The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister 1)

It rose up in her now, that fiery rebellion.

The part of her that was still Minerva—the part that hadn’t been ground to smoothness—whispered temptation in her ear. You don’t need to keep quiet. You need a strategy.

No strategies. Her great-aunts really would protest, if they knew that she contemplated taking action. It had been years since she’d allowed herself to do so.

Stevens thinks you’re writing the pamphlets. You know you’re not. So find out who’s doing it.

Stupid. Foolish. Idiotic. Impossible.

But it didn’t matter how she browbeat herself; the insidious thought wouldn’t leave. How could she find out who’d done it? It could be anyone.

No, it can’t. You know it’s not Captain Stevens. Not your great-aunts. Not yourself. If she could figure out who couldn’t have done it, only the guilty would remain. By process of elimination…

No, you fool. There are hundreds that could be to blame. Thousands.

But having given herself a task, it was nearly impossible to shut down her thoughts. There were those block-letter capitals, the exclamation points. Paragraphs of text, describing the factory owners and their offspring. Something was odd there.

And then, for some reason, she thought about something else entirely. Minnie knew why she had been hiding behind the davenport. She’d been avoiding the crowds and Gardley’s proposal.

But why on earth had the Duke of Clermont been there?

ORGANIZE, ORGANIZE, ORGANIZE!!!!

And how strange was that smile of his—that friendly smile, slightly abashed? When would a duke ever have learned to apologize for being what he was?

No, there was definitely something odd there. Something…

The realization hit her with a force so blinding that the carriage almost seemed to disappear in a flash of light.

Moments like these were one of the reasons it had been so lovely to be Minerva Lane. There were times when it felt like words were mere threads, completely inadequate to contain the enormity of her thoughts. The landscape in her head rearranged with tectonic vigor, coming together with a certainty that was larger than her ability to explain.

And like that, even though she knew she shouldn’t—even though she knew how dangerous it was to strategize—Minnie knew what she needed to do. The plan fell into her lap with full force.

It was not the kind of thing that the rodent-like Miss Pursling would consider. But Minerva Lane, now—she knew what to do.

And thank God, she wasn’t going to have to marry Walter Gardley immediately.

Maybe one day she would. But if she could keep Stevens from suspecting her, she might be able to put him off for months. And maybe—just maybe—something better would come along.

Chapter Three

IT WAS ALMOST UNFAIR, MINNIE THOUGHT as the Duke of Clermont entered his front parlor, how handsome he was. The morning sunlight streaming in through the windows bounced off light blond hair that would have been too long, had it not had a bit of an unruly curl to it. He stopped on the threshold and rubbed his hand through his hair as he contemplated her, mussing it even further. But whatever softness the disarray of his hair might have imparted to his appearance was countered by his eyes. They were sharp and cold, a piercing blue, like a creek flooded with icy spring waters. Those eyes landed on her and rested for a few seconds, and then darted to Lydia, who stood by her side.

Lydia had giggled when she heard that Minnie intended to call on the Duke of Clermont—and she hadn’t batted an eyelash when Minnie had explained that she needed to talk to him privately.

It was only in Minnie’s imagination that the duke’s gaze sliced through the façade that she presented to the rest of the world. He only looked as if he knew everything.

He couldn’t have known anything, because as he looked at her, he smiled in something like pleasure. Just a little curl to his mouth, but there was also a subtle change to his eyes—a shift from the pale blue of ice-water to the slightly-less-pale blue of a light summer sky.

There was something boyish about his good looks: a hint of shyness in his smile, a leanness to his frame. Or maybe it was the way that he looked away from her so quickly and then glanced back.

If she hadn’t heard Packerly, the MP, talking last night, extolling the young duke’s efforts in Parliament, she’d have believed him a fraud. Handsome, young, and unassuming? Far too good to be true. Dukes in reality were paunchy, old, and demanding.

“Miss Pursling,” he said. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Unexpected, she believed. Pleasure…well, he’d recant that before they were done.

“Your Grace,” Minnie said.

He briefly took her hand in his—through their gloves, she had a sensation of warmth—and inclined his head to her.

“Miss Charingford.” Clermont bowed over her friend’s hand as if she were the grandest lady. As he did, Lydia cast a sidelong look at Minnie and pressed her lips together as if suppressing the urge to giggle.

“What brings you ladies here?” he asked.

Lydia cast a speaking glance at Minnie, waiting to have all revealed.

“If anyone asks,” Minnie said, “we’ve come to solicit donations for the Workers’ Hygiene Commission.” She held her breath, wondering how astute he was.

The duke pondered this for a few moments. “I consider myself solicited,” he said. “I’ll be sure to make an appropriate donation, if you’ll leave the particulars. As for the rest… If this is about last night, you can rest assured that I am the soul of discretion.”

Astute enough.

Lydia raised an eyebrow at the implication that they’d talked before and Minnie shook her head. “No, Your Grace. There’s something else I must discuss with you. I’m afraid that Miss Charingford has come along as chaperone, but what I must say is not for her ears.”

“True,” Lydia said cheerfully. “I have no idea what any of this is about.”

“I see.” His smile faded to guarded coolness. No doubt he was imagining something lurid and scandalous—some plot to entrap him into marriage. He was a good-looking duke with a reasonable fortune; he likely encountered such plots on a regular basis. But he didn’t throw her out. Instead, he rubbed his chin and looked about the room.

“Well. If you’re capable of conversing quietly, Miss Charingford can sit here.” He gestured to a chair by the door. “We’ll leave the door open, and we can arrange ourselves by the window. She’ll be able to see everything, ensure propriety, and hear nothing.”