St. Raven by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online

cloth, and hide her betraying blush of excitement. “Did he explain how I came to be here?”
    “Such a shocking tale!” Mrs. Bark way exclaimed, flipping open a towel and holding it out for Cressida. “I didn’t think men tried to kidnap heiresses anymore. Lucky for you that His Grace came upon you after you’d fled.”
    Perhaps Cressida’s silence looked like fear, for the woman added, “All will be right now, miss. Don’t you worry.”
    Cressida smiled her thanks, thinking that his ingenious story was no more outlandish than the truth. He did seem to be a man who thought of everything.
    A good partner in crime, perhaps?
    “And don’t you worry about gossip, miss. His Grace pays well for closed mouths, and he knows I’ll not say anything to embarrass you.”
    Cressida dried herself on the soft cloth. “Thank you, Mrs. Barkway. You’re very kind.”
    The woman blushed. “Go on with you. Sit down now, and I’ll see what I can do with your hair, though I’m no ladies’ maid.”
    The wonderful woman produced a comb from her pocket, and Cressida sat at the dressing table. There were knots in her hair, of course, but the woman was as gentle as she could be.
    “No curl,” Cressida apologized. She picked up her turban with the false curls dangling around the front.
    The woman chuckled. “Very clever, miss, but they do look strange now, don’t they? Like a scared cat hiding in a bag.” She stroked a hand down Cressida’s hair. “Your hair is lovely, miss. Like dark brown silk, it is, and thick right down to your waist. How do you want to wear it?”
    Cressida realized how much she disliked her caps and turbans, with their false curls. It had seemed necessary because of her father’s desire that she be fashionable, but there was no need for such folly now. In Matlock, she had worn her hair in a simple plait coiled on the back of her head. She tossed aside the turban and asked Mrs. Bark way to do something similar. As the woman worked away, Cressida let her tangled mind drift.
    Matlock. Last year she’d welcomed the prospect of playing in fashionable society. Matlock had seemed so dull. Now it was the sanctuary she struggled to regain.
    She had to admit to a pang about London, however. Hadn’t Dr. Johnson said something about he who tired of London being tired of life?
    It was the heart of the world. Men of power lived there, making decisions that would affect the fates of millions around the globe. It was the center of the arts and sciences, cradle of great discoveries. She had met fascinating people everywhere—explorers, poets, orators, scientists, sinners. And the theaters! They had a theater in Matlock, but it wasn’t like Drury Lane or the Royal Opera House.
    That stirred a memory—the Duke of St. Raven at Drury Lane Theater.
    It had been months ago. She’d been there with her parents and the Harbisons at the opening of the play
A Daring Lady
. The theater had hummed with excitement, but then the hum had intensified. A stir had directed every eye to one of the finest boxes, to a glittering lady there accompanied by a dark and handsome gentleman.
    “The Duke of St. Raven!” Lady Harbison had exclaimed in a whisper—one of the truly remarkable social skills. “He’s here at last.”
    This had seemed a nonsensical statement, so Cressida had been pleased when her mother asked for more information. Since the whole theater was staring and whispering, it had to be important. In moments she had the meat of it. The duke had inherited from his uncle the year before and then disappeared. Now, without fanfare, he had stepped onto the stage that awaited him—an eligible duke, a prince of the
ton
.
    However, according to Lady Harbison, his partner was killing many hopes. Lady Anne Peckworth was daughter of the Duke of Arran—a most suitable match—and by the looks of it, the match was already made.
    He’d kissed Lady Anne’s hand as if sealing the speculation, and Cressida remembered her own wistful