Page 3 of Manufacturing a Duchess

“Marjorie? Marjorie!” The fear in his voice cut through the street’s tumult. “Marjorie?” He looked frantically in both directions. He could see no trace of her anywhere. It was as if she had been swallowed up by the city. How could she have vanished so utterly? “No, no, no, no, no!” His stomach plummeted, and a fist squeezed his heart as he turned in circles, cursing his momentary inattention.

“Marjorie!”

He felt a tug on his leg. He looked down, trying to swallow back the terror. A little boy of about six, wearing a filthy cap with a streak of dirt across his forehead, stood there. Silently, the child turned and pointed.

And there, about halfway back down the row of shops, sat his daughter on the curb’s edge, rubbing her face into that of a tiny black-and-white dog. The gutter’s muck flowed, ignored, over her boots as she petted him with great delight and energy. Taking off at a fast clip, Alec reached her and scooped both girl and dog up in a bruising hug.

“Oof, Papa! Leave off! Isn’t he wonderful?”

Alec strengthened his grip on her. “I believed I had lost you!” he bellowed. “Do not ever do that again. And put that animal down at once. I am sure it is completely infested with fleas!”

“Oh, but Papa! He found me! He ran up to me and then started to run into the street. I couldn’t let him get hit by a carriage. Isn’t he the best puppy you have ever seen? Shouldn’t we take him home and keep him safe?”

Alec spared the briefest of glances at the tiny dog while he clutched Marjorie even tighter. “Absolutely not. No dogs. We can find a puppy for you when we get home. Now, we must put him back down where you found him.”

He glanced around to see a small girl of about Marjorie’s age, who was sitting next to where his daughter had been. Her grimy face, hands, and clothes, along with her bare feet, indicated she had an intimate knowledge of the less salubrious aspects of London. A second look, however, showed him blue eyes filling with tears as she looked with longing at the puppy.

More gently, he said to Marjorie, “Sweetheart, the puppy already has someone who he belongs to. Look,” he directed her attention to the little girl, “I think she would be very sad to lose her puppy.” With great reluctance, he set his daughter back down on the ground.

Marjorie looked at the other little girl in surprise. She had been so engaged with cuddling the dog, she had not noticed her sitting down on the curb next to her.

“Go on,” he said, as she turned and cast an imploring look his way.

Slowly, Marjorie walked back to the other girl and held out the puppy to her. “Is he yours? Did he run away from you?” she asked. She received a tremulous nod in response.

“Then I am glad I could rescue him for you.” A pause, and then a reluctant, “Thank you for letting me hold him.” The other girl did not say anything but snatched the puppy, took a final agonized look at Marjorie and her Papa, and then ran off down the street as fast as her legs could carry her , clutching her pet tightly. A few protesting barks—of joy at being reunited with its owner? At being squeezed?—were heard before the sounds faded into the general roar.

Marjorie almost took off again at those barks and then sighed. “I had grown very fond of the puppy, Papa.”

“I know you had, imp,” he said, putting his arm around her and pulling her close to him. “But that was observant of you, and big-hearted, to realize the puppy belonged to that little girl.” And then he gave a grimace. “And I think we shall have to delay our bookshop visit so I can get you home and into a tub. You need a good scrubbing now.”

“Really, Papa, I do not think that is necessary.”

At that, Alec threw his head back and laughed, ignoring the crowds on the sidewalks and a few passersby who gave him a startled glance. “Well, I do. And I am the papa. What I say goes. Come along, Sailor Raeburn. It’s a hot bath and flea removal for you.”

“But—!”

He raised a finger and shook his head. Recognizing the gesture, Marjorie planted her feet and saluted, but the “Aye, aye” which accompanied the salute bordered on mutinous.

“Hand!”

She reached up and grasped his hand. And so, connected, they had retraced their steps back the way they had come. Alec leaned down as they went and said close to her ear, “And while you are in the tub, I shall send out for something delicious for tea. Pax?”

Marjorie had looked up at him and grinned. “Pax, Papa.”

The memory brought a smile to Alec’s lips.

“Pax, Papa,” he whispered, then pushed himself up to standing. “I’m doing this for you, Marjorie. Always and forever for you, sweetheart.” And, rejuvenated by the thought of his daughter, he banked the fire and took himself to bed.

Three

The next morning, not that far from Russell Square, an heiress in possession of a healthy yearly income was waking up. Opening her eyes, Aurora Hardcastle shivered slightly and burrowed deeper under the covers. For a young woman used to activity—walks and rides out in the countryside near her home in the Midlands, and even at her finishing school—she felt as if the walls were closing in.

The decidedly cold state of the tip of her nose told her it was another chilly morning. But—and here she listened closely and then smiled—she could not hear any rain beating against the windows. Perhaps it would be fine today, and she might persuade her friend, Missie Wentworth, whose house this was, that they must both get out and walk, ride, something.

She peered at the thin crack she had left in the heavy drapes, something she made sure she did every night before she fell asleep. She needed to be able to see the sky, especially here in smoky, crowded London. The blue tinge to the light told her it was still early.

For the past three months, ever since they had arrived in London, their few excursions had involved dashing in and out of shops or visits to the modiste for pattern selections and initial measurements. Her only sight of the great metropolis had been gray-streaked views from windows in the Wentworths’ Eaton Square home or through the fogged-up glass of the carriage. It had seemed to her the entire city was melting into a quagmire of mud, mixing together the sounds and smells and sights into an oozing soup, trapping her into immobility.