How to Forget a Duke Page 33

  In the days that followed, Jacinda spent the majority of the time focused on her place at the Bourne Matrimonial Agency, diligently working through the tasks that had gone neglected in her absence. There were many people waiting for their perfect match. And she needed to stay occupied or else she would think about everything she’d lost—her purpose, her heart, her soul, her reason for . . .

  “What happened to your desk?” Briar asked as she walked into the sitting room they’d turned into an office.

  Jacinda quickly blinked away those pesky, ever-present tears and looked down at the polished grain of the rosewood. Her inkstand was to the right, a neat stack of applications sat in a basket to her left, and Emma was tucked safely out of sight. “I see nothing out of place.”

  “Precisely. I should hardly know that I am in your office at all without a mountain of papers strewn on every surface. But perhaps that part of your memory didn’t return. Ainsley will surely be glad of that, as it will save her from grousing twenty-three times each day.” Briar’s teasing expression abruptly transformed to one of worry. She’d worn those tight furrows over the bridge of her nose often since Jacinda’s return, and came forward with a quick embrace. “Oh, that was thoughtless of me. I did not mean to bring up all that unpleasantness.”

  Jacinda shook her head and leaned in to kiss Briar’s cheek. “Fear not. I have no unpleasant memories of Whitcrest. The people were all quite amiable and welcoming. I just have many matches to investigate and they occupy my mind.”

  For the most part, she worked by rote, numbly sorting the pertinent information on the application, waiting for those curiosity sensors to prickle with the alarm that told her she needed to investigate. But that never came. Every application in front of her was simply a name on paper, seemingly honest people who were willing to put their fate in her hands. And she could not help but feel they were all fools to rely on her—the woman who thoughtlessly fell in love with a man she could never marry.

  “As I have said before, and many times,” Briar stressed, “I am ready to add to my list of responsibilities. I think I could be quite a good investigator, if given the chance. I have my own set of skills to bring to the agency, and they do not all revolve around bringing someone tea.”

  “Of course not, p—” Jacinda stopped. She was about to call her pet, as she’d always done, but lately she’d started seeing her younger sister in a new light. While she might resemble their frail, brokenhearted mother, Briar was strong in her own way.

  Looking at her sister now, Jacinda would hate for anyone to underestimate her. So instead of calling her pet, she lifted the basket from her desk. “Thank you, Briar. I would appreciate any assistance you can offer.”

  “Truly?” She beamed, so hopeful it was nearly heartbreaking. At Jacinda’s nod, Briar embraced her again, her affectionate nature never denied. “I am so glad you are safe and back with us.”

  “You’ve said that before.” Their reunion had been tearful and solemn, each of them reminded of what might have been lost.

  After a day of weeping over each other, gorging themselves on Mrs. Darden’s orange scones with fig preserves, retelling stories of their past, and asking Jacinda questions that she answered as briefly as possible, they’d fallen back into their routine. It was a comfort, of sorts.

  Briar grinned cheekily, her blue eyes dancing. “Oh, but I mean it this time. You are, after all, my favorite sister.”

  Jacinda laughed, the sound quiet and somewhat brittle from disuse. She hadn’t had much of a reason to laugh of late.

  “Come now, what’s this I hear?” Ainsley asked as she stepped through the adjoining door at the back of the Pomona green room. “A few hours ago when I was admiring the pink-striped trim you pinned to your bonnet, matching your dress, you said that I was your favorite. Your affections are rather fickle.”

  Briar sniffed. “I prefer to refer to them as persuadable.”

  “If only you and the Duke of Rydstrom had that in common,” Ainsley said, holding up an opened letter. “He dismissed all of the candidates again.”

  Jacinda frowned, taking the page and feeling a pinch in the center of her heart at the sight of his precise handwriting. She folded it, hoping she would not give in and tuck this one under her pillow like she had with the other two. Though, she likely would. “Did he bother to give cause?”

  “As before, he did not. It seems to me that he should amend his application and cite the specific criteria he wants in a wife. Did he mention having a change of heart before you left?”

