Addie sat in the opulent carriage, each rocking motion slamming a slice of reality into her. She had treated the duke with reproach in the street, but now she must retrain her tongue to be that of a maid's once more. She must do it regardless of whether or not the unusual duke seemed amused by it. Addie could not afford to draw attention to herself or slip up as she had done with Lord Hawthorne.

As a princess, Addie had always been the quiet one. In fact, on the cold night that Addie's family had died, her brother, Charles, had been teasing her for becoming all shy and tongue-tied around a Prussian prince that had come to visit their family the week prior.

The memory threatened to bring tears to her eyes—the vision of her brother's face right before the crash. But Addie mentally hung onto the picture of him smiling and only that. She refused to think about what had happened next. God, she missed Charles and the way he would always make her laugh.

Addie had been only slightly bothered by his needling that night, since there was admittedly some truth to it. Before the accident, Addie had always struggled to get her words out straight, especially when attention was on her—an irritating problem to have when one was supposed to be poised and articulate.

Poised and articulate. Those were two descriptors that had never been used to describe her. Of that, she was certain. A lovely person, no doubt, was something she often heard, but it was, of course, indiscernible what exactly they were referring to. Was it her lovely golden hair? Or perhaps her lovely gown? Her lovely charm? No one really knew, least of all her.

How ironic that after years of struggling to get her words out she should find herself sacked for doing that very thing. Addie wasn't entirely surprised, however. Ever since she had become a person of little consequence, it seemed that words flew to the tip of her tongue, except that now she had to bite them down. No one desired to hear the thoughts of a lady's maid. And so it seemed she was in constant battle between her inner thoughts and her open mouth.

If Addie could go back to being a princess, the things she would say...

But that wasn't possible. It would never be possible.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and the door swung open. Once again, the duke offered her his hand, and Addie took it gratefully, murmuring her thanks. He helped her down, assisting her quietly to the house. Addie tried to maintain her composure, but it was hard when her ankle was aching and the duke's eyes were boring into hers from above.

Addie's eyes raked quickly over the man while she tried to think if she knew anything about His Grace. There were not that many dukedoms in England's high society, after all. She did recall that the previous duke and duchess had died when the man before her was, well, not yet a man.

Addie was almost certain that the late Duke of Kingfield had had mutual friends with her father, King William IV, but she had no recollection of ever meeting him. And if the present duke had ever moved in those same circles, Addie was oblivious to it. She had only ever heard his name from the gossip columns.

Queen Adelaide had not allowed her daughter to read any of the rags that circulated through the beau monde, vehemently opposed to such talk. In fact, her mother had had a disapproving attitude toward a great many things, leaving Addie relatively sheltered in her young life. So when Addie had first gotten her hands on one of Liza's copies of Mischief in Mayfair, she had raptly absorbed it.

The Duke of Kingfield...what had it said of him? She did not believe any of it was particularly bad, but nor was it particularly good. If she recalled correctly, the quality reporting of Madame Mischief had primarily focused on his potential marriage prospects. Or more accurately, his disinterest in pursuing such prospects, much to the dismay of many aristocratic ladies.

So all Addie knew was that he was a bachelor. In other words, she knew virtually nothing of the man beside her. Unlike many women, she did not consider the marriageable state of a man to be a personality trait. Perhaps a small detail worth noting toward the bottom of an inventory of characteristics, right next to his preferences on tea. No cream, two sugars, stirred thrice. Also, unmarried.

Resigned to her fate, she stepped—hopped—into the well-appointed home and was instantly aware that it was immaculate in every way its owner was not. Her hands knitted together from tension, and her stomach fluttered with the hope that Kingfield House would be the right place for her. Even with her altered appearance, Addie knew that there was always the chance someone would recognize her. But being a maid, particularly for the Duke of Kingfield, ensured her a nice roof overhead and plenty of idle-talk beneath.

"Ahh, Miles." His Grace addressed the man in the front entry who Addie assumed to be his butler. His attire was of a heathered grey coat and trousers as opposed to the livery of the footman. "May I introduce you to Addie? She is a new addition to our staff."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Miles directed toward Addie. He was an older gentleman, one who apparently took his position seriously. If he was surprised the duke had hired and brought home a filth-stained woman off the streets of London, his face did not show it; he was impassive in the way only the best butlers were.

