Chapter One
London, 1806
The coach belonging to the duchess of Magnus pulled up to
the tall house on Berkley Square, and an imposter stepped
out.
The imposter's long, sturdy traveling cloak covered plain,
dark, modest traveling clothes. Like the duchess, she was
tall and well-rounded, and she spoke with the duchess's
aristocratic accent. Also like the duchess, she wore her
black hair smoothed back from her face.
Yet for the discerning eye, the differences were obvious.
The imposter had a sweeter, rounder face, dominated by
large blue eyes striking in their serenity. Her voice was
husky, warm, rich. Her hands rested calmly at her waist,
and she moved with serene grace, not at all with the brisk
certainty of the duchess. She was slow to smile, slow to
frown, and never laughed with glorious freedom. Indeed, she
seemed to weigh each emotion before allowing it egress, as
if sometime in the past every drop of impulsiveness had
been choked from her. It wasn't that she was morose, but
she was observant, composed, and far too quiet.
Yes, a knowledgeable person would recognize the differences
between the duchess and the imposter. Fortunately for Miss
Eleanor Madeline Anne Elizabeth de Lacy, no such person was
in London at that moment, with the exception of her groom,
her coachmen and footmen, and they were all devoted to her
cousin, the real duchess, and to Eleanor, the duchess's
companion. They would never betray Eleanor's mission.
They would never tell Mr. Remington Knight the truth.
Eleanor's heart sank as Mr. Remington Knight's stern-faced
butler made the announcement into the large, echoing
foyer. "Her Grace, the duchess of Magnus."
To hear herself presented in such a formal manner made her
want to glance about for her cousin. If only Madeline were
here! If only she hadn't turned aside from this mission for
a more important task!
If only Eleanor hadn't agreed to impersonate her.
At the far end of the room, a liveried footman bowed, then
disappeared into an open doorway. He was gone only a
moment, then returned and inclined his head to the butler.
The butler turned to Eleanor and intoned, "The master is
busy, but he will receive you soon. In the meantime, ma'am,
I'm Bridgeport. May I take your cloak and bonnet?"
Although noon had passed, the mists outside subdued the
sunlight into a wash of gray. The light of the candles
couldn't illuminate the dark corners of Mr. Knight's
enormous entry, an entry built to communicate, in the
surest way possible, the owner's wealth.
Eleanor's nostrils quivered with scorn.
Bridgeport jumped a little, as if anticipating her ripping
at him as a substitute for his master.
Of course Mr. Knight would take this house; he wanted
everyone to know he was rolling in riches. He was, after
all, nothing more than an upstart American who dreamed of
marrying a title.
Yet the entry was decorated with velvet draperies of
evergreen and gold, and with a profusion of cut glass and
beveled mirrors in marvelous good taste. Eleanor comforted
herself with the thought that Mr. Knight had bought it in
this condition and was even now planning to gut it and
install gilt in the Chinese fashion, a style fully as
vulgar as -- Eleanor's mouth quirked with humor -- as
vulgar as was adored by the Prince of Wales himself.
Bridgeport relaxed and returned to his stolid demeanor.
He watched her much too closely. Because he thought she was
the duchess? Or because his master had so instructed him?
She removed her bonnet, stripped off her gloves, placed
them in the dark bonnet, and handed them to the butler
without a trace of outer trepidation. After all, what was
the point of showing trepidation? It would merely be
another proof that, although Eleanor had traveled across
war-torn Europe as the duchess's companion, she hadn't
acquired the verve and confidence that characterized
Madeline's every move. This wasn't from lack of trials; the
two women had faced trials aplenty. It was because --
Eleanor sighed as she allowed the butler to take her cloak -
- Eleanor was born timid. She never remembered a time when
her father's shouting hadn't paralyzed her with fright, or
when her stepmother's narrow-eyed glare hadn't had the
power to turn her into a bowl of quivering blancmange.
Which is why Eleanor cultivated a serene facade -- she
might be a coward, but she saw no reason to announce the
fact.
"If you would follow me, Your Grace, to the large drawing
room, I will order refreshments," Bridgeport said. "You
must be tired after your long journey."
"Not so long." Eleanor followed him through the tall door
off to the left. "I stayed at the Red Robin Inn last night
and spent only four hours on the road this morning."
The butler's impassivity slipped, and for a moment an
expression of horror crossed his countenance. "Your Grace,
if I might make a suggestion. When dealing with Mr. Knight,
it's best not to tell him that you failed to obey his
instructions with all speed."
Turning from her contemplation of the elegantly appointed
room, she raised her eyebrows in haughty imitation of her
cousin and gazed at the butler in a frigid silence.
It must have worked, for Bridgeport bowed. "Your pardon,
Your Grace. I'll send for tea."
"Thank you," Eleanor said with composure. "And more
substantial refreshments, also." For she suspected Mr.
Knight intended to keep her waiting, and it had been five
hours since breakfast.
Bridgeport left Eleanor to scrutinize her grandiose prison.
Tall windows let in the timid sunlight, and the candles
washed the walls with a pleasant golden glow. Books lined
one wall, reaching all the way to the twelve-foot
ceiling ...
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