Page 6 of One Night for Seduction
“Splendid,” she said. “Now hear this. I don’t need you or any man. Understood? If you’ve any sense of self-preservation, you’ll find your way out of this town house before someone catches us alone together and both our lives are ruined.”
God help them both.
He dashed to the door and flung it open wide, to prove no nefarious seduction was underway in the guest parlor. But Miss Middleton was right. Lack of misdeed would not be enough. He needed to make haste before the distinct lack of chaperonage in the parlor forced them into an unwanted marriage.
Sensing any act of politeness would only serve to irritate her further, Cole tipped his hat as he swept past her. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Middleton. Have a lovely day.”
“I’m already delighted never to have to see you again,” she called after him, her plump lips pursed in victory.
He smiled to himself as he returned to his carriage.
That was where the fiery Miss Middleton was wrong. They would definitely be seeing each other again. After all, he had a ten-year winning streak to protect.
And the Duke of Colehavenneverbacked down from a dare.
Chapter 3
Miss Diana Middleton tried her darnedest to focus her attention on the proper calibration of the wine merchant’s measurement tools, but her mind kept wandering to yesterday’s unexpected visitor. It was not the first time the Duke of Colehaven had deigned to cross their humble threshold, but it was unquestionably the first time any such gentleman had asked to call upon Diana.
“Is it right?” came the querulous voice of the wine peddler. “May I return to selling my wares?”
Diana could not be fooled by feigned innocuousness. This was not the first time she’d been forced to give similar establishments a stern warning.
“You know as well as I do that the weight of a proper wine gallon is never measured against a half-peck ale gallon, but rather a half-peck corn gallon whilst filled with wheat,” she scolded him.
His rheumy gaze turned crafty. “How am I supposed to remember something like that?”
“Write it down,” she said firmly. She slipped her hand into the basket dangling from her arm and handed him one of the many pre-made reminders she’d drawn out the night before. “Don’t lose it this time.”
He sighed as he accepted the card with its precisely drawn diagrams. “Yes, Mrs. Peabody.”
Diana was not, of course, Mrs. Peabody. Mrs. Peabody did not exist.
Nonetheless, many shopkeepers in this corner of London believed Mrs. Peabody to be a frazzled and woefully underpaid “inspections secretary” to a ruthless barrister, and whose continued employment depended upon her reporting back to her litigious master as many cases of flagrant disregard to the 1815 Weights and Measures Act as she could uncover, so that all such miscreants might be brought to justice.
Due to an arrangement Diana had made with a barrister’s assistant, however, any inquiries referencing Mrs. Peabody or a “weights and measures inspections secretary” were forwarded to an anonymous account only Diana had access to. Her credentials were rarely questioned—merchants engaging in illegal conduct wished to calllessattention to themselves, notmore—making the indomitable “Mrs. Peabody” quite powerful indeed.
“If I find your tools overcharging customers again…” she said in warning.
“I know, I know.” The shopkeeper hurried to tack the reminder card to the wall above the weighing station. “If there’s a next time, I shall be defending myself not to a pip of a girl, but to a judge capable of doing far worse than simply dismantling my business.”
Diana gave a sharp nod of approval. She did not mind being referred to as a pip of any type as long as it meant future clients to this establishment were no longer at risk of being defrauded. It was often far easier to frighten unscrupulous owners into compliance than it was to convince the courts to pay any mind to the dozens of anonymous complaints she’d submitted to the “proper channels” this winter alone.
She took her leave from the shopkeeper and made her way back out onto the snow-dusted streets of the Haymarket.
It was far too early in the morning for any self-respecting member of the ton to be out of bed, but all the same Diana was clad in one of her many disguises.
Like most of her ensembles, today’s was designed to attract the least amount of attention possible. A serviceable gray day gown enshrouded by an even duller gray ankle-length pelisse and a thick woolen shawl. Hair tucked beneath a sturdy but colorless bonnet, whose extensive brim ensured both a respectable distance from passers-by and sufficient shadow to blur her face.
Woolen stockings, no-nonsense black boots, and a thick basket all contributed to the impression of a woman on a mission, like any number of the other servants dashing hither and yon on shopping trips for their masters.
“Inconsequential errand girl” was second only to “chambermaid” in its effectiveness at rendering her positively invisible to members of the upper classes. Nonetheless, in addition to her trusty journal and the weights and measures reminder cards, Diana’s basket also contained a scarlet redingote and festive bonnet, should she need to dash behind a folding screen in order to emerge a completely different person.
A hurried change of clothes next to some shopkeeper’s chamber pot had thus far never proved necessary. Diana hoped her run of good fortune would last for many more years—until monitoring unethical business practices was no longer necessary or until women could openly helm such a career without raising eyebrows, whichever came first.
She bit back a sigh. Neither outcome was likely to occur in her lifetime. In the best of scenarios, she would be eighty years old, disguised as the elderly mother of some litigious barrister, who had nothing better to do with her time than inspect the measurement tools of London shops in order to report her findings back to her dear son.
Maybe not a litigious barrister, Diana decided. If she was still doing this fifty years from now, she’d claim her grandson was a well-connected justice of the court. What polite soul hoping to keep his shop would dare to argue with a grandmother?
