Royal's Bride. Kat Martin

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      Royal stood up from his chair. “I want those names, Morgan. Do what it takes to find them.”

      The investigator stood up as well, an imposing figure with his whipcord-lean body and thick black hair. “I’ll send word as soon as I have further news.”

      Royal walked the man to the door of the study then watched him disappear down the hall. He’d had his suspicions that perhaps his father had been duped, but until today he hadn’t been sure.

      Unconsciously, his jaw hardened. He would find out who was responsible for the terrible losses his family had suffered. The question then would become—what should he do?

      Jocelyn sat in the Blue Drawing Room taking tea with her mother and the Dowager Countess of Tavistock. She would rather have been shopping or perhaps gossiping with some of the young women in her social circle about the ball last night at the Earl of Severn’s town mansion, which she had been forced to miss. But after she became a duchess, she could do whatever she pleased.

      She nodded at something the dowager said, though she wasn’t paying all that much attention. She wished the duke would make an appearance. Plying her charms on a handsome man was always entertaining. Perhaps he would rescue her from the tedious afternoon.

      She took a sip of tea from her gold-rimmed porcelain cup, thinking that at least she was enjoying the chance to wear her new striped-mauve silk gown. It was a lovely dress, the skirt fashioned of deep flounces edged with mauve velvet ribbon. She started at the mention of her name and realized the countess was addressing her.

      “I’m sorry, my lady, I must have been woolgathering. What did you say?”

      “I said my invitation to tea extended to your cousin, Miss Moran. I expected she would be joining us. She isn’t ill, is she?”

      Jocelyn waved a hand. “Of course not—Lily is almost never sick. She is merely busy making her silly hats. Mother thought it best to leave her to it.”

      One of the dowager’s silver eyebrows went up. “Miss Moran makes hats?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.” Mother set her teacup down a little too firmly, rattling the porcelain against the saucer. “I am embarrassed to say our dear cousin has ambitions of one day owning a millinery shop. I vow, I have never heard the like. I told her it simply wasn’t done.”

      “What sort of hats does she make?” the dowager continued as if the topic was actually of some importance.

      “Why, all sorts of hats, ma’am,” Jocelyn answered. “In fact, Lily made the velvet cap I am wearing this afternoon.” She turned her head to show off the lovely mauve creation with its clusters of velvet ribbons that matched her outfit.

      The countess looked intrigued. “Why, it’s lovely. You say she is making hats at this very moment?”

      Jocelyn nodded. “In a room somewhere down the hall. She sews hats every afternoon.”

      The dowager slowly rose to her feet. With a knobby hand, she reached for her cane and used it to steady herself. “I love hats. I believe I should like to see your cousin’s handiwork.”

      Her mother’s mouth thinned. Jocelyn merely followed as the old woman made her way slowly down the hall.

      “The Daffodil Room, I believe it’s called,” Jocelyn said. “I think it is at the back of the house.”

      “I know the room. It has a lovely view of the garden.”

      A garden that needed a good deal of work, Jocelyn thought. She would hire the best landscape designer in England to modernize the pathways and replace the plants and bring the overgrown mess back into vogue.

      The countess paused outside the door to the drawing room, peered in, then walked inside. “So this is what kept you from taking tea with us.” She gestured toward the swatches of cloth, ribbons, lace and imitation flowers stacked on the tables and strewn over the backs of the chairs.

      Lily shot to her feet, dumping the bonnet in her lap to the floor. She bent and quickly retrieved it. “My lady. I didn’t realize you expected me to come. I apologize.”

      The old woman flicked Mother a glance. “It’s all right, my dear. Now, tell me what you are doing with all of this frippery.”

      “Making hats, my lady. It is … sort of a hobby of mine.”

      “Hobby or business?”

      Lily glanced at Jocelyn, clearly not wanting to embarrass her.

      “The truth, young lady.”

      “Making hats is my business, Lady Tavistock. I have a number of clients who purchase my designs. I hope to own my own shop one day.”

      “So I’ve been told.” The countess strolled about the drawing room, using her cane only occasionally. There was a row of finished hats up on the mantel: a dress cap of pearl-gray silk trimmed with moss-green velvet leaves, a headdress of lace and violet ribbons, a leghorn hat with a cap of blond lace.

      “I must say, these are quite lovely.” She turned to Lily. “I should like very much to commission a hat for myself. Perhaps later this afternoon we might discuss it.”

      “Oh, my lady, I would be honored to make you a hat.”

      Mother looked as if she had swallowed an apple core and it was stuck in her throat.

      “I realize you are busy with your work,” the dowager continued, “but perhaps you might join us for a bit. We shan’t be much longer, but a cup of tea would surely do you good.”

      Lily cast Mother a glance but there was no real way to decline. “Thank you, my lady. That would be lovely.”

      The old woman leaned on her cane and began a slow shuffle out of the Daffodil Room, returning to the drawing room down the hall. Jocelyn was hoping she could go upstairs for a nap. She was used to late nights attending parties and balls, and all of this country air seemed somehow tiring. She sighed as she walked back into the Blue Drawing Room and resumed her seat on the sofa.

      A single thought kept her from yawning. Tonight might very well be the night the duke proposed.

      Once he did, she could go back to London.

      Royal stood at the window of the sitting room in his bedroom suite. Below him, the infamous Bransford hedge maze formed intricate patterns that culminated in a large marble fountain with cherubs spouting water out of their mouths.

      The fountain wasn’t easy to find. First, one had to meander along deceptive pathways that seemed to have no end, making dozens of false starts and stops, each avenue enclosed by hedges that took up nearly two acres, and over the years had grown more than ten feet tall.

      He grinned as he watched the lady who had made the mistake of entering the maze. His great-grandfather had taken great pride in making it one of the most difficult in the country.

      She made a turn, reached a dead end and backtracked, turned the wrong way and started along a path that led nowhere and would propose three alternate routes that also led nowhere. She could be in there for hours.

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