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  Cora folded her arms in front of her. “Oh, thank you. But you know, you can tell a lot about a man by the friends he keeps.”

  “Oh, no.” Simon wagged his finger. “They are not my friends.”

  Less than a week here, and Simon knew she had more than a handful of interested parties. Every event they would attend would be ankle- to knee-deep in eligible, and occasionally desperate, men. Simon considered—not for the first time—why he had agreed to this matchmaking scheme. The more time he spent in Cora’s company, the less likely he felt to make an introduction to anyone of quality.

  “Tonight, I’ve met Lord Saalfeld,” Cora added.

  “N’er do well,” Simon said with a chuckle. He cringed inside, knowing that the man had his affection engaged elsewhere to no avail.

  “A Mr. McElroy. You cannot say that he is less than upstanding.”

  “A boor.”

  “And the Hon, Vernon Shelby, who seemed immediately taken with me.”

  “Fop.”

  Cora pretended not to listen to him. “And Everett introduced me to Wetheridge.” Simon opened his mouth to make another comment, but Cora stepped in front of him and placed her finger over his lips. “Don’t say a word,” she commanded quietly. “We had a lovely dinner conversation.”

  Simon closed his eyes as her hand lingered. A forceful desire tempted him to kiss that lovely pointer. He would not allow the indiscretion or the scandal it might cause for her should someone see. He knew if he opened his eyes, she was close enough to kiss properly.

  No.

  Can I trust myself? He nodded once and felt Cora’s finger move, then opened his eyes and added with a smile, “Wetheridge is an interloper.”

  Cora laughed lightly at that. “If he hadn’t escorted me, someone else would have. Are you determined to disparage every man I meet?”

  “Yes, and without guilt or shame in doing so. As your dearest substitute relative, I must use discretion to make only proper introductions for your own welfare. And when I don’t, to warn you off.”

  “But is he a good man?” Cora asked.

  He wouldn’t lie to her. “Wetheridge is a fine-enough fellow.” He paused only momentarily, then added, “And if you can stand manure on the lawns around your great house, he could turn out to be a worthy husband—in a few years.”

  “Well, I think that’s as close as you’re going to get to complimenting any of them. That puts seven men on my list, leaving off the rake. I’ll just have to spend a little more time with each to narrow it down.”

  Simon led her through the doors into the ballroom. “Nearly all of the people you’ve met have pockets to let. Except for Saalfeld. His wealth runs deeper than many small nations on the continent. We should be careful that the men you meet are interested in more than your fortune.”

  “If you don’t like the options I have, you might suggest some of your own. I’m just saying you could give a little more effort.”

  Simon thought about the effort he’d like to give. Perhaps it shone in his eyes, for Cora became still and silent. Her eyes locked with his, and her lips parted ever so slightly. A blush rose across her cheeks.

  Oh, what she does to me. He cleared his throat and led her out to the lawn. The gathering was large, and their group became stretched out as they proceeded. “I’ll redouble my efforts.” He glanced about outside with a little zip of energy still dashing through him. He tried for a tone of boredom. “Anyone in particular you’d like to meet?”

  Chapter 6

  Cora Rey

  Cora looked around the lawn and the river just beyond that. It was a beautiful setting for whatever this pageant was. The sun was low in the sky behind them, though it wouldn’t be dark for nearly an hour more. “I haven’t any idea who is married and who isn’t.” People milled about or sat in chairs. Some of the men reclined on blankets where women sat. Everyone faced the river. “I’ll have to rely on your recommendations for possible suitors.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Simon answered, but his voice was dull. Cora saw the slightest flinch to his face, and his body tensed for a second, then he relaxed and pointed to their friends on the left side close to where they were now, hurrying to join them.

  She was caught off guard, tongue-tied. Does he think I completely friend-zoned him? I guess it could look that way. It’s just that he had recommended that she change the game, so she requested his help. But it was obvious by everyone’s attention to him that he should have been beyond wanting the attention of a mere American. Maybe I’m reading too much into this.

  Cora glanced over his shoulder and again noticed a young woman in a light pink dress she’d seen inside. The dress and hair had reminded her of her favorite book of fairy tales she had when she was little. The young woman looked like Bo Peep with a flaring skirt and golden ringlets framing her childlike face. Cora was sure the girl and her mother had been close to where their group gathered inside and now stood just a few steps behind them again. The older woman whispered furiously in Bo Peep’s ear and ticked her head toward Simon.

  Whatever the mother advised, the daughter seemed reluctant to perform, but with a push, she was propelled toward Simon’s left. The girl looked back, and the mother waved her forward until she walked stiffly just two steps behind Simon. If Simon moved to his left without looking, he’d trip over the girl.

  The mother extended her arms as if to shove her daughter. Cora pulled Simon in front of her and out of Bo Peep’s way. As a result, Cora collided with the girl. Both women sprawled on the grass, Cora landing under the debutante, whose mother gave a defeated shriek.

  Cora laughed, realizing it must look quite absurd to have tumbled together. “I suppose one of us will have to propose. Mustn’t we marry now?” she teased the young woman.

  In a second, the young women’s mother was upon them, surveying the situation with squinting eyes.

