The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1) Read online

  Also By Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke

  The Mad Heiress and the Duke ~ Miss Georgette Quinby

  The Mad Heiress' Cousin and the Hunt ~ A Short Story

  The Duke's Wicked Wager

  The Duke’s Wicker Wager ~ Lady Evelyn Evering

  Mischief, Mayhem and Murder: The Marquess of Evermont ~ A Short Story

  The Duke’s Daughter

  The Duke’s Daughter ~ Lady Amelia Atherton

  The Baron in Bath

  The Baron in Bath ~ Miss Julia Bellevue

  Other Short Stories by Isabella Thorne

  Mistletoe and Masquerade ~ 2-in-1 Short Story Collection

  Colonial Cressida and the Secret Duke ~ A Short Story

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  The Mad Heiress and the Duke ~ Miss Georgette Quinby

  A Regency Romance Novel

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Mad Heiress Meets the Duke Copyright © 2016 by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Search for a Spy Copyright © 2016 by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress Visits Vauxhall Copyright © 2016 by Isabella Thorne

  The Mad Heiress and the Rose Room Rout Copyright © 2016 by Isabella Thorne

  Published by: Mikita Associates

  Cover Art by Mary Lepiane

  2017 Mikita Associates Publishing

  Digital Edition

  Published in the United States of America.

  www.isabellathorne.com

  Table of Contents

  Also By Isabella Thorne

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  Part 1 ~ The Mad Heiress Meets the Duke

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part 2 ~ The Mad Heiress and the Search for a Spy

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part 3 ~ The Mad Heiress Visits Vauxhall

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part 4 ~ The Mad Heiress and the Rose Room Rout

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sneak Peek of: The Duke’s Wicked Wager

  Part 1 ~ Promise Me a Handful of Horses

  Chapter One

  ~Part 1 ~

  The Mad Heiress Meets the Duke

  Chapter One

  Georgette had escaped to the garden. Even in winter, the green and growing things gave her comfort. She breathed slowly through her nose. Her breath puffed out like a little cloud. No doubt the tongues would be wagging. The Ton would think her even crazier than normal to come out here in the cold, but she needed a moment --just a moment-- to herself, in the cold winter air-- Some time to gather her wits about her, to take some deep breaths. To remember who she was and how it had once been; how she had once been so blindingly happy, and then to remember how it was now. Breathe, she told herself as she pressed her gloved hands together over her stomacher. In. Out. Well, in as far as her corset allowed and then out.

  The ballroom had been stifling-- An absolute crush, packed with bodies and warring perfumes. And all of them turning their catty faces to her-- looking at her with distain. She couldn’t bear it for one moment longer.

  "Look, it's the Mad Heiress," one of the young ladies had said tittering like a ninny.

  "Is it really? I thought she'd killed herself." Her friend fanned herself as she looked slyly over the accessory at Georgette.

  "No, you were misinformed," another said, craning her bejeweled neck. "I heard she flung herself off a parapet, after Lord Falks threw her over for Lady Judith."

  "I heard it was a cliff," the first one said.

  "I'm certain it was a parapet. But no matter. The point is, she survived."

  “Poor thing. I’d rather be dead,” said the first woman fanning herself quite vigorously.

  "It was stairs," Georgette had said to the open air, once she had fled to the garden. "Stairs. If one must gossip, at the very least one should get the facts straight. I flung myself down some stairs."

  She should probably stop talking to herself, she thought. She was already known as the Mad Heiress, and she hadn't done anything exciting for almost ten years. Lud, if the ton heard her grumbling to herself about stairs she would never rest in peace.

  But honestly --a cliff? If it had been a cliff, she might have had some success. Instead, she had woken up in her bed, a few days later, with a sore head and a broken hip, like an old woman. And a fiancé who did not love her. She must not forget that.

  Oh, Sebastien. Why?

  Ten years ago she had been slipping out of ballrooms to meet him in the garden, the stolen kisses sweet on her lips: Escaping the candlelight and the weak punch and her stifling mother, hoping for a stolen moment with her beloved.

  Ten years, and no one forgot. No one ever forgot. She clenched her fists. She would forever be the Mad Heiress. No matter that she had been but seventeen when Sebastien had informed her that his heart belonged to another. No matter that she was twenty-six-years old now, and a chaperone, a spinster, firmly on the shelf. No matter that she could not conceive of the sensibility and passion that had driven her up those stairs. She could not remember, but everyone else still remembered.

  Deep breaths, she reminded herself as she rubbed her gloved hands over her cooling arms. Breathe in, breathe out. Or, rather, breathe in as deeply as one's corset allows, and breathe out. In, and out, through the nose.

  Georgette froze. She sniffed the air. Someone was smoking a cigar.

  Oh, bother.

  She swallowed. Perhaps the gentleman would not realize she'd entered the gardens. She could surreptitiously sneak back into
the ballroom. She made to turn back into the house.

  He stood right in front of her. Grey flecked through his hair. She knew his eyes were dark blue, but the darkness of the gardens made them almost black. He peered at her with them, over a royal, aquiline nose.

  The Duke of Eversley.

  "I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not realize there was a lady in the garden. I will snuff my cigar."

  "Please don't on my account, Your Grace," she said, giving a curtsy. "I was just about to re-enter the ballroom."

  He blinked at her. "I know you," he said. He tilted his head and looked at her, no doubt attempting to place her.

  Georgette opened her mouth and then closed it again. Did he truly not recognize her?

  "Ah, yes, Your Grace," she said. "I do believe we crossed paths several years ago, when I was newly out."

  He continued to look at her curiously.

  "I was engaged to your dear friend, Lord Sebastien Falks."

  "Sebastien? But you can't have been engaged to Sebastien, he married my..."

  She knew the moment he pieced it together, the moment he remembered. He colored, though it was difficult to tell in the darkness, and gave a small cough.

  "I beg your pardon," he said. "I forgot, you see. It was all so long ago."

  She couldn't help herself: she laughed. He stared at her for a moment as if she was demented.

  "I am sorry," she said. "I don't mean to laugh at you. It is only that I was just musing at how much time had passed and yet no one had forgotten. It is on the tips of all the gossips' tongues. And then you appeared and you did not remember."

  She laughed once more. "It's so terribly refreshing," she said, "to learn that someone out there might forget."

  She gave a final curtsy. "I do beg your pardon, my lord," she said. "Please finish your cigar. I am happy I saw you again, after all this time."

  ~.~

  Chapter Two

  Charles Pomfrey, the Sixth Duke of Eversley, watched the dark-haired lady return to the ball as he puffed on his cigar.

  Ten years. It must have been almost ten years since he saw her last. Right before Blanche left for Paris. Yes. He remembered now.

  "La petite mademoiselle," Blanche had called her. "Sebastien," she had said to his dear friend, "you must know I adore your betrothed.” She clasped her hands together with glee. “Tres jolie. And so passionate. Why, she positively hops every time she sees you, Sebastien. As if she cannot contain herself."

  "She has a good deal of money, Blanche," Sebastien had said in reply. "She can afford to hop."

  The Duke shook his head. Poor Sebastien. So handsome, so charming, so desperately in need of funds. So much so, that he threw over his young heiress to run off with a duke's sister blessed with an even greater dowry.

  Still, Sebastien and Judith appeared to suit each other well enough. Judith provided the funds and the beauty and the ducal connection, while Sebastien provided...well, to be honest, he was not certain as to what Sebastien provided, but Judith had never complained. Indeed, he did believe his sister loved the man.

  Their elopement had been quite the scandal nearly a decade ago. He knew this. And yet, he did not remember it. That time was forever shrouded for him --a dark, foggy period to which he did not dare return.

  He shook himself and gave his arms a slap. Mustn't dwell on the past. The garden was cold, and his cigar was almost out.

  Where was White? Meeting the man was the whole reason he was here, standing in the garden. When he had returned to England, he'd hoped to retreat to one of his estates, to lick his wounds. Instead, he had been asked to meet in the gardens, outside a ball.

  "Eversley." A man stepped out from the shadows. The Duke wondered how long he had been there. With Mr. White, one never really knew; the man was a ghost.

  The Duke nodded.

  "It's good to see you walking once again," White said. "I will not lie: for some time there, I thought we had lost you."

  "Fortunate for me that a doctor in Vienna did not share your belief," the Duke said.

  "Indeed, indeed." Mr. White rubbed his hands together. He peered in through the wavy glass pane, to the well-lit ballroom. Inside, people danced the minuet, and country dances. They joined hands and smiled and laughed. They flirted and teased.

  He had once been one of them.

  "I'll be brief," Mr. White said. "It appears that a list was at one point prepared."

  "A list," the Duke said.

  "Containing certain, ahh...names." White removed a monocle from his pocket. He breathed on the glass to fog it up, and then removed a handkerchief. Methodically, he began wiping it down, every once in a while stopping to breathe on it once more.

