Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(75)

“Someone scribbled in the family Bible?” The duchess arched a brow at Griff.

“What?” he said. “It wasn’t me. You know I never read the thing.”

“Hmph.” The duchess rang the bell, and when the housemaid appeared, instructed her to bring every servant into the room.

Once they were all lined in a perfect row, from Higgs the butler down to Margaret the scullery maid, her grace addressed them.

“Someone has vandalized the Holy Scriptures. Let the offender come forward.”

No one came forward, of course. So Pauline did.

“I made it up,” she said, rising from her chair. “And there’s more you should know, your grace. The duke’s keeping something from you.”

The room went utterly silent.

And the look Griff sent her—oh, it chilled her to the marrow. It was a hard glare brimming with anger, betrayal. Don’t you dare, that look said.

She knew in that moment, if she broke her word to him and revealed the truth of his daughter, he would never forgive her. It wouldn’t matter that he cared for her, or what pleasure they’d shared last night. He would excise her from his life completely, even if it felt like slicing off his own arm.

She swallowed hard.

“The amethysts,” she whispered. “The duke is good to shield me, but he’s not telling the whole truth, your grace. The clasp didn’t break on its own. A thief tore it from my neck.”

The assembled servants gasped.

“Oh, Miss Simms,” the housekeeper said. “You weren’t hurt?”

“No,” she assured all of them, grateful for their concern. “No, I’m fine. But my reputation took a few blows. I might have chased after the thief, shouting blasphemy all through the pavilions of Vauxhall. And the necklace is gone.” She turned to the duchess. “I’m so sorry. But I feel much better, having told the truth. As they say, confession is good for the soul. While we’re all assembled here, perhaps there are other secrets weighing heavy on our minds. Matters that would benefit from fresh air and sunlight.”

She looked from Griff to the duchess and back.

For the love of God. Just talk to each other.

“You’re right,” someone said. “Miss Simms is right. I’ve done wrong and I must confess.”

In the corner, Cook was wringing her apron. Tears rolled down her floury cheeks. “Last month, her grace ordered turbot for dinner. Well, I searched and searched the market, and there weren’t any turbot to be had.” She buried her face in her apron. “I served you cod. Cod. I sauced it heavily so no one could tell. But I’ve felt terrible about it ever since.”

Pauline went to the crying woman’s side and offered a sympathetic pat. “There there. I’m certain her grace will be forgiving.”

“I let a cinder fall on the drawing room carpet,” one of the housemaids blurted. “It burnt a hole.”

“But don’t you feel better now for having the truth out in the open?” Pauline asked.

The housemaid sniffed and raised her head. “I do, Miss Simms. I truly do. It’s like a weight’s been lifted.”

“I’m so glad. No one should live under the burden of secrets.”

Young Margaret spoke up, eager to have her part. “I saw Lawrence in the pantry, fumbling with a housemaid!”

The duchess straightened her spine. “Lawrence.”

The footman in question paled.

The duchess addressed the housemaids sternly. “Which one of you was it? Step forward now.”

Three of them did, in unison. When they looked around the room and realized they weren’t alone, they each turned on Lawrence with vicious glares.

Lawrence twisted under their anger. “I . . . I . . .” He thrust his chin forward. “Higgs wears a corset!”

If he meant to divert attention from himself, he succeeded. All around the room, eyebrows soared.

Poor Higgs. His cheeks went beet red. “It’s not a ladies’ corset. A butler must cut a respectable figure.”

For a long, uncomfortable moment, no one had anything to say.

And then . . .

“I’m not French.”

This came from Fleur.

“What?” the duchess exclaimed. “Impossible.”

“I’m not. I’m n-not.” The lady’s maid gave her confession in halting, poorly enunciated English. Her accent was even more common than Pauline’s, and she had a painful stammer. “I knew I’d never f-f-find a lady’s maid post, speaking as I do. So I let on that I was French and full of airs, so’s I wouldn’t have to talk. My real name’s Fl-Fl-Flora. I’m so sorry. I’ll pack me things.”

She fled the room in tears.

The duchess went after her. “Fleur—or, Flora . . . Whoever, you are, wait!”

In their absence, a stunned silence filled the morning room.

Griff clapped his hands together. “Well. Thank you, Miss Simms. This has been a most illuminating morning.”

Pauline put a hand to her temple. Oh, Lord.

The doorbell rang. No one moved.

“Here’s a thought,” said Griff. “Why don’t I answer that?”

Higgs shook himself and lurched into motion. “Your grace, allow me.”

Griff held up a hand. “No, no. I confess, I have long harbored a deep, secret yearning to answer my own door.”