The Inconvenient Duchess

herself in her room, or if I have not found evidence that she is disgraced beyond all acceptance, I might do worse than to make the situation permanent and keep her on.’
    ‘Marcus, you talk as if you are hiring a housekeeper.’
    ‘At least I am not so crack-brained as to be pining for eternal love and divine happiness. I am not the green fool that I used to be, Claude, whinging for my broken heart and shattered dreams. One woman is much like another, once the lights are out. I never thought I’d say it, but my mother was right. If this girl is chaste and willing, I could do worse. At least she gave no indication, in our brief time together, that she was some empty-headed, society chit. Nor prone to illogical tears or fits of giggles.’
    But, occasionally, to shouting. He smiled as the picture formed in his head of his new wife, storming up at him, and could almost feel the weight of her in his arms as he’d carried her to her room. The next time he carried her there, it would be different.
    ‘No, Claude. If I can find no major fault, I mean to keep her.’ He laid the blackmail letters on the table in front of him. ‘And I wish you to direct me in my search for her family.’

Chapter Eight
    M arcus entered his third stationer’s shop of the day, with a growing feeling of despair. Perhaps Claude had been right when he’d offered to make the inquiries himself. But, since there was no telling what he might find at the end of the journey, he had wanted to do the leg work himsel
    And he’d discovered that there was indeed a Lady Miranda Grey, aged three and twenty, daughter of Sir Anthony, but that neither had been seen in years. Sir Anthony had run through the family fortune after the death of his wife, and was rumoured to have decamped to the continent like a filthy coward, or quietly put a bullet through his brain. What remained of the family goods had been sold at auction years ago, but the daughter had not been present. There was no known family, although one would have expected to hear of an aunt or female relative of some kind to step forward and claim the girl. The name Lady Dawson did not appear in any of the accompanying records, nor was it familiar to those questioned.
    He looked imperiously at the stationer in front of him andtried to hide any hopes that he might feel for the outcome of the visit. His title was enough to send the clerk scurrying to get the storeowner, who fell over himself in an effort to win what he’d hoped would be a lucrative order.
    ‘How can we help you, your Grace?’
    ‘I am recently married and will need a wide variety of things. Announcements. Engraved cards for my wife. Some writing paper for her, I think. With a monogram. And a watermark. The family crest. Can you manage that?’
    ‘Of course, your Grace.’ The man was fairly drooling at the prospect.
    ‘I’ve seen some fine work recently, letters posted to my late mother, and am looking for the purveyors of the papers in question. Would you be able to identify things you’ve supplied to others, so that I might know I have found the correct store? I’ve tried several, but have been unsuccessful.’
    ‘Would it not have been easier simply to ask the senders of the letters to give you direction?’
    Marcus responded with a look so cold that the man was immediately sorry he had asked.
    ‘But of course, if it is my work, I would recognise it. Perhaps…if I could see the letters?’
    Marcus fanned the pack of blackmail notes on the counter before him.
    His eyebrows arched. ‘All the same signature and ink, and all different papers.’
    Marcus said, ‘The contents of the notes need not interest you. It is the paper I am wondering about.’
    The man cleared his throat. ‘The words, of course, do not concern me. But I find the ink interesting. Not a particularly good brand for the paper. And the writer could have done with a new quill. May I?’ He reached for the letters.
    Marcus nodded.
    The man held them up to the light. ‘Three different watermarks. I know these two. They are clients of mine. The third is from a shop in Bond Street, but I recognise the coat of arms of the client. The fourth?’ He shrugged. ‘It does not match the others. It is a good grade, but a common paper, available in most of the shops in London. As it happens, I recognise the pressed monogram, which has been rubbed flat here at the top of the page. The writer seems to have been trying to disguise the origin of the paper. This was