How To Distract a Duchess Read Online Free PDF

fellow?”
    “Yes, Your Grace. He claims to have been sent by Mr. Phelps. This way, if you please.”
    Artemisia followed her butler to the parlor where she found a young man twisting his cap in nervousness. He reeked of gin, but he ducked his head deferentially when he saw her.
    “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace. I’m terrible sorry for bein’ late, but the idea of shuckin’ outta me skivvies had me all flummoxed. I only meant to stop at the tavern for a minute, to screw up me courage, so to speak. But after a few pints, I sort of lost track of the time.”
    Artemisia listened in distracted disbelief as she studied the fellow’s features. Blond curls wreathed his head like a disheveled halo, framing a cherubically rounded face that was pretty as a girl’s. Obviously, he was Mr. Phelps’s answer to her quest for Eros, god of love.
    But if this was the model she’d expected earlier, who was Thomas Doverspike? And why did he let her believe him to be her next subject? A sinking sensation dragged at her belly. Could he be that nasty reporter from The Tattler , come to ferret out her most intimate secrets by masquerading as her life model? It was too horrible to contemplate.
    “It’ll never happen again, Your Grace,” her would-be Eros promised.
    “Indeed, it will not,” she said crisply. “The position has been filled.” Then because the young man looked so crest-fallen, she turned to Cuthbert. “I believe this young man will serve Southwycke better in the stables than my studio. Might we have a position for him there?”
    “Most probably, Your Grace,” Cuthbert said.
    Her erstwhile model stumbled over himself, thanking her for the opportunity to muck out the stalls rather than strip out of his clothing for a few shillings. She left him in Cuthbert’s charge and hurried to see Mr. Shipwash.
    Artemisia breathed deeply to quell the tremor in her chest as she walked the long corridor to the study. If Mr. Doverspike was a writer for The Tattler , it certainly explained his nosiness. His queries about Mr. Beddington became even more troubling.
    Well, she’d have to see about this. Thomas Doverspike would be back in her studio in the morning. And she could think of any number of ways to humble a naked, spying member of the press.
    “Good day, Mr. Shipwash,” Artemisia said with forced pleasantness to the stoop-shouldered gentleman cooling his heels in her paneled study. The masculine room had been the duke’s private retreat, but since his death, Artemisia had claimed it as hers. “Be kind enough to close the door and we’ll get right to business.”
    “Very good, Your Grace.”
    James Shipwash spread the portfolio before her and took notes while Artemisia scanned the documents, nodding his agreement to her changes and answering her queries succinctly. If Mr. Shipwash disagreed, he was encouraged to explain himself. Sometimes, Artemisia heeded his advice, and sometimes she brought Shipwash round to her point of view.
    “That covers everything, I believe. Oh, before I forget, my mother wished to have the affairs of these gentlemen examined—Lord Shrewsbury the younger and Mr. Trevelyn Deveridge.” She handed the slip of paper to Mr. Shipwash.
    “How soon do you wish a report?”
    “You have until the masked ball. Mother intends to marry off my sisters to these gentlemen. I want to make sure they have at least some redeeming qualities before I see my siblings shackled to them.” Artemisia eyed the stack of documents the clerk placed before her. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “While you’re at it, see what you can discover about one Thomas Doverspike. Of the three, this request is the most urgent.”
    James Shipwash wrote down the name in his small ledger. “The other two gentlemen will be easy enough to investigate since they’ll be listed in DeBrett’s. I’ve not heard of Thomas Doverspike. Where shall I begin with him?”
    “Check the roster of contributors to The Tattler . Then try our