  “No,” she said, the word choking her. He had not mentioned his heart at all. He’d only glowered at her, and it came as a great surprise that she missed that expression terribly. “I am certain that these debutantes meet his requirements of wealth, property, and an interest in travel. Certainly, there are a few with smaller dowries than others, but there simply are not that many heiresses among our client list.”

  Ainsley pursed her lips, nodding thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is time to acquire invitations to a few more balls and parties, in order to recruit more clients. I was dearly hoping that, once we found a bride for the duke, clients would come crawling through the door like that swarm of ants we once battled at the cottage. Mother and Mrs. Darden tried everything to get rid of them.”

  “Everything but finding those comfits that Briar was hiding in the cupboard,” Jacinda said.

  Briar gasped. “You knew about them?”

  “Of course,” Ainsley interjected, answering for Jacinda. “Nothing was safe from Jacinda the Great Snoop.”

  “I’m not certain I believe that,” Briar said, crossing her arms. “After all, if you knew about my favorite spot to hide sweets, then why didn’t you eat them?”

  Jacinda shrugged. “I’m not partial to sweets.”

  “Yes, Jacinda prefers to feast on secrets,” Ainsley said with a cool, but teasing stare.

  Jacinda grinned, feeling a spark of her old self ignite. She was ready with a rejoinder about how she’d spied Ainsley yesterday, peering out the upstairs window to ogle Reed Sterling as he escorted, not one, but two unwieldy clients from his gambling establishment by the scruff of their necks, and how Ainsley’s breath had fogged up the glass and her cheeks were flushed pink. For a woman who claimed to despise him, she certainly didn’t mind the look of him.

  But instead of bringing it up, Jacinda bit her tongue, and allowed her sister this secret.

  “Then why did you not find whatever His Grace was hiding?” Briar asked.

  “He has every quality one would expect in a duke—noble, kind, self-sacrificing. And other than the fact that he requires the assistance of a stone mason and carpenter, I found that he had nothing concealed.” Thinking of an idea, Jacinda dipped her quill into the ink and jotted a quick note. It just so happened that they had two men, trained in those occupations, among their client list. Distractedly, she began to wonder if perhaps she might make a match for one or two of the women in Whitcrest.

  “Aside from Uncle Ernest, this is the first time I’ve heard you speak so well of a man,” Ainsley said, scrutinizing her. “I hope you did not form an attachment.”

  Briar clutched her hands to her breasts. “Oh, wouldn’t it be romantic if Jacinda married the duke!”

  “No, it would not.” Ainsley was frowning, her hands on her hips and giving Jacinda that accusatory I know you read my diary look. “The Bourne Matrimonial Agency would become a laughingstock. Society would believe that we use our business to trap clients into marrying us.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Briar added. “I’m certain there would be quite a few clients encouraged by our determination to make a match, no matter the risk.”

  Jacinda drew in a shallow breath, wishing they could change the subject.

  Now Ainsley was pinching the bridge of her nose, her eyes squeezed shut. “Regardless, we need to marry off our most prestigious client, posthaste.”

  “Then I will try my hand at it. Jacinda said I could help.” Briar
reached forward for the letter, but Jacinda stopped her, holding firm.

  “I know I did, but not with this one,” Jacinda said carefully, absently smoothing out the creases. “You may choose any of the others, you like. But I believe that I have already found the perfect bride for Rydstrom.”

  Ainsley lowered her hand. “Oh?”

  Truthfully, Jacinda had seen this application on her desk the very first day she’d returned, but she had been avoiding sending the name to Crispin because there was no way he could resist this one. And part of her had been glad that he’d rejected all the other candidates. But Ainsley was right. Jacinda had to stop being selfish and let him go.

  “Miss Throckmeyer of Hampshire,” Jacinda said, finding the application too easily, as if it were taunting her. “She is one of four children and the only girl, her dowry is forty thousand pounds, and her father is willing to gift her husband with one of four properties. There is no way Rydstrom can resist her.”

