”
“My niece has been kidnapped,” said Mr. Montague. “I understand your husband may have information about smugglers.”
Clarissa winced. This wasn’t the tone she would have taken. The young woman’s brow furrowed.
“Thomas, you have visitors,” she called over her shoulder.
“Mrs. Davies, you might remember me from your husband’s store. We met last week,” Clarissa tried again.
“Miss Penfirth.” A noise like a kitten’s meow, but louder, snagged her attention briefly. “The viscount’s relative.”
“Cousin,” she confirmed. “I am sorry to disturb you at an awkward time, but as Mr. Montague has explained, it is an urgent matter. May we come in?”
“We don’t know anything about smuggling.” Again came that tiny cry. “We’re finishing our supper.”
“Who is it, Ada?”
“Viscount’s niece,” she muttered. Twin gray smudges beneath her eyes indicated tiredness. Clarissa chose to forgive the mistake. A man came to the door. He was tall and lean with a French air about him, and he spoke with a slight accent.
