Free Say Yes to the Duke by Kieran Kramer

identity, one real and
     one imagined. And the Queen in her wanted Janice to marry the Duke of Halsey!
    “How long has she been like this?” Janice asked the nurse.
    “For years-s-s-s, they say.” The nurse had a gap between her teeth and whistled on her s ’s. ‘I’ve been with her only since she moved here from the dower house last year.”
    “That explains why she hasn’t been in Town. Does it happen often, her switching back
     and forth like that … between the Queen and the dowager?”
    “Many times-s-s-s a day.”
    Goodness, that whistle was quite pronounced.
    “As you can s-s-s-see, ” the nurse went on, and Janice tried not to wince, “it happens every time she s-s-s-sneezes. ”
    “That’s the oddest thing. Has a doctor been in to see her?”
    “Of course. He recommends rest and s-s-s-seclusion. ”
    Janice was glad a physician had attended upon the old lady, after all, but something
     felt terribly wrong about his advice. “How can seclusion help anyone?” She watched
     the sleeping duchess. “It’s all very sad.”
    “It might be, but it ain’t my business.” The nurse shrugged.
    “You don’t seem to care about her.” Anger made Janice bold.
    “I’m not supposed to care,” the woman replied in a huff.
    “Of course you are. She’s your charge. She’s obviously in need of affection and understanding.”
    “ That’s-s-s-s not what I’m paid for,” the nurse said. “I’m paid to keep her room clean, to feed
     her, and make sure she’s bathed and properly dress-s-s-sed .”
    The whistles were going a mile a minute at the moment.
    “Those are all very important things,” Janice said. “But there’s more an invalid needs
     than that.”
    “You heard her—she doesn’t think she’s an invalid. She wants out of here. But where
     can she go, s-s-s-speaking the way she does?”
    Irony of ironies that a whistling nurse said that. “Don’t you ever allow her to walk
     in the gardens?”
    The woman shook her head. “She never leaves this room. Doctor’s orders.”
    “That’s reprehensible. I’m going to talk to the duke about that.”
    “Good luck. His Grace believes the doctor is right. He doesn’t want her hurting herself.”
    “I still intend to speak with him,” Janice said. “And what about Her Grace’s secretary?
     Does he have a role here? Who mailed the note to my mother in London?”
    “Her secretary”—the woman gave a short laugh—“is the fishmonger who comes once a week.
     She pays him to mail things out for her.”
    “He comes up here?”
    “Her Grace insists that he does. She tells the duke she wants to discuss fishing with
     him, and His Grace allows it but only because Her Grace creates a fuss. She likes
     to remind him that fishing is a favorite family pastime, that his own father—her son
     Russell—used to love it, he and his big brother, Everett, both. Supposedly, they’d
     spend hours a day in a rowboat on the estate pond. She waxes on about it to the fishmonger,
     and he just nods, then mails her correspondence out. But it’s none of my business.
     No, it’s not.”
    “I never thought I’d say this”—Janice advanced to within a foot of the nurse—“but
     in this instance I’m glad that you believe so. Because that’s how she got a letter
     to me. What’s your name?”
    “Martha. Mrs. Martha Poole.”
    “Well, Mrs. Poole, if you can’t tell me at this very moment that you’ll show more
     heart to this woman, then I’ll go to the duke immediately and call for your replacement.
     Furthermore, if you can’t drum up even one iota of affection for Her Grace, I expect
     you to pretend that you can. And you’d better be a very good actress. Is that understood?”
    The woman’s eyes widened. “Who are you to talk to me this way?”
    “I’m Lady Janice Sherwood, as you know very well.”
    Mrs. Poole glowered. “All right.”
    Janice put every bit of cool threat she could into the look she sent the nurse at
     that moment.