Addie returned the sentiment before His Grace asked Miles to fetch the aforementioned Mrs. Combs, whom Addie was only slightly nervous to meet. Well, truthfully, she was quite nervous.

"Please sit, Addie," the duke said with quiet force, gesturing to a straight-backed chair in the entryway. "You should not be on your feet."

Addie did not wish to look lazy or insolent when the housekeeper came, but in light of deciding not to argue with her new employer, sat. It took several minutes of waiting in an uncomfortable silence before the older woman came bustling down the hallway. She was short and nicely rounded with a soft face, framed by greying ringlets escaping their pins.

The duke shifted his feet as he watched her walk toward them. She had a determined look about her, and upon being introduced, skipped the pleasantries entirely.

"Miles tells me that you've hired new staff?" She directed the question toward the duke but then continued before a reply even had the chance to form in his mouth. "I did not realize that we required additional help, Your Grace," she bristled.

While Addie had been able to maintain a blank continuance until that point, she could not keep her eyes from widening at the way Mrs. Combs spoke to her employer. She glanced at the man to see how he would react, only to drop her mouth open at the grin he gave his housekeeper.

"Surely," the duke said with humor, "there is always room for extra help. You have been working very hard, and I thought you would appreciate the assistance." He paused for a second and when Mrs. Combs did not reply immediately, he added, "Not that you require it, of course."

Mrs. Combs stared at the duke with narrowed eyes for barely a second more before sighing. "Well, of course I do not require it. I am quite capable of managing the work with the staff we have. But I suppose we can find a position for this young miss...?"

Mrs. Combs directed her attention to Addie for the first time, seeking her name. She, too, ignored her untidy appearance. And she did not even bat an eye at the way Addie was sitting before the duke.

"Addie."

Mrs. Combs nodded once in approval. She rounded on her employer again.

"I assume she comes with good recommendations?"

The duke nodded once. "Yes, she has the recommendation of a respectable family with the name of Featherby. Of Hertfordshire."

"Hertfordshire? My, well, that is some distance from here, is it not?"

"It is," the duke said simply. Since it did not appear that he deemed it necessary to elaborate further on the topic, Addie similarly kept her mouth shut. And upon seeing that she would garnish no more information on the topic, Mrs. Combs gave a succinct nod.

"I would like for someone to look at her ankle," His Grace said. "She has twisted it in the street. Call a physician if necessary."

Addie opened her mouth to protest but was silenced by the duke's direct look and amended herself to say, "Thank you, Your Grace."

Then he gave her a little wink and walked away.

Addie could not help but smile.

****

Theo's study was a well-established sanctuary of the orderly and maintained. The record keeping had its place on a precisely labeled shelf, and the high quality liquor was arranged by month, year, and location. A leather armchair sat behind his sturdy desk, worn in all the right places but not overly so. It was a place of business, and as that business could at times be unpredictable, he preferred the place itself to be formularized.

Tonight, however, his mismatched attire lay scattered around the room, still stinking of St. Giles. His boots lay muddy and abandoned on the carpeted floor in a manner that he expected would send Mrs. Combs into apoplexy. Theo's thoughts were as disorganized as his surroundings. He knew he should be concentrating on the task Andrew had given him tonight, but instead couldn't stop thinking of his new employee.

While she had been most talkative when they first met—indeed, it was her wit that had caught his attention in the first place—she now appeared reserved. Her confidence from the street was masked behind a timid facade. Theo frowned into his port (May 1811, Portugal). Timid did not seem an apt description for the woman that had challenged him whilst standing ankle-deep in sludge. What had changed?

Theo subdued the sudden urge to seek her out.

God, what was wrong with him? His decision to bring her here had been less than thought through. He was beginning to realize precisely what part of him had been doing the thinking.

Theo purposely directed his thoughts elsewhere, to his meeting with Andrew, to be more exact.

He rolled his eyes.

The task that Andrew, the Duke of Weston, had given him was decidedly political. The whole scheme was essentially a desperate attempt to escape from beneath the king. Which, he supposed, had its merits—even if it was skirting on acts of treason.

But King Ernest had pushed for more than one policy that had harbored ill effects on the nation's economy. Perhaps most notably, he had raised taxes on the laboring citