From Ashes to Duchess (Preview)

Prologue

All her bags were packed. It was the middle of the night. She was ready to escape. Now all Lady Elizabeth Harlow needed was a little bit of nerve. 

Elizabeth was sitting in her bedchamber in her father’s house in North Yorkshire, listening as the grandfather clock downstairs in the entrance hall chimed midnight.

She was wearing a thick travelling cloak, her riding boots, and underneath her cloak, servants’ weeds. Her lady’s maid had given them to her: a black dress with a white pinafore over it. On her head, she was wearing a white bonnet.

If anyone were to see her on the road, they would think she was a servant, not the daughter of the Earl of Hargrove. 

But the Earl of Hargrove was dead, and very soon, she would have to leave this house anyway. Her father’s solicitors were still trying to find the next heir–a distant relative she had never met–and when he arrived, she and her stepmother would be turned out. Although, of course, Elizabeth would be married by then if her stepmother got her way. 

Which was why Elizabeth was leaving, stealing away in the middle of the night. She would not allow herself to be manipulated by her stepmother any longer. Nor would she marry Mr Alistair Darwin. Not now that she knew the shocking truth of what he had done to her father. 

There was no proof of what he had done, of course. No legal way out of the marriage, especially since her father had, apparently, signed the contract. That was why she was taking matters into her own hands. 

Nerves pulsated through Elizabeth like little electrical shocks. She could not quite believe that she was really going to do this–to run away from the only home she had ever known. But it was that or marry Mr Alistair Darwin. 

Once, this had not seemed like the worst prospect. Although she had known him for many years, she did not have any particular feelings towards him, good or bad. He had often visited the house to see his aunt, but he had never paid much attention to Elizabeth. He seemed far more interested in his investments and schemes for making money, which he would discuss at length with her father, the Earl of Hargrove. 

And never once, during one of those visits, had the earl ever expressed any intention to marry Elizabeth to Alistair. 

Which was why it was still hard to believe the contract her stepmother had produced shortly after the earl’s death two months previously, in which it clearly showed her father’s signature beneath the plan to wed her to Alistair. 

Why would he not tell me? she wondered, as she stared now out the window of her bedroom at the clear, still night outside. The good weather was a relief, at least. She would not have to travel through rain on her way to London–although rain might, at least, cover her tracks.

Although her stepmother and Alistair would probably be able to guess where she had gone, even if they couldn’t follow her tracks. Really, where else would she go?

Everything had been such a shock these past two months. First, her father’s sudden death from a heart attack. Then discovering that he had secretly engaged her to a man he had always seemed to find foolish and aggravating.

On more than one occasion, the earl had mentioned to Elizabeth that “Alistair truly does make the worst and most hot-headed investments, does he not?” The earl would then shake his head and pat his daughter on the shoulder. “It is the wise man who invests carefully,” he would add. 

Elizabeth had always admired this about her father. It wasn’t that he was a cautious man; it was that he knew the value of money and wanted to protect his family’s interests. 

I will never understand how Alistair was able to deceive him so thoroughly, Elizabeth thought bitterly. She stood up restlessly and stepped to the window. Well, now she had discovered the truth, and that was precisely why she could not stay here and marry Alistair. To think that all those years, Alistair had been gloating about his investments, what he had really been gloating about was the ruination of her family–it was insupportable. It was infuriating beyond belief. 

She hated him. Hated him with every fibre of her being. Hated him almost as much as she missed her father. 

If only Papa were still alive … 

But he wasn’t, and now it was up to Elizabeth to save herself. 

Anger bubbled up inside her, and it was exactly what she needed. The anger gave her strength and focus. It blotted out all the fear that had been nestling in her stomach and laid a blanket of resolve over her shoulders. 

The grandfather clock finished striking midnight, and Elizabeth stood up. She grabbed the small satchel she had packed for the journey from under her bed and then straightened and looked, one last time, around the room. For a moment, her eyes snagged on the wedding dress that her stepmother had hung on the outside of her wardrobe. 

Elizabeth stilled, a lump rising in her throat. It was her mother’s wedding dress. Beatrice had not thought there was time or money to get a new one for Elizabeth, what with “the financial devastation of the estate” and the quickness of the engagement. In two weeks, Elizabeth was supposed to wear that dress as she walked down the aisle to marry Alistair. 

It was an insult. To be married in her mother’s wedding dress to a man like that. Elizabeth felt her free hand ball into a fist. It was the last prod she needed to find the nerve to leave. Setting her jaw, Elizabeth walked across the room, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway. 

From here, she crept slowly through the house, padding softly across the upper corridor and then tiptoeing down the stairs. Once she was down in the main hall, she did not go to the front doors but instead took the servants’ staircase down to the kitchens.

Once she was downstairs, she could move less cautiously. No one would be down here at this time of night, the servants having all gone to bed, and anyway, Elizabeth felt sure that none of them would sell her out to her stepmother. 

She reached the back door, which was unlocked, and slipped outside. Waiting for her, exactly where her lady’s maid had promised it would be, was the buggy that the servants used to run into town for errands. 

“Lady Elizabeth? Is that you?” a man whispered, and a face poked around the edge of the buggy. It was Ruben, the driver. He was the brother of Elizabeth’s lady’s maid, and he was the only other person Elizabeth had trusted to be in on her escape plan. 

“It is me, Ruben,” she murmured, stepping forward. “Are you ready to go?”

“All ready, Milady,” he said, bowing quickly and then taking her satchel and opening the door of the buggy. He helped her up, then put the satchel safely inside as well and closed the door. 

“To London, then?” he murmured, looking up at her with wide, nervous eyes. 

“To London,” she said, nodding. “And Ruben–thank you. I know you are taking a great risk in helping me.”

Ruben’s expression softened. “It is no trouble, Milady. Your father was always very kind to me, and I am happy to help his daughter out in any way I can.”

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears as she smiled gratefully down at the driver. Her father’s reputation might be ruined among the ton, and scandal might now forever be attached to his name–however wrongfully–but to his employees, none of that mattered, because he had always treated them fairly and kindly. 

That is the real legacy he leaves behind, Elizabeth thought as Ruben closed the carriage door and then settled himself at the front of the buggy. With the faintest of yawns, he urged the horses forward, and the buggy began to move. 

Elizabeth leaned across the seat to stare out the window, taking a last, long look at her childhood home. In her twenty-one years, she had rarely left it, as her stepmother had preferred not to visit London, and her father had been busy running the estate. But now, she was leaving her home behind, and she had no idea if she would ever see it again. 

As the buggy trundled away from the house, she felt a new feeling take hold in her chest: determination. Yes, she was afraid. She had no idea what the future would hold.

She was running away from home and leaving everything behind. Perhaps worst of all, she would be hiding from a legally contracted engagement. But she would do what she had to do to find freedom for herself and hopefully, somehow, clear her father’s name and expose Beatrice and Alistair for who they really were. 

Elizabeth did not yet know how she was going to do any of this. After all, she was just a sheltered young lady from North Yorkshire. But one way or another, she would bring justice to the Earl of Hargrove’s name. 

 

Chapter One

Marcus Radcliffe, Duke of Clairmont, set down his quill and looked down at the letter he had just finished writing. It was to his sister, and it had taken him the better part of the morning to write it. 

For one thing, he wanted to strike exactly the right tone in the letter. He did not want Beth to worry that he was out of his depth or that he was struggling with his new duties as duke.

On the other hand, he also wanted to be honest with her about some of the challenges he was facing, as he was hoping she might be able to provide some insights. Unlike him, Beth had spent most of the past decade at home with his brother and father, watching first-hand as they ran the estate.

Of course, now she was married and had moved to Paris, but she still knew more about running the estate than he did. 

But quite apart from wanting to set the right tone, Marcus had struggled to finish the letter because he could not write more than a dozen words before his shoulder started to seize and cramp. Every few minutes, he had to set down his quill, stretch his arm, rotate his shoulder, and try out any of the other dozen exercises the Army doctor had taught him before he had been discharged. 