  Cora rolled out from under the girl. “No real harm done.”

  Another man reached to help Bo Peep stand as Simon did for Cora.

  “Perhaps you should watch what you are doing.” The mother’s voice had an accusing note to it. “The bottom of Annie’s dress is ripped.”

  Cora shook out her skirt, then patted Annie’s arm and casually replied, “Better to have a little rip than a big scandal.”

  The mother’s eyes popped wide open as a harrumph belched from her. “For whom?” She spun on her heels, hooked arms with her daughter, and marched her back toward the house.

  Simon and Everett laughed, not quite under their breaths but certainly straining to hold it in as they watched the women leave.

  “You were very nearly trapped,” Everett commented.

  “Yes, no thanks to you,” Simon replied but without any real accusation behind the words.

  “You’ve some dirt on your dress.” Lucy pointed near the hem of Cora’s skirt, but her eyes flicked around the gathered groups of guests nearby pretending poorly not to gawk. “Maybe we should go back home.”

  Cora picked up her hem and swatted the dust away. “There. Hardly noticeable. Let’s stay.” She and Simon joined their party just as their host and hostess stood.

  Some men dressed in ancient-looking clothing climbed aboard some small boats that bobbed along the riverbank and rowed them away from shore. Lord and Lady Stafford called attention to the gathering. Lady Stafford recited her lineage, eighteen generations from William the Conqueror to herself.

  Lord Stafford proceeded with a retelling of the Norman invasion. The men in boats landed on shore, fought with English forces, then retreated and led the English to their deaths at the hands of hidden reinforcements.

  At the end of the pageant, Cora was awed at the incredible opportunity that was hers to sit in history and feel it firsthand. This wasn’t a dry college text but the story of real families. She thought of her father, grateful for his appreciation of history and instilling that love in her. She wished Simon a heart-felt thanks and good night.

  The next morning, Cora sat in bed
with a breakfast tray. She wasn’t completely used to what passed for breakfast yet—bacon, baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, sausage, scrambled eggs, and toast with bitter chocolate to wash it all down. None of that held her interest this morning. Instead, she lifted a letter from the tray.

  On the front of the envelope, beneath her name, the words, “I spied a little mouse under her chair,” were penned. Cora didn’t need a return address to know the letter was from Simon. Excitement sparkled through her—he was willing to play her game when she’d asked if he’d visited the queen. He could have mentioned the contents of her letter last night before the dinner or pageant, so why didn’t he? Perhaps he hoped she would relish a surprise. That was true.

  Dear Miss Rey,

  Since you have put me to work finding you suitors as if I were your next of kin, I shall collect you at six this evening for more introductions. We are expected at a small gathering for dinner. There will be music provided afterward, and dancing was implied as well. We will be part of the same entourage as last night.

  Regards,

  Mr. Duke

  P.S. No doubt we had a passable evening if you are still willing to read these words. Between the time I read your questions and when I whisked you off to the dinner party, I thought to answer your interrogation, resulting in this letter.

  At the risk of disillusioning you, I was never a little duke-let. That might imply my status in the family was that of an eagle. My childhood bore a closer resemblance to being a duke-ling. Perhaps you know the classic tale of the ugly duke-ling—that metaphor suites me better.

  My mother has assured me that, unlike Athena, I was once an infant and thereby must have worn a muslin gown for some time. As a boy, my pants were forever in need of repair because of the next question I will answer.

  Proper and stern are still outside of my grasp, perhaps because I spent as much time as possible climbing trees and attempting to sneak up on the trout in the stream that created the north boundary of the estate. I might have accurately been called a hooligan. More than once. Confessions on that later.

  My favorite color? Until recently, I would have said blue, but I’m leaning more toward violet.

  The last question—hobbies? Though my interests have changed, I can yet claim hunting and fishing.

  That’s it—I’m dull and much more interested in what you would tell me about America and about growing up there. I imagined a rustic, uncultured populace, but since meeting you, I find that concept won’t stick. What is your town and home like? And your family? What do you do for diversions? What interests do you have? Why did you come to England? Would you share a story of you as a child?

  I suppose that since I’ve asked you to divulge potentially incriminating details, I should be the one to lead the way.

  We have established that I was not the dukelet, but I was also not the spare heir, either. This afforded me more leisure and less expectation than was perhaps prudent for a seven-year-old boy.

  Once, I fancied some tiny and rather ugly grey fish I saw in the marsh. Wanting to keep the lumpy little beasts, I gathered them with a cup pilfered from the kitchen into a water basin I retrieved from my room. I scooped dozens into the bowl and went home only to notice they were so thick in that shallow water that they hardly had room to move. Thankfully, my mother, only a month prior, had a small decorative pond installed in the back lawn, and I deposited them inside.

  I visited them often and observed them grow more grotesque daily. Soon, as is the way with young boys, my attention turned to some other interest, and I forgot about my charges.

  My parents organized a party for the official dukelet’s birthday, robbing the schoolrooms of neighboring estates to populate our back lawn. Servants readied the party early that morning, and by noon, we greeted our guests in the ballroom before leading them to tables near the flower gardens.

  No sooner were we were seated than hordes of greenish-brown frogs hippidy-hopped across the lawn. Girls screamed and boys dropped to their knees, scooping up the amphibians. Mayhem ensued, and more than one frog was launched airborne toward the young girls, landing on tables, dresses, and bonnets.

  There it is. I’m a calculating social menace, who had an early start.

  I look forward to your reply.

  Cora laid the letter on her lap, still laughing at his humor and savoring the friendship evident in it. Though he spoke sparingly in large groups, he shared freely in writing or when they were walking alone. He was a puzzle. But those pieces were coming together for her, and tonight, she would test out her theory. She penned a reply and then went about the day.

  As the assembly gathered before dinner, Simon escorted Cora toward several groups of women, introducing her not only to mothers and daughters but also to the men gathered around the edges of the groups.

  Again, she wasn’t seated anywhere near Simon. She wished she could have more of his company. She noticed, however, that the woman seated on his right must be very engaging, since she monopolized him the entire time.

  Although there were dozens of guests at dinner, many of the men evidently took off for cards immediately afterward, leaving Simon and Everett and several other gentlemen in the room busy leading women out for dances. While Everett traveled around the room, seeking his partners, Simon only danced near the music ensemble. Cora also noticed that he always positioned himself to the woman’s left to ask her for a dance, then extended his right arm to her when she arose.

  Everett at least fulfilled his side of the bargain by introducing her to many men. Each time, though, she found that she compared the men unfavorably to Simon—shorter, older, grouchier, paler. The list went on.

  After some time, Simon returned to Cora. “May I have this dance?”

  Cora considered how she might uncover his secret, then asked, “I would love to, but it seems so stuffy—may we dance near the doors open to the terrace?”

  Simon looked toward the other side of the room and back at the musicians. “Of course.”

  He led her around the outside perimeter. Although it wasn’t a crush, Simon walked as slowly as if it were. Twice, he stopped to make introductions.

  So now he’s serious about my request? Right now? Suspicious.

  By the time they reached the other side of the room, the sets had already formed, and the octet began to play.

  “I’m afraid we are too late to join. May I interest you in some punch?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” While he was gone, Cora positioned herself next to a large potted bush on her left. She squeezed up close enough so the only reasonable places to stand would be directly in front of her, which she had never seen him do, or with her to his left. If she was correct, he wouldn’t want to do that, either.

  A woman’s voice drifted from the other side of the plant. “Yes, His Grace, the Duke of Hertfordshire. I’ll be his duchess one day. I just know he is smitten with me. We talked all through dinner.”

  “Talking doesn’t mean he is smitten,” another woman answered.

  Cora bent back a little to look through some thinner branches and saw the woman who had been seated on Simon’s right at dinner.

  “I tell you—he is.” The woman’s voice lowered, and Cora strained to eavesdrop. “He kept looking at my mouth. He seemed quite enamored with my lips. It may seem scandalous except that I’m sure he intends to marry me. I must have captured him completely over dinner and have only to give him some encouragement to bring him up to scratch.”

  Cora quickly lifted her fan in front of her lips and giggled softly. She could see why the girl might think that, but it was such a leap from dinner conversation to marriage. That was one more piece of evidence—she was sure she had Simon’s secret now.

  When Simon moved to rejoin her, he stopped two steps away, a glass of punch in each hand, surveying the plant at her side. “May we stand by the terrace doors?” He smiled, but the expression looked almost pleading. “A little breeze might be refreshing.”

  Cora gave an affirmative no
d. “What a wonderful idea.”

  Simon passed her a glass of punch.

  She stood in place for a moment, taking a slow sip of the drink, then slowly mouthed the words. “Thank you. This is delicious.”

  “You’re welcome,” Simon replied aloud and extended his arm to her.

  Gotcha!

  No sooner had they finished their punch than Wetheridge appeared before Cora. “This is my set, is it not?”

  “It is.” She handed her glass back to Simon.

  Her dance card had been nearly full all night, unlike her first foray into a Victorian ball at Aunt Nellie’s house. More than one pointed remark made it apparent that her status as an heiress had been leaked, and there were many interested in lessening her burden of all that money. Sheesh.

  The group prepared to leave the house near midnight, early by the standards Cora had witnessed for most parties here. As their carriage made its way to the front of the line, they waited just inside the door. A devilish idea struck Cora for one last test. She hung back, so her face was well lit by the gas light in the entry. When Simon offered his arm to escort her out, she mouthed, “Olive juice.”

  His eyes widened, and he looked quickly around as if to see if anyone else might have heard her. During his distraction, Cora stepped out the door and walked with haste to the carriage.

  Simon caught up to her in time to assist her into the coach and enter himself, abandoning Everett to assist the rest of the ladies.

  “I think we need to talk,” he said.

  “Yes. We do but not here and not tonight. You can visit me tomorrow at Aunt Nellie’s. Then I’m going home with May for a week for some events her mother has planned.”

  “I’m afraid a morning call wouldn’t give us the privacy we might need.” Simon’s voice sounded tight, worried.

  “I’m going to exercise early. Come at nine, and we’ll have breakfast.”