Page 57 of The Beast of Beswick
“Has the duke received any recent invitations?”
The valet eyed her with interest. “Some, Your Grace.”
“Please, Fletcher, call me Lady Astrid, or Lady Beswick if you must, but I simply cannot abide by the constant Your Grace-ing.”
“You’re a duchess, Your…er…my lady.” She could scowl just as fiercely as Beswick, with much the same effect, as the valet backed away in alarm. “Culbert has the duke’s invitations.”
“Culbert?” she asked in surprise. “He’s here?”
“Yes, His Grace sent for some of the staff from Beswick Park as well as for his aunt. They arrived early this morning, and Lady Verne took straight to her room.”
He smirked, catching sight of the butler loitering in the corridor, and raised his voice. “You see, poor Culbert feels quite left out if he isn’t included in some menial way. Doesn’t think the duke’s life can go on without his constant supervision. And now you will endure the joys of being smothered as well.”
The butler spluttered, shooting daggers at Fletcher, and then bowed in her direction. “May I offer my congratulations, Lady Beswick.”
“Thank you, Culbert, it’s wonderful to see you,” she said, making the older man beam. “Will you kindly look through the stack of invitations and see if there is one from Lord and Lady Featheringstoke, and if there is, please send back a reply in the affirmative.”
“And the rest?” Culbert inquired. “There are quite a few.”
Astrid halted. Beswick did not entertain, nor did he attend any of theton’s festivities. She wasn’t in London to socialize, either, but she also needed to keep an eye on Isobel, which she would do by any means necessary. Subterfuge, if she had to.
“I’ll take a look. Keep me informed if more arrive. I’ll speak to the duke once he returns.”
Culbert cleared his throat. “His Grace also bade me remind you of your appointment at the modiste, Your Grace. The carriage has been readied at your convenience.”
Astrid nodded. She’d completely forgotten. Then again, she was going to need fashionable clothing if she meant to take her place in society. She sighed. She hadn’t quite determined whether a covert approach was wiser so as not to cause problems for Isobel or making a grand splash as the new Duchess of Beswick and facing her uncle head-on. The masquerade would give her the perfect opportunity to suss out the situation.
“Thank you, Culbert.”
Once the efficient butler bowed and left, she lowered her voice and leaned toward Fletcher. “Find out from Agatha where Isobel plans to go,” she whispered. “And, Fletcher, do be careful. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my favorite valet.”
With a jaunty nod, he departed, and Astrid went back to her suite. It would have been lovely to see Aunt Mabel, but the duchess must have been tired from the journey if she had retired to her chambers. Astrid called for Alice and set out for Bond Street. She received several odd looks as she descended the coach, ranging from shock to curiosity, and only belatedly realized that Beswick’s bold family crest—a roaring lion with crossed swords—was displayed on the side.
“Come, Alice,” she said, tugging on her bonnet and entering the shop, which thankfully was empty. She did not want to run into any society ladies, if she could help it. The reclusive, scarred, and scary Duke of Beswick taking a wife would be gossip fodder for the ages.
“Your Grace,” a musical voice said. “What an honor to have you.”
“Madame Pinot, I presume,” Astrid said, turning to greet a petite brunette.
“You presume correctly, Your Grace,” the modiste said, ushering her to a private salon in the back of the shop that was filled with gorgeous bolts of fabric and pages fromLa Belle Assembléedetailing the latest Parisian and English fashions. “May I offer you some tea? Some wine? Something stronger? Sherry, perhaps?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
The modiste gave the order to a waiting assistant and then brought forward some pages with preliminary sketches. Madame Pinot smiled. “The duke was very specific in his requests for colors, but I think you must tell me what you like as well,oui?”
“His Grace was here?”
The modiste gave a coy smile. “Earlier. He instructed me to treat you like a queen and spare no expense.” Her smile widened. “It is nice to have such a devoted husband,non?”
“I suppose,” Astrid replied.
Barely a word from her husband in days since his declaration, and yet he’d gone out of his way to visit a lady’s modiste to provide carte blanche on his wife’s purchases. Truly, the man was incomprehensible.
She tilted her chin. “Well, then we better get to spending His Grace’s money.”
“I like the way you think.”
Hours—and a half-dozen cups of tea along with a few glasses of sherry—later, Astrid finally emerged from Madame Pinot’s exclusive salon. She’d been measured, taped, and draped to within an inch of her life, but the modiste’s tastes were truly spectacular.