“You will have full use of the arm,” the doctor had told him, the day he was given his discharge papers. “But it will always cause you pain, and you will never be able to perform any great athletic feats with it.”

Marcus had been prepared for pain when he was fencing or riding, but the fact that even letter-writing caused him pain was particularly humiliating. Before the bullet that had lodged itself in his shoulder, he had been a colonel in the Army, known for his bravery in battle and his skill with any number of weapons, from bayonets to pistols. 

Now, he was not only disfigured, but he could not hold a fencing coil for longer than five minutes, let alone a pistol. 

I have lost part of myself.

Marcus swallowed and glanced once more at the letter. It was this bitterness that he hoped he had avoided in the tone of the letter. No matter what challenges he faced, the last thing he wanted was to come across as if he felt sorry for himself. 

I am alive. I have my health. And I am Duke of Clairmont. I will not allow myself to feel self-pity. 

Nevertheless, there was a note of wistfulness and nostalgia in the letter, which Marcus read over now. 

“Growing up, the house was always so lively,” he had written to his sister, “filled with the laughter of you, me, and Alexander, Mother and Father trying to wrangle us into behaving, and of course all our cousins–Rosamund the loudest and most jovial of the bunch, as I am sure you remember. These days, the house is quiet. There is no one here now but Grandmother and me, and I think she has been particularly low in spirits ever since Mother left to visit you in France.”

He did not mention that she had been in particularly low spirits ever since the deaths, in quick succession, of her grandson Alexander, shortly followed by her son, the late Duke of Clairmont.

Marcus did not need to mention this because he knew his sister already knew the real cause of their grandmother’s melancholy. It was the cause of the great cloud of sadness that had descended over Clairmont Manor for the past year, and which nothing seemed capable of lifting. 

“I am determined to lift Grandmother’s spirits, and Rosamund has promised to visit often. But since Rosamund is often in London, and I am often busy learning the ropes of the estate, I have also decided instead to engage a companion for Grandmother. Rosamund is helping me to secure a kind, well-educated girl who will be a suitable companion, and she wrote just the other day to say she thinks she has found the perfect young lady. I am expecting her within the next week. I hope you will approve. No one, of course, will replace you, but I am determined to bring some liveliness back to the house, and I believe the right companion will do just that.”

Marcus nodded to himself as he finished rereading the letter, then folded it, melted wax over the edges, and sealed it with the crest of his signet ring. Turning it over, he dipped his quill back into the ink and wrote out the address for his sister’s residence in Paris. Then he rang for his valet. 

“Will you make sure this letter is sent today?” he asked, as he handed his valet the letter. “It is to go to my sister in Paris.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the valet said with a bow. “Oh, and Mr Stanley has arrived. He is outside already saddled up and ready for your ride.”

“Ahh, wonderful!” Marcus said, his spirits lifting at once. “Can you tell him I will be right out? And make sure my horse is saddled and ready to go!”

Ten minutes later, Marcus and his best friend, Christopher Stanley, the second son of the Viscount of Herth, were riding out together across the grounds of Clairmont Manor, their horses trotting side-by-side. It was a fine day, without even a breath of wind, and even though it was still morning, the sun was already beginning to warm their backs. The perfect day for riding, in other words. 

“It’s such a relief to be here,” Christopher said, as they guided their horses towards the fields beyond the main gardens, where they would be able to let them canter for a bit. “London is far too crowded for me after so long away in the West Indies. I am finding it overwhelming. It is so good to be out in the countryside breathing clean, fresh air.”

“I cannot blame you for not liking London after the West Indies,” Marcus said, shaking his head as he tried to imagine the islands that his friend had told him so much about. “It must be difficult to return to crowded, dirty streets and smog-filled air after the white sand beaches you got used to.”

“It is,” Christopher said with a sigh, a distant look on his face. “In truth, the transition home has been difficult. I miss being outdoors all the time, sleeping in a hammock under the stars. I even miss the rocking of the boat.”

