“I believe I have changed my mind, Redbreast.” She looked up at the elegant and imposing three-story structure and frowned deeply.
Henry maintained an iron grip on her elbow and nudged her toward the entrance steps. “Too late now to flee. The die is cast.”
He deposited her at the bottom step and climbed to the door. An austere butler answered the knock, scanned Henry’s soiled uniform, and sniffed.
“May I help you?” The tone of the question begged a response of “no”, but Henry was not intimidated. He was more than equal to any guardian of the gate.
“Yes. Please inform the mistress that Mr. Henry Beaumont, son of the late Earl of Ravensheugh, wishes a brief conversation with Her Grace.”
“The mistress of the house is quite busy…”
Henry held a palm to the man and shot him a glare of icy nobility that stopped the butler’s words unfinished in his mouth. He would not allow anyone to dismiss him as his brother had. He blinked deliberately in a well-practiced show of genteel annoyance.
“Please inform the mistress that the conversation involves her missing granddaughter.”
The butler’s stone expression wavered and his eyes widened slightly. A whisper crossed his lips. “Lud.” Then he added, “Wait here, please.”
The door shut in Henry’s face. He glanced back to find Lucy pacing the walk below the steps, mumbling words he could not discern. He shook his head. If the duchess did not send her away within five minutes, he would be surprised. The door opened and the butler reappeared.
“Her Grace will see you.” His tone proved remarkably warmer than before. Henry descended the steps, pinched Lucy’s hand in the crook of his elbow, and dragged her toward the door.
“Let me do the talking,” he whispered. “Just try to be agreeable, and by all means do not look the duchess in the eyes. Understand?”
“Why? Is she Medusa? Will I turn to stone?”
“Yes. Now, be quiet.”
The butler guided them through an entrance hall toward a set of double doors. Lucy leaned toward Henry with a whisper. “He is taking us to the west parlor with the white marble fireplace and longcase pendulum clock.”
Henry glanced sidelong at her, intrigued. He looked up as the butler swept the doors open.
“Your Grace. Mr. Beaumont and Miss…”
“Locket,” Lucy said with a harsh whisper. Henry’s face flushed with embarrassment. He pinched her hand harder to communicate a desire for her silence. She seemed oblivious to his strategy.
“Mr. Beaumont,” she said sharply, “you are hurting my fingers.”
She glanced at the mortified stare of the butler and apparently realized her string of gaffes. She fell silent. Henry exhaled heavily and led her into the parlor. His eyes darted from the white marble fireplace, to the longcase pendulum clock, to the duchess. He could not help but notice the disrepair of the room, the lack of servants in the house, and the faded green of the noblewoman’s dress. She sat regally on a sofa, her face a mask of stone. Henry released Lucy’s arm and bowed.
“Mr. Henry Beaumont, Your Grace. At your service.”
After a lengthy pause, he nudged Lucy. She curtsied, nearly falling. His eyes flicked back to the duchess to find her mask stonier still. The estimate of five minutes before rejection now seemed far too long. He stood mutely, waiting for the duchess to speak. While he and Lucy kept their eyes downcast, the regal woman regarded them in silence as the pendulum clock ticked seventeen times.
“You spoke of my granddaughter,” she said finally, “who was lost long ago. What possible news could you have that might interest me?”
Henry stepped forward. “Your Grace. During the course of certain, shall I say, Bow Street business, I encountered information suggesting that the report of your granddaughter’s demise might have been mistaken.”
The mask wavered as she raised an eyebrow. “Continue.”
He bowed again. “Although I am not privy to the morbid details of the accident, I have been informed by a, shall I say, mildly credible source that your granddaughter’s body was never recovered. I further believe…”
At that instant, before he could stop her, Lucy stepped forward, clutched the locket in one outstretched hand, and gazed directly into the surprised eyes of the duchess. “I came to return this locket to you as its rightful owner. I apologize for my abruptness, but this man rambles far beyond the point.”
The duchess leaned forward in her chair, her iron eyes locked on the necklace. Her face grew markedly suspicious. “Step nearer, girl.”
As Lucy complied, Henry saw the duchess’s stony shell begin to crack. Her hand rose halfway to her heart and stopped. She accepted the locket from Lucy and held it to her chest. After a few seconds, her hands returned to her lap, clutching the necklace.
“Did you steal this?” A chaotic blend of hopeful accusation shaped the question.
Lucy stood tall and replied with far too much offense. “Of course not.”
Henry nearly leaped forward to stop the unfolding social travesty, but the duchess had already proceeded to the next question, her eyes flashing.
“Did you find it?”
“No. Why would you accuse me of such morally derelict behavior without knowing me?”
The duchess appeared ready to call down the judgment of heaven on Lucy, taken aback by the young woman’s unconscionable forwardness with a person of her rank. However, her scrutiny shifted several times between Lucy and the necklace. Her eyes widened with seeming epiphany, and she appeared to tamp down a flare of emotion.
“Then tell me, girl, where did you come by this locket?”
Gone was her former combative tone, replaced by soft inquiry. Henry stepped alongside Lucy to offer a silent prompt. She hesitated only briefly.
“From my father. He told me the locket signified House Huntington and the Duke of Ramsbury, and that I should protect it at all costs.”
The duchess began to respond, but her voice caught. She cleared her throat carefully and tried again. “When? When did you receive this?”
“As highwaymen pursued our carriage, minutes before the vehicle tumbled into the Thames. Minutes before I escaped it and swam to shore.”
The duchess’s steely reserve shattered. Her eyes misted immediately and she reached one tentative hand toward Lucy.
“Margaret?” She uttered the name barely above a whisper. “Is that you?”
Henry watched in fascination as Lucy reached to touch the woman’s fingers. She smiled wanly. “Father called me Lucy, not Margaret.”
The duchess gasped. “Why?”