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Ace was led to a small sitting room, where an affable, plump gentleman with a monocle was awaiting him.
“Mr. Ashton Smith, Your Grace,” intoned the attendant.
“Very good, very good. Please sit, Mr. Smith. They have some excellent ports here—you will join me, I hope? Reese, bring a bottle of the Quinta dos Malvedos...emm...shall we say 1792?”
“Indeed, my lord,” said Reese, looking at Ace with new respect.
Apparently, this was not a vintage served to just anyone.
“So. Young man,” said the Duke, once the port had been tasted and carefully poured. “You fought quite a fight tonight. To your continued success,” the Duke raised his glass.
“To Your Grace’s health,” Ace responded mildly, raising his glass slightly in return.
“You are probably wondering why I invited you here tonight. I have a proposition for you. Not a full sponsorship—although that is likely down the road; I’ll have to keep an eye on your progress.
“No, this is a very specific project, and it will last until summer or thereabouts. I will pay you far more than you would get in prize pots, believe me. And you may continue your boxing, to the extent it doesn’t interfere with other events I will have scheduled for you.”
“I would very much like to serve Your Grace. But I’m afraid I don’t understand the assignment.”
“Mr. Smith, apart from being the pride of the John Bull Pugilism Society, I am told you are eminently reliable, honest and trustworthy. That which is most precious in the world to me—my crown jewel, you might say—is in danger. I need you to protect her, morning and night, until she is safely wed.”
“She’?” repeated Ace, still not understanding.
“My daughter, Mr. Smith. I need a bodyguard for my daughter, Lady Josephine. I am willing to place her under your protection.”
* * *
Lady Josephine was back in London, at Clover House. Her cousin, Lady Seraphina, had already taken residence there, and she was ready to manage the hubbub of Lady Josephine’s “coming out” into Society. For such a wealthy heiress, her first London Season was bound to be quite hectic, to say the least.
“Dear cousin,” Lady Seraphina had said, welcoming Lady Josephine with a kiss on both cheeks, “I amsoexcited to be assisting you with this. What happy memories we will have together! I remember my own first Season….”
Lady Seraphina was about ten years older than Lady Josephine. She was the Duke of Clover’s niece. She was a widow, having married a bland, rather sickly nobleman named Lord Whyte.
Lord Whyte had succumbed early in life to consumption, leaving Lady Seraphina a baby boy and very little money with which to raise him. She was thus financially dependent on her rich uncle. Prudently, she had named the little boy Horace, perhaps noting to herself that the Duke of Clover had no sons of his own.
Now she was duty-bound to assist her little cousin, Lady Josephine, in making anentreeinto Society. In truth, though, it was more pleasure than duty; she and little Horace would otherwise have been living quietly, out in the countryside. And besides, she quite liked Lady Josephine.
There was so much to be done. The Season was well under way, and no gowns had been designed, no balls in her honor yet planned and no date yet chosen for her presentation at the Court of St. James. Lady Josephine threw herself into the preparations, trying by that means to forget a pair of piercing blue eyes and a set of strong, muscular shoulders she had left behind a couple of months before, in a much poorer part of London.
Being the Duke of Clover’s daughter, she did not go out to the shops. The finest designers of ladies’ apparel came to her, bearing sketches and samples. Models came with them to try on the designs for Lady Josephine.
Lady Seraphina organized much of this, selecting designers based on the current vogue. But Lady Josephine, in her dark wit, insisted on inviting one Madame Vallencourt, an up-and-coming milliner with whom Lady Seraphina was not acquainted.
“Oh no, she’s quite the thing right now,” Lady Josephine assured her. “All the young ladies at school are mad for her designs.”
The former Sadie Brown revealed no surprise when she was shown into Clover House as “Madame Vallencourt.” Upon being introduced to Lady Josephine, she just met the younger girl’s eye with the slightest of winks, as if to say, “We are both women of the world, you and I. We can keep our secrets.”
Only a few people at Clover House knew of Lady Josephine’s surreptitious London adventure. Miss Duckworth knew, of course, and blamed herself. Her myopic eyes filled with tears when she was reunited with her rebellious charge.
Lady Josephine saw the tears, and she again felt remorse for the terrible ordeal she had put her loved ones through. Was it possible that she had never worried about them once while she was in London? “Oh, Ducky,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t about me,” the old servant said. “It was your poor lord father. His heart was broken, thinking you had somehow fallen to grief.” Apparently, His Grace hadn’t got her letter in Portugal, lying about her whereabouts over the Christmas holidays. And, in any case, she and Hermie had stayed in London for weeks after school had re-opened.
Lady Seraphina knew, also. When Lady Josephine had invited Lady Hermione over to tea, Lady Seraphina had sniffed loudly.
“I’m surprised your lord father still lets the two of you associate with each other,” she said primly. “After your unfortunate…escapade...together in London. Nothing good can come of the friendship—look at who her mother is.”
“Oh, Seraphina. Don’t be such a priss,” said her cousin with annoyance.