  Chapter 33

  “Prejudiced! I am not prejudiced.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Whitcrest

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but Sybil is taking breakfast in Lady Hortense’s apartments this morning,” Mrs. Hemple informed Crispin when he entered the family solar.

  Annoyance building within him, he descended the stairs. He’d had enough.

  For the past fortnight, he’d been keeping to his and Sybil’s morning routine, but each time, his sister had sat across from him, sullen, angry, and refusing to acknowledge his presence.

  He’d tried to talk to her about her lessons, tease her about her handwriting, do whatever he could to bring her out of her belligerent shell, but nothing worked. The little termagant was punishing him for allowing Jacinda to leave.

  He didn’t blame her. He’d spent every second of every day hating himself for letting her go, and feeling empty.

  Though, of late, that hollowness was gradually filled with irritation and anger, fueled by the letters from the Bourne Matrimonial Agency—nothing more than coldly professional, unfeeling scraps of paper. As promised, Jacinda was doing her utmost to ensure he found a bride. But it felt like an assault on his heart instead.

  More and more, as each day passed, he’d begun to wonder if—when Jacinda’s memory returned—she’d realized that she’d been swept away in a moment of passion and her heart had not been involved.

  Soon, he would have to end this torment, this constant plague that besieged him, and choose a bride. But he wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself for it.

  “Ah, there you are, nephew,” Aunt Hortense said, her tone a little too cheerful to suit his current mood. “My niece and I have just finished breakfasting. I’m afraid there isn’t much left of our small feast, though you are welcome to it.”

  As soon as Sybil saw him, her brow flattened into an unmistakable Montague glower. She lifted the napkin to her lips and set it down on the table as she stood. Then, after offering a nod to Aunt Hortense, she summarily left the room, walking past Crispin, head high, shoes slapping smartly over the stone floor.

  He closed his eyes and squeezed his hand over the knot of tension at the back of his neck.

  “It will pass, in time,” Aunt Hortense said, her nose twitching in amusement.

  Testy, he grumbled an inarticulate response and walked toward the window where a view of the gardens of the upper bailey awaited. And in the distance, he saw the round, rocky dome of the grotto.

  Shortly after Jacinda had gone, he’d gone there to see if there was anything else left behind, other than the shredded remains of his soul. He’d found the lost buttons of his waistcoat, all but one, and after collecting them, threw them over the edge of the cliffs like wishing stones, one after the other. But it altered nothing, for on that very same day one of the old chimneys collapsed, reminding him of his duty.

  “Sybil will come to forgive you, just as I did.”

  He looked over his shoulder, brows lifted. “This is news, indeed. When did you give up blaming me for what happened to your beloved brother?”

  “No, nephew, I was speaking of forgiving you for keeping Sybil a secret from me all this time,” she said flippantly as if there was not still a wedge lodged firmly between them. “I shouldn’t have pardoned you so quickly, but I find my spirits much cheered whenever I spend time with my niece. She is quite handsome, and accomplished. Why, I even believe she would make the perfect candidate for the Royal Academy.”

  “You are not taking her to London and exposing her to all manner of cruelties.” He scowled, an edge of warning in every syllable.

  Aunt Hortense, usually the one doling out the threats, arched her haughty brows, her lips pursed. “Then, we shall say that this is a matter to discuss at a later time.”

  “My answer will still be the same.”

  “Hmm . . . perhaps not,” she said, but then changed the subject by lifting up a neat stack of correspondences. “Miss Bourne did a thorough job. I must say I am impressed. A complete list of accomplishments, income, property, lineage, and she even provided an accounting of temperament. She discovered details about these debutantes that I doubt even their mothers know about them.”

  He turned back to the window, gritting his teeth, fighting the urge to press his fist over the welling emptiness inside his chest where his heart used to reside. “Yes, Jacinda—Miss Bourne, rather—has a knack for discovering secrets.”

  “From what I see, each one meets your list of requirements. All you need to do is arrange a meeting with the one who most appeals to you.”

  “I find the list lacking.”