  The Duke could see his own breath in the cold night air, lit by the moon. How many times had he stood outside ballrooms and assemblies, theatres and cafes and coffee shops, in the dark, to have brief and secret conversations, lit only by moons or faint torches, spare lanterns, small candles? He'd lost count. He'd begun to feel that he would forever conduct his life in cold darkness.

  "Your name is on this list," White said.

  The Duke looked up. "This list...what exactly is its nature?"

  "I think you might hazard a guess." White tucked the monocle back in his waistcoat. "I should correct myself. All of your names were on the list."

  A list of all of his names. And the others. No. It could not be.

  Some fool had written down a list of spies for the Kingdom.

  "Who on earth would be so daft as to write down all the names?" the Duke exploded.

  Mr. White stared at the Duke in silence.

  "We are not to question His Highness's reasoning," he finally said.

  The Duke swore. "What is being done?"

  "The fortunate news is that it appears that the individual who took the list is more of a mercenary bent than a patriotic one. Our intelligence has led us to believe that a man who goes by the name of Lightfoot is arranging to sell the list to the French."

  "And we aim to stop him."

  "Precisely. We believe that Lightfoot is a Mr. Meryton. However, of that we do not have conclusive proof. There are one or two other suspects."

  "Merry? Merry Meryton, a spy for France? Inconceivable." The Duke stabbed out his cigar. He'd been at school with Merry, and thought he knew him well. They'd been friends.

  "It appears Mr. Meryton has been gambling considerably recently. I imagine he has amassed considerable debts and must be quite desperate to pay them," Mr. White said. "We believe that, if he does have the list, he will be trying to obtain the highest price possible as soon as he can. The transfer is likely to happen very soon."

  "What do you wish for me to do?" the Duke asked.

  "You are in the fortunate position of being able to navigate all levels of society," Mr. White said. "We do not know how and when Mr. Meryton will try to sell the letter, or to whom he will be selling. We merely ask that you track him and prevent him from doing so."

  "Oh? Is that all?"

  Mr. White sniffed. "I will be in touch if I learn anything else. In the meantime, I suppose you should return to the ball. You could ask the lady you were speaking with before to dance. Then again, perhaps not. Didn't she toss herself off a bridge over your brother-in-law?"

  "Stairs," the Duke said, remembering how she had grumbled to herself before realizing his presence in the garden. "She tossed herself down some stairs."

  ~.~

  Chapter Three

  Thank heavens for potted plants, Georgette thought. She was seated next to just such a thing, no doubt normally kept in a greenhouse. She was enjoying her relative seclusion. From her current vantage point, she could only see half of the ballroom sneaking glances at her while pretending not to see her at all, as opposed to the entire room.

  She had forgotten how it felt to be the subject of such gossip. After her tumble almost a decade ago, she had been the subject of much staring and gossip. Slowly, however, the people in the village of Huntsfield had be
gun to turn their attentions to other matters. They no longer looked askance at her, or discussed her foolish behavior. Occasionally a new visitor to the county would ask her to dance, or express interest, and the gossip would be renewed, but generally it had become manageable.

  This was likely why Fanny had believed they would survive the gossip of Town. Georgette did try to tell her cousin that she would not make the best chaperone. "I'm afraid my presence will affect your own reputation," she had told her younger cousin.

  "Oh bother," Fanny had said. "I don't mind a spot of scandal, and I'd much rather you than Aunt Agatha."

  Georgette had grimaced and relented. An actual dragon would be better than Aunt Agatha. Fanny, who had suffered under the attentions of their terrible aunt the previous year when she made her debut, was desperate for an alternative and so Georgette capitulated.

  Still, she imagined that neither she nor Fanny had fully appreciated how much the ton loved to remember terrible behavior. She was a pariah. The only thing coming close to her was the potted plant.

  She peered into the plant. It was the standard ballroom greenery. Someone had tucked a small, folded-up paper note in amongst the leaves. It must be a note, she mused. Much like the ones Sebastien used to pass her at just such events. Only he would usually pass them to her as he bent over her hand for a kiss. She smiled remembering.

  Sneakily, she reached in between the leaves and drew the paper out. For a moment, she experienced a momentary pang of guilt. This was someone else's note. She should not be intruding.

  Oh, bother. All she wanted to do was read it. That wasn't so very bad, was it? Under the cover of her fan, she opened it.