The Making of a Duchess Read Online Free PDF Page A

know is that I still render assistance to His Majesty. I work for the Foreign Office, training and overseeing some of our best operatives."
       Sarah gawked at him. Sir Northrop—her employer, the man in whose home she resided—oversaw the country's spies?
       "This"—he gestured to the woman lying on the chaise longue—"is the operative we had planned to use, but—let's call her The Widow—The Widow was injured in the line of duty. We need someone to take her place. In three days."
       The Widow? What kind of name was that? A code name obviously, and one Sarah wanted nothing to do with.
       "You're our only hope, Miss Smith," The Widow said. "There are no other operatives free at this time."
       "But why me?" Sarah took a step back. "Surely there are many patient, quick-witted women about."
       Sir Northrop nodded. "True, but all have a history here in London. You do not. No one in the upper circles of the ton will know you are not who we say you are."
       "The ton ?" Sarah felt the panic creep in. The ton was the collective name for England's high society— the wealthy, titled, and fabulously stylish. "I don't know anything about the ton . I'm just a governess," she repeated. Perhaps if she said it enough, the truth would sink in.
       "Nonsense. You live with the ton , work for them. You are preparing Sir Northrop's children to live in the world of the ton . You know more than you think," The Widow said. "What you don't know, you'll figure out. More importantly, you have the look we need. The duc has been given a general description of me—brown hair, brown eyes, taller than average. You fit that description."
       Sarah shook her head. "B-but I don't look anything like you. You're—" She gestured to the woman's bosom, unable to find the words.
       "The duc has never met me, so that shouldn't be a problem."
       Sarah opened her mouth then closed it again. Every protest she made was met with a counterargument. It seemed futile to point out that she had never met a duke in her life. Why, even Sir Northrop made her nervous, and he was only a knight. And now they expected her to go gallivanting about the ton as though she associated with the aristocracy every day?
       They wanted her to spy.
       On. A. Duc.
       Did they know she did not have the stomach for telling lies? How could she lie to this duc? She would be sick all over the man as soon as she said her name.
       Oh, and what name was she to give? The Widow?
       She shook her head. No, she could not do it. Sir Northrop was watching her, frowning.
       "I'm sorry," she said. "I have to decline. I-I'm just a governess. I must return to my charges."
    ***
    Julien Harcourt, chevalier, duc de Valère, pair de France , pushed away the glass of brandy his friend Rigby offered him. "I'm done."
       Done with the brandy and done with his club. He glanced about the smoky sitting room filled with men seated in leather chairs, papers in one hand, brandy in the other. The hum of voices was incessant, and beyond, in the gaming room, he could hear the cries of victory and groans of defeat.
       Rigby raised a brow. "It's French brandy. Some entrepreneurial smuggler risked life and limb so we
    could pay a pretty penny to drink it."
       "Penny?" Stover said, interrupting. "That bottle cost more than a penny."
       "You finish it, then," Julien offered. "I'm going home to bed."
       Rigby and Stover exchanged glances. "Big day tomorrow, eh?" Rigby said. The taller of Julien's two friends, he had auburn hair, fair skin, and still looked eighteen. As the nephew of a marquis who had more money than King George—or King Midas, for that matter—Laurence Rigby had enough blunt to buy a thousand bottles of smuggled French brandy.
       Julien rose, and Stover rose with him. Marcus Stover was older and more serious. More frugal, too. His blond brows creased with concern. "You didn't finish telling us about the