The Royal Assassin Read Free Page A

“Thank you.”
    His grin widened. “I rather liked you covered with ink and, what was that, coal dust?”
    â€œYes,” I hissed out through clenched jaws. No woman wants to be reminded of her less-attractive moments.
    â€œIt gave you a certain dangerous disguise.”
    Heat rose to my cheeks. “Could we focus on the case at hand, please?”
    His expression was instantly serious. “Of course. The Duchess of Hereford has two charming young children, a talent for painting, and a well-run home. She’s a decent employer but she expects punctuality and meticulous work.”
    â€œHow old is she?”
    â€œPerhaps a few years your senior.”
    We stopped on Park Lane in front of a beautiful redbrick home that probably had been built during the early Georgian period. The front garden was full of roses, and well-tamed greenery bordered the walkway to the front steps.
    When the duke helped me down, I slipped on the top step of the carriage and nearly knocked him over. Fortunately, the muscles I felt through his silky wool suit jacket were up to the task of saving my dignity. The shock of the near tumble didn’t speed my pulse as much as feeling the marble inside his sleeves.
    I walked toward the front door with a heated face, then stopped on the path. “Blackford, you didn’t tell me the Herefords are your next-door neighbors.”
    â€œYes. Hereford and I have known each other since we were in our prams.”
    A butler answered the footman’s knock, took Blackford’s card, and led us into an immaculate formal parlor done in blues and creams. I walked around, admiring the paintings on the walls. One in particular, showing a young boy and a younger girl, captured my attention.
    â€œI painted that portrait of my children two years ago,” came a voice from behind me.
    I turned and gave a deep curtsy. “It is beautiful, Your Grace.”
    She’d already turned to Blackford, calling him Ranleigh. He in turn called her Lady Beatrice. She was tall, thin, and graceful, with a low-pitched speaking voice. The sort of woman Blackford needed to marry.
    I was depressed already, and I hadn’t yet learned what my duties would be.
    The duchess sat down, offered us tea, and on our refusal said, “The princess will be arriving about noon the day after tomorrow. It would be good if you were here a little early, Miss Fenchurch, to appear part of the household.”
    â€œI’m going to use the name Georgia Peabody, if you don’t mind,” I said. “I don’t want anyone connecting my work here with Fenchurch’s Books.”
    â€œOf course. Miss Georgia Peabody, then. Do you speak any languages?”
    â€œI speak some French. And I read it very well.”
    â€œAnd you type?”
    â€œYes, Your Grace.”
    â€œAnd your handwriting?”
    â€œClear, but not flowery.” I wanted her to understand I was from the middle class. I didn’t have time to deal with anything above utilitarian.
    â€œExcellent. Let me show you the rooms you need to be familiar with. Then we’ll sit down and put our heads together on what we know and what we need to know.”
    She was businesslike. I thought I might like working with her.
    â€œWhere is Hereford?” Blackford asked.
    â€œHe took our son and left this morning for our estate. He said if we’re going to have a Russian invasion in his house, and a female Russian invasion at that, he was leaving.”
    Blackford laughed. “Sounds like Hereford.”
    The duchess did not look pleased. Leading us down a corridor, she opened a door on a pleasant morning room with a lovely view of the back garden. On a desk by the window was a typewriter. She showed me where I’d find ink and notepaper and typewriter supplies. “You’ll work here and have your lunch served to you in this room. There’s a cloakroom and a retiring room by the back door. This way,