Christopher was a captain in the Royal Navy, and he had been away in the West Indies for as long as Marcus had been in France in the Army. They had both enlisted around the same time. That was what second sons did: they bought commissions in the Army or Navy and earned their fortunes. 

But while Marcus had been forced to return home with a bullet in his shoulder, Christopher had been able to stay in the West Indies until the end of his commission. Now, he was melancholic with “land sickness,” as he called it. 

“It will take some time to learn to adjust back to civilian life,” Marcus said sympathetically. “Believe me, it was not an easy transition for me, either.”

Christopher glanced at him, his expression curious but wary. “You have been back a year now, have you not? And do you feel that you have transitioned back by now?”

“In some ways,” Marcus said. “But in others, my transition was particularly difficult.”

“Ah, of course,” Christopher said. “Because of Alexander?”

Marcus cleared his throat and looked away. A lump had risen in his throat at the mention of his late brother, making it hard to breathe. Reaching up, he loosened his cravat, which was starched particularly stiffly this morning. 

As much as Marcus would have liked to tell Christopher that yes, his transition home had been made particularly difficult by his older brother’s sudden death, he could not find the words. It was very difficult for him to speak of Alexander with anyone. 

“The responsibilities of the dukedom forced me to make the transition whether I liked it or not,” Marcus said instead after a moment. “There has been so much to learn that I have not had much of a chance to miss France or my life there.”

“I understand,” Christopher said, and when Marcus looked back at him, his expression had returned to neutral. “From what I can tell, you are doing an excellent job in your role as duke.”

“You have not seen much at all,” Marcus said with a snort. “This is only your second visit since you returned.”

Christopher grinned at him. “Perhaps that is true. But perhaps I might get a better sense of how you are fulfilling your duties as duke if I were to come stay for a while.”

“Come stay?” Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Is the city really so intolerable for you?”

“Deeply intolerable,” Christopher said with a sigh. “I would much rather spend a few months in the countryside with you and avoid both the crush of the city and the marriage-minded mamas. Apparently, the second son of a viscount is a highly eligible catch, once he has made his fortune in the West Indies.”

Marcus laughed and shook his head–he was also trying not to think about marriage. Now that he was duke, he knew it would be expected of him sooner rather than later. 

Especially considering that Alexander died without an heir. 

The thought brought another lump to Marcus’s throat, but he swallowed it down. 

“Of course you may stay with me,” he said instead. “I could use the company. The house has been far too quiet this past year. But first, I was hoping I could accompany you back to London. I must meet with my solicitor, and then we can return to Surrey together, and you can have your peace and quiet.”

“Capital!” Christopher said, grinning at him. “And thank you, Your Grace.”

“We must be quick in London, though,” Marcus added, “as I am expecting the arrival of a companion for my grandmother in the next few days, and I would like to be here when she arrives.”

“I shall not want to linger,” Christopher assured him, and Marcus nodded, his spirits much lighter than they had been even this morning. Christopher was going to come to stay, Rosamund’s new hire would be arriving imminently, and the house would soon be back to how it had once been. 

You cannot replace Alexander, a small voice in his head said, but he pushed this thought back. He wasn’t trying to replace his brother, but he was trying to rebuild his life, and that meant not lingering on the past. 

 

Chapter Two

“And you are sure Mr Knorr is amenable to me staying here for a few days?” Elizabeth asked uncertainly as her best friend, Miss Cynthia Claridge, released her from a long hug. “He will not resent me being here until I can find somewhere else to go?”

“Of course not!” Cynthia cried at once, holding Elizabeth at arm’s length and giving her a reassuring smile. “Philippe is happy to host you here at his townhouse for as long as you need. I have explained the circumstances to him, and he is more than happy to hide you here in case your stepmother should come calling.”

“That is very generous of him,” Elizabeth said, her voice shaking slightly as emotion welled inside her. “We have never even met before today, after all, and I would not blame him for not wanting me to stay.”

