Page 7 of Secrets of a Duke's Heart
CHAPTERFOUR
Clarissa had not yet finished dressing to come down to breakfast the next morning when a commotion from the yard brought her to the window. In truth, she was having considerable difficulty selecting from one of her five dresses. There was the comfortable but unflattering pink one she usually wore to breakfast. The green-sprigged cream would have been the next logical choice, but upon arriving back at the Prescott mansion her maid took the soggy linen frock away for cleaning. So that was out.
She pulled on her nicest silk-cotton blue gown, then immediately took it off. Nathaniel would suspect if she chose her best dress.
Suspect what?Her pride prickled stubbornly.
That you are making a fool of yourself over Mr. Montague, a little voice whispered.Admit it, if only to yourself. He intrigues you.
Butyouwill never intriguehim, the rational part of her insisted.It’s never reciprocal. You are invariably attracted to men who have their pick of ladies. They never choose you.
Clarissa pushed away memories of the last time she had been so foolish as to entertain romantic feelings toward a man, and chose the gray wool. It was a bit heavy and not especially flattering, but it would have to suffice.
Clothed, she was finally free to go to the window and find out who was yelling. She had to crane her neck to see from this angle, but those were almost certainly the Riders of the Waterguard.
The Preventive Waterguard, formed several years before to patrol the Chanel and stop illicit trade, consisted of teams of land-based Riders coordinating with a fleet of boats watching the shore. The Excise Officers were only doing their jobs, but no one liked paying taxes and popular sentiment in Cornwall mostly leaned toward the smugglers. Everyone here had a hand in the trade, supposedly. Including, Clarissa suspected, her dear cousin.
This Leacham seemed like a rough fellow. Clearly, he and Mr. Monty didn’t care for one another. A smile touched her lips at his curt tone. It faded immediately when she realized she should go down there and defuse the situation before Montague ran the Riders off. This might be her only chance to question them.
She rushed downstairs and out into the courtyard where two haggard-looking men in rough woolen coats with insignia stitched to the sleeves stood with their arms crossed and their feet wide. An aggressive posture. Neither had shaved in days. Nor, as she approached, bathed. She wrinkled her nose and tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. They had been searching tirelessly for a missing woman, in foul weather. Expecting them to appear clean and presentable was unreasonable of her.
Yet Clarissa couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast with Montague’s dark coat, somber slate waistcoat devoid of ornamentation beyond a subtle pattern in the brocade, and his pristine white cravat. Nor could she ignore the fact that the Riders were representing the Crown, and rather poorly, at that.
One of them eyed the white geese clustered on the lawn darkly. She could almost believe the bird was eyeing him with suspicion, too.
“What news of Miss Harriet?” she asked briskly. The gray-templed Rider glared at her.
“Are you acquainted with the missing lady?”
“I am not.”
“Then I have no time to indulge idle gossip.” He returned his attention to Mr. Montague, whose normally thunderous expression darkened further.
Despite this, her heart skipped when his gaze cut to her and mirth glinted in those gray depths. The color of his waistcoat enhanced the steely shade.
Do all men have such long lashes?
“Miss Penfirth has agreed to aid me in my search for Harriet. She is Viscount Prescott’s cousin and an astute observer. I insist you share the information you have related to me with her.”
A vain part of Clarissa preened to be called an “astute observer,” until she realized the only thing she had been observing just now was the man’s attractiveness. She collected herself with a little cough.
The Riders didn’t look happy about having to explain themselves to a woman.
“The girl tossed a stack of pewter tankards off a shelf. Just went...” He swept his arm to demonstrate. “That’s why I say she must have known him. No lady would have helped a smuggler escape. Especially a French one.”
“Are French smugglers unusual?” she said at the same time that Montague spoke.
“She did not do it on purpose—ladies first, Miss Penfirth.”
“To Mr. Montague’s point, you seem certain that Miss Turner knew her assailant. What other evidence do you have to support this claim?” she said. Warmth fluttered in her middle.Don’t be such a goose. He’s only showing you common courtesy.
Which was more than she could say for the other two men.
To her left, Montague’s brows rose. To her right, the Riders both scowled. Clarissa understood that certain men could not abide being questioned by a woman. Her estimation of Montague rose when he gestured, indicating that the Riders should respond.
He couldn’t be one of Nathaniel’s peers. Although he was clearly wealthy, aristocratic men, even the mere Honorables—second, third, fourth, fifth sons and so on—usually had a particular sense of entitlement that irked her.
Mr. Montague irked her for many reasons, but not that one. He was admirably willing to concede a point, which in her view ruled out a title, although clearly he was well-connected enough to have arranged for his niece to marry an earl.
