Page 55 of Destined to be a Duchess
“I am still unconvinced,” Anthony replied. “Patrick knows better than to lead along a woman he can never have.”
He cringed at the hypocrisy of his statement. Marianne merely smiled.
They joined Patrick and Miss Barclay at the church entrance. He feigned interest as they were personally greeted by the vicar, treated to a private tour of St Andrews’ and a lecture on its history. Anthony couldn’t keep his focus on the stained-glass windows for more than a second, finding his thoughts and gaze wandering to the would-be debutante at his side.
Marianne’s face was basked in purple light as she listened to the vicar explain their plans for renovation in the coming decades—so long as their finances allowed. Anthony knew that to be asolicitation for donations, and he made a mental note to tell his mother later.
They weaved through the pews behind the vicar, where Anthony graciously denied an invitation to tea. Their itinerary, he said, did not allow time for a break so early.
Heading west towards St Laurence’s Church, the four took their time exploring St Andrews’ Street. It hosted a colourful market every morning, exactly like Anthony remembered. The street bustled with activity, vendors fighting tooth and nail for the attention of the early morning shoppers.
Anthony kept his head down, wanting to avoid being spotted. A duke in town was no small matter. The crowd surged at the crossroads, where the most impressive stalls had been set up. No one would notice him passing by there—just like no one would notice him leaving with Marianne either.
His heart lodged in his throat as he nodded at Marianne beside him. She nodded back, slowing her walk, before launching herself into a performance that would have put even Edmund Kean to shame.
"May we wait one moment?” Marianne asked, taking hold of Miss Barclay’s hand. She waved vaguely behind her. “I’ve just spotted the most impressive fabric stall, and I wouldsolove to take a look at their wares.”
Miss Barclay and Patrick turned around begrudgingly, visibly none too pleased at having been interrupted in the middle of a story.
“I’ve read that Norwich produces excellent mourning fabrics. The Crape Manufactory is supposed to be just nearby.” Marianne gave a little pout. “There might be something for Her Grace there. Oh, please, might I have a look?”
"You would have to ask His Grace, My Lady,” Miss Barclay said, though her response was clear in her face:no.
Marianne looked up at him with rounded eyes. And even though Anthony knew she was only acting, he felt his ears grow hot as she pleaded with him. “I suppose we have some time to spare. St Laurence’s is hardly going to grow legs and walk away in the next ten minutes.”
He turned to Patrick. “Why don’t you take Miss Barclay ahead to the church, and Lady Marianne and I will visit the stall? It should only take a moment for us to catch up with you. And if there is something for Mother, I should like to purchase it.”
Miss Barclay looked horrified at the suggestion, but between Anthony pulling rank and Patrick pulling her arm, she was quickly convinced to allow Marianne to explore the market alone with him.
They stood side by side as the maid and Patrick disappeared into the crowd. Anthony shivered in anticipation, both at the prospect of reuniting with Doctor de Laurier and getting answers and committing to the heist with Marianne.
“It is not too late to change your mind,” he murmured, leading her onto the side of the road. “If you want to go ahead to the church with them, I will understand.”
She shook her head. “I meant what I said. This is my problem to solve as much as it is yours. If there is even achancewe could glean something from the doctor that will help us, then that is where we must go.” Marianne beamed up at him, marching in the direction of the office. “Besides, I have been practicing my best East Anglian accent for days. We can’t let all that work go to waste now, can we?”
Not for the first time Anthony thought how brave she was. He pursed his lips, looking eastward. “Then I suppose there is only one thing left to do.”
*
As Marianne sat in the physician's office, her unconvincing accent became the least of her concerns. Twisting in her seat, she turned towards the door as it creaked open behind her. The thin, grey-haired man who she had previously seen storming outof Anthony’s study appeared in the doorway. He closed the door, and Marianne’s heartbeat quickened.
Not five minutes ago she had been handing Anthony her fine pelisse in a side alley, going over their plan as she mussed her ringlets and pinched her cheeks to look at least somewhat under the weather. Now she sat face-to-face with the man who could give Anthony all the answers he needed—and who didn’t seem the least bit interested in his new patient.
The air in the office was stagnant, smelling like dust and medicine. De Laurier’s apartment was located on the first floor of an attached house, rented out to similar businessmen in the area.
A sign denoted the apartment opposite De Laurier’s as belonging to another doctor. Marianne had had little experience with physicians, especially before her mother’s illness. Yet Anthony had stressed how strange it was that De Laurier, a respected doctor, chose to take so many of his appointments in an office instead of as house calls.
When Anthony had written ahead to schedule the visit, having pretended to be Marianne’s husband—one Mr Battersby—he had anticipated a reply asking them to meet at the provided address, an empty cottage on the Westden estate.
“But this is much safer for you in the long run,” Anthony had said in the alley, brow furrowed in fear. “I will be right outside.You need only scream, and I will barge in through the front. Do you understand?”
Marianne had nodded, suddenly regretting her leading role in their plan.
She glanced around the room as De Laurier flicked through the journal he had brought in with him, holding a finger up to communicate that he would be done shortly. The walls were a dull stucco grey, sparsely decorated with paintings. Shelves of books lined the space behind his desk.
On the right side of the room, opposite the window, was a glass cabinet and wooden worktable, hosting a treasure trove of medical paraphernalia that Marianne didn’t recognize: strangely shaped glass containers, tubes that were perhaps for distilling liquids, with long metal pincers attached to the ends.
The office looked less like a haven for healing and more like the dungeons she had read about in crime broadsides. She tried not to let her imagination get the better of her ...