“That does not matter at all,” Cynthia said, shaking her head. “Philippe loves me, which means he loves any friend of mine. Anyway, in a few weeks, we will be married, and this house will be mine as much as it is his.”

Elizabeth smiled. “That does make me feel a bit better about staying here,” she said, “thinking that it will be your house very soon. But I do wish I could have just stayed with you.”

“I know,” Cynthia said, and she led Elizabeth over to a settee and sat her down. “But Beatrice would come looking for you at my house, and I do not think my father would be able to keep himself from lying to her. He is very bad at that kind of thing.”

“And Mr Knorr?” Elizabeth asked uncertainly. “He is good at lying?”

“He is good at keeping a secret,” Cynthia corrected. “And just between us, I believe he would do anything for me. The poor dear is quite smitten.”

Cynthia’s eyes twinkled, and Elizabeth laughed. Despite her friend’s cavalier tone, she knew that Cynthia was just as smitten with her fiancé as he was with her. It was a love match, one of the few of the Season. And as happy as Elizabeth was for her friend, she also felt a small flicker of envy. 

I will never have a love match now, she thought, trying to keep the bitterness from her thoughts. I must either marry Mr Darwin or spend the rest of my life on the run from him. 

She had arrived in London this morning after a long, hard journey from North Yorkshire that had taken several days. Ruben had taken her as far as Leeds, and from there she had gone by post, crowded into carriages with other travellers. Along the way, she’d had to sleep in posting inns.

The mattresses had been filled with hay, making them scratchy and uncomfortable, and she had been able to hear other travellers snoring through the thin walls. Elizabeth, who was used to an earl’s manor with mattresses stuffed with goose down and warm baths every morning, had barely been able to sleep.

The food, also, had been lacking. The inns had only served cold porridge and beer, and she had been starving for several days. However, she had not complained. Anything was better than being forced to marry Alistair. 

Once she had arrived in London, Elizabeth had followed Cynthia’s instructions to present herself at Mr Knorr’s house. He had greeted her himself, seemingly shocked to find her wearing servants’ garments. She had found him kind and handsome, if a little humourless. He had sent word to Cynthia, who had just arrived. 

Elizabeth and Cynthia had come up with this plot together in a series of letters exchanged over the last few weeks, as it had been some months since they had seen one another. Cynthia lived in town during the Season, while Elizabeth was rarely allowed to leave North Yorkshire. Growing up, however, they had been thick as thieves, running around on their parents’ adjoining estates in Yorkshire. 

“Anyway,” Cynthia continued, as she sat down on the sofa opposite Elizabeth, “you will not have to be here long. I have been able to procure you a position already in a reputable house not far from here. You will be safe there, and you can stay there as long as it takes us to clear your father’s name.”

Elizabeth felt a rush of fear, excitement, and relief at her friend’s words. She also had many questions, and she was not sure where to start. Finally, she decided to go with the most urgent.

“Who is the family?” she asked. “And what is the position?”

“It is a position with the Duke of Clairmont’s family,” Cynthia said. “Have you heard of him?”

“A little,” Elizabeth said, frowning. “He has two sons, does he not? And a daughter?”

“Oh, that is the late Duke of Clairmont,” Cynthia said, shaking her head. “Actually, it is a sad story. The late duke’s eldest son, Alexander, died just a year ago. The duke passed away shortly after, so it is his second son, Marcus, who has become the duke. He is a soldier who has been away fighting in France, so no one knows much about him. But from what Rosamund has told me, he is a very honourable man.”

“Who is Rosamund?” Elizabeth asked.

“His cousin, and a friend of mine. She is the one who told me about the position. It is to be a lady companion for the duke’s grandmother, who is elderly but apparently still quite sharp. The duke would like a young lady to keep her company, as his sister recently married and moved to Paris.”

“I see …” Elizabeth said, her brow furrowing as she thought about this. A lady companion to a dowager duchess would be a good role for her. And if it were in Surrey, then it would be close to London, which intrigued her. After spending so many years so far from London, the idea of being near the city and the ton was very exciting. “And I could give them a false name?” she asked. “I do not want my stepmother tracking me down.”

