Page 36 of Never a Duchess
“Aye.”
“There we are then. That should be enough to deter you from playing the honourable card.” Miss Ware clapped her hands together, keen to make the facts suit her purpose. “Besides, I’m approaching spinsterhood and would make a terrible bride, let alone a duchess. And it’s impossible for me to fall in love with a man.”
He might have ripped her argument apart, made her see sense, explain that one did not always choose who they loved, but a knock on the door stole their attention.
“We shall continue our lessons at Lord Templeton’s ball tomorrow night,” she quickly said before calling, “Enter!”
It was Hastings, not Masters. The doddery fellow bowed and, in a shaky voice, asked how he might be of service.
Callan instructed the butler to pull up a chair, and they resumed their seats. “We have a few questions about the night of the wedding ball and hope a servant can identify a woman of particular interest.”
Hastings’ eyes narrowed. His hollow cheeks made his face look almost skeletal. “Might you have a description of the woman, Your Grace?”
“We’ve nought but her handkerchief.”
Miss Ware took the item from her reticule and gave it to the butler. “You will see a monogram in the corner. Do you know who it belongs to?”
Hastings gaped at the bloodstains, not the fancy stitches. “Erm, no, no. I’ve never seen it before.” He was quick to hand it back.
“Did ye see anyone sneaking about the house?” Callan said.
“Guests are always sneaking about the house, Your Grace.” Hastings’ gaze flicked briefly to Miss Ware. “I’m trained to turn a blind eye.”
Miss Ware sat forward. “Did anyone attend the party without an invitation?” When the butler shook his head, she added firmly, “Hastings, a woman was abducted from the garden at knifepoint. We’re attempting to find her and save your master the shame of being questioned by the magistrate. You will tell us what you know.”
Callan smiled to himself.
Miss Ware would make an excellent duchess.
“You’ll have to give me a moment to think, miss.”
They sat as silent seconds passed. Miss Ware tapped her lips with a little pencil while examining her notebook. Callan’s mind ran riot as he watched her, not Hastings, absorbed in every movement of her mouth. Such a passionate woman would make an excellent bride.
“Someone called at the basement door,” Hastings said, jolting Callan from his musings. “A lady bearing a wedding gift.”
Miss Ware made a note in her book. “You saw her face?”
“It was the lady his lordship hired to sing for them on their wedding day, at their private supper. A famed opera singer, I believe. She did not want to disturb the party and wished to leave a porcelain figurine.”
“Did ye fetch Lord Kinver?” Callan said.
Hastings nodded. “Lord and Lady Kinver spent ten minutes with her in the study and invited her to stay.”
“Did you see her again that night?” Miss Ware asked.
“Only once. Not wanting to intrude, she declined their kind offer, though Lady Kinver permitted the singer to use an upstairs room to see to her toilette.”
Or to steal a document of some importance, perhaps.
“There was a perfectly serviceable retiring room downstairs.”
“The lady wished to remain incognito, miss. Indeed, moments after the clang of the supper gong, she left via the garden.”
Miss Ware locked gazes with Callan, excitement dancing wildly in her eyes before she faced the butler. “Might the lady have been Madame Delafont? Might she have worn a dark cloak?”
Hastings’ head lolled forward as he thought. “Yes, it was Madame Delafont. She wore a cloak of forest green.”
While Miss Ware’s smile broadened, Callan pressed the butler for more information. “Did she seem sincere? Did ye suspect she had another motive for coming here?”