  “Come now”—she tsked—“not one of these women appeals to you? Why, any one of them could suit your needs.”

  Another surge of irritation swept through him like icy spindrifts. Oh yes, Jacinda had certainly been thorough. She even listed their best qualities. Yet he would have been happier to see a bit of spiteful slander instead. At least then, he would have known that she—

  He broke off with a growl. Those thoughts were only an exercise in futility. “No, there isn’t a single name on that list that appeals to me.”

  “I am almost ready to believe that you intend to reject all of the names that the Bourne Agency supplies, and while Rydstrom Hall crumbles down around you.”

  He grunted a response, neither confirming nor denying. But it was true, nonetheless. If he must, he would close off room after room as they fell into disrepair. He knew that, in the end, he would not have it in him to marry anyone other than Jacinda.

  Turning to leave, he saw Hortense standing in front of the door, hands clasped, and a foreign tenderness softening her gray eyes.

  “I was wrong to have treated you so coldly, to have blamed you for my brother’s death,” she said solemnly. “I see now that your parents had far greater reasons for discord than I was aware.”

  “No,” he said, his voice raised as he pointed his finger at her. “Do not think for a moment that Sybil is at fault. Neither her birth, nor her arrival that fateful day had anything to do with their deaths. My parents argued by the cliffs, and a terrible accident happened that no one could have prevented.”

  But as his own words echoed down to him from the vaulted ceiling, he went still. An accident.

  This was the first time in four years that he’d said that. And in this moment, he could hear Jacinda’s sweet, earnest whisper. “. . . you must let go of your guilt and be at peace.”

  He shuddered out an exhale and drew in a breath, deep enough to pull his waistcoat taut over his chest.

  “I could not,” Hortense said, her voice frayed with emotion. “Seeing Sybil, knowing what she has suffered, one cannot help but feel fondness for her. I only wish I’d been as understanding to you. I think, perhaps, sometime during these four years I confused my grief and loneliness for anger and bitterness.”

  He held her gaze, seeing once more, the aunt who’d first kindled his love for this land and the history of Rydstrom Hall, by sharing stories with h
im about her father, and her father’s father. The bond they shared was flawed and disorderly, but they were family nonetheless. “I hold no spite toward you.”

  She sniffed, blinking away the moisture collecting in her eyes as she turned. This glimpse of her softer demeanor surprised him. But then, with her back to him, he saw her spine turn rigid, her shoulders straighten in a small shake as if she needed to slough off this brief episode of tenderness and don a cloak of pragmatism that was more comfortable.

  Crispin could not help but smile wryly.

  “Regardless, I should like to make amends,” she said, moving toward her desk. “I have decided that Sybil should have lessons in decorum. After all, she is the daughter of a duke and carries fine, noble blood in her veins. Therefore, she must have all the advantages to ensure a bright future. In so doing, I have decided to provide a dowry of five—no, ten—thousand pounds, with the added stipulation that, should she not marry before she reaches her majority, the money would be hers to do with as she pleases.”

  Stunned, Crispin felt his jaw drop, amusement melting from his expression like a molded jelly left too near the hearth. He could only stare at her for a full minute.

  Had he heard her correctly? Sybil would have her own fortune? If that were the case, then it was possible that she could decide her own fate, marry a respectable man, and live a life that was far greater than that of so many other illegitimate young women.

  He felt his first shred of hope since the instant Jacinda had left Rydstrom Hall.

  “Aunt Hortense, that is very generous. Thank you.” He crossed the room and embraced her, kissing her cheek. “You have no idea what a relief it is to know that she has a future to which she can look forward with gladness.”

  She patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Yes, well, we needn’t make a fuss. Young women do not often have the same advantages as men.” Taking a step apart from him, she smoothed her hands over her gray frock. “This is something I’ve thought about since my last conversation with Miss Bourne. She mentioned that her uncle’s agency strives to provide their clients the freedom to choose whom they wish to marry. Freedom to choose . . . Those are three compelling words and they have lingered with me.”