“I have already told Rosamund that your name is Lisette,” Cynthia said with a smile. “Lisette Penknife.”

Elizabeth nearly laughed. Lisette was the nickname that Cynthia used to call her as a child. Her father had also picked up on the nickname and had sometimes referred to her as Lisette, but she did not think Beatrice would make the connection. He had stopped calling her Lisette as she had got older, especially after her mother had died, and he had withdrawn into himself for several years before remarrying. 

“That is perfect, then,” Elizabeth murmured. “And what would my duties be?”

“I think you would read to her, go on walks with her, that kind of thing,” Cynthia explained. 

“And there would be no horseback riding?” Elizabeth asked, her heart hammering as she spoke the words. “If it is a large estate in Surrey, then surely the duke is an avid rider.”

“I do not think there will be any riding involved,” Cynthia said gently. “And I also told Rosamund that you do not care to ride. I do not think the duke and his family are much keen on it, either, after Alexander’s death.” Cynthia hesitated as if afraid to speak. Then she said, “That is also how he passed away.”

Elizabeth said nothing for a moment as she absorbed this information. So, the current duke’s older brother had also died in a horse-riding accident. Although accidents of this nature were not uncommon, it still struck her as providential that the family she was considering working for had also suffered a loss in this tragic way. It felt like a sign of some kind–that they were the right people to shelter her during this difficult time in her life. 

“I see,” she said after a long moment. “Well then, I suppose I shall be able to sympathize with their grief. It seems you have found me the right household to join. Thank you, Cynthia. I am grateful to you for your thoughtfulness.”

Cynthia, however, looked uncertain, and she leaned forward and said, in a low voice, “Are you sure about this, Elizabeth? That you want to work for a family like a tradeswoman? It will be very difficult, I am sure, and you are not used to being an employee in a great house. What if you were to marry, instead? Surely a husband could also provide support and safety from your stepmother?”

Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. “In some ways, yes, a husband would be a better protection against Beatrice,” she admitted. “But I cannot legally marry another man while I am engaged to Mr Darwin. I must hope that if I ‘disappear’ for long enough, that Mr Darwin will marry someone else, and I am free of the contract.”

Cynthia frowned but nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. It was frightfully cruel of your father to have engaged you to that man before he died–and not even have told you!”

“I know,” Elizabeth said miserably. “The only excuse I can think of is that Papa made the engagement hastily after he learned he had lost his entire fortune. Mr Darwin is rich, after all.” She made a face. She knew how he had got his money, now. “Papa was probably trying to ensure I would not fall into poverty like he had. He was probably just trying to protect me …” 

It was the only reason she could think of why her father would condemn her to such a fate. He had not been himself in his last few days, after all. After he had learned that the fortune he had so frugally safeguarded had disappeared, he seemed to have lost his mind. That was probably when he’d signed the contract–in a moment of desperation. 

“I am sure he was planning to speak to me about it,” Elizabeth continued. “But then his heart gave out, probably from the grief of losing everything.”

“It has certainly caused a great scandal in London,” Cynthia said in a low voice. “The gossip columns have been spreading the most salacious rumours about how such an economical earl could lose his entire fortune. Some of them are very unkind.”

“I do not want to hear them,” Elizabeth snapped at once. “I know the truth, and I will clear his name if it is the last thing I do.”

“I know you will,” Cynthia said quickly. “Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.”

“You did not,” Elizabeth said, her temper cooling. “I am just scared for the future.” She squared her shoulders. “But I am determined to work hard to prove my worth as the dowager duchess’s companion and hopefully, one day, to prove my father was every bit the prudent man I knew him to be.”

“Philippe and I will help,” Cynthia said, reaching across the tea table and taking Elizabeth’s hand. “We will contact the authorities and tell them what you have discovered. But without proof … they might not be able to help much.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, and she meant it. The sooner her problems went away, the sooner she could get her life back on track, and the sooner she would be Elizabeth again. For now, however, she had to become Lisette.