“And they still talked about her.”
“Obsessively. And among people far more notable than Gads and his family. Sir Winston Churchill, for one. Though he was technically part of the family, too.”
“Ah, Winston. Mrs. Spencer’s favorite subject.”
“Favorite something. Person to torment perhaps. ‘He couldn’t have done what Hitler did!’” Win trilled in a perfect Mrs. Spencer voice. “The scuttlebutt wasn’t limited to the Marlboroughs, either. Guests all parroted the same questions. What happened to the duchess? Was she alive? And what of her personal possessions? The duke and duchess were in the process of divorcing when he died, leaving her his forever wife. The family felt her things belonged to them, even though Nine cut her out of his will and left the estate to Ten. Estate. Albatross. What have you.”
“Hmm,” Pru said, and settled back onto the bed. “It’s amazing how much damage one person can do.”
She was half asleep now, the odds of making it back to her room slim. Could she sleep there? On the bed of an unfamiliar man? What would he think of her? More important, what would Pru think of herself?
A few short months ago she was a student at Berkeley, living with roommates who introduced themselves as “lesbian-feminist organizers.” Pru dutifully protested the war, but waved the figurative hanky as she sent her fiancé off to fight. Then she left school to get married, a decision she could not reconcile with the desire to call herself a feminist. Alas, it was Charlie. And so love won.
Pru was equal parts independent and traditional. She dreamt of office pumps and also a pregnant belly wrapped in a housecoat. Now, a continent away, among people whose families and traditions went back for centuries, Pru didn’t know who she was at all. Already she felt like someone else but couldn’t pinpoint in what ways.
“Are you still with me, Miss Valentine?” Win asked in a half whisper as he stood above her.
She nodded, the back of her head rubbing against his pillow.
Pru was beginning to understand the man’s obsession. If she was slightly stunted in her forward progression, this chap was doubly so. Thirty-four years old. A man-boy who lived in a world of family stories and fish tales. He said it himself. What grown child wouldn’t want to meet his Peter Pan or Wendy? His Alice in Wonderland?
“I get it now,” she said dreamily, her mind and good sense already slipping away. “Staying at Blenheim, stories of the duchess bleeding through the years. She grew to fabled proportions, a goddess to those who visited.”
Pru fluttered her eyes open. Win remained hovering above, hands on hips, staring down with his puckered blue gaze.
“Scoot over,” he said, nudging her leg with his foot. “You’re welcome to sleep here but make room for me, and pronto. I’m suddenly feeling quite off my tits and am liable to pass out right atop you.”
“Mmm,” she replied, and inched to the right. “Can’t have that.”
“How generous. Thank you for providing me a full three centimeters of space in my own bed.”
Pru felt him slide in beside her. Her eyes popped open as she felt his fingers whisper ever-so-slightly against hers.
“Are you okay?” he asked, sensing her body tighten against the bed.
“Yes. Peachy.” Pru closed her eyes again and tried to steady her breath. “Win, who are you writing this book for? Do you really think anyone will care about a woman who’s been missing for thirty-five years? A woman who was more legend than truth?”
“How can you not find her fascinating?” he asked. “A champion spaniel breeder who is also a firearms enthusiast, a kidnap victim, a lover of great men, and the one person who could have prevented World War I?”
“Yes, this person does sound fascinating. If she existed. If that’s her down the hall.”
“What about a woman who keeps dead cats in the icebox and is famous for running naked through the town center? If you don’t find this compelling may I direct you to more plebeian entertainment? An episode of the American comedy Sanford and Son, for instance.”
“Well,” Pru said, breath finally at peace in her chest. “Perhaps you have a point.”
Win beamed in return, though Pru’s eyes were closed and she could not see him.
A point? He had a point? It was a very rare thing for anyone to say about Win Seton. A very rare thing indeed.
“Do you really think Mrs. Spencer is the missing duchess?” Pru asked before finally nodding off.
“Yes, of course. Otherwise, what am I doing here?”
“But what proof do you have other than a hunch and a handful of rumors?”
“I have photos. And documents. And we have her name.”
“Whose name? Gladys Deacon’s? That’s not exactly top secret information.”
“I’m referring to Mrs. Spencer, your oft-naked employer. You see, I’ve not told you Gads’s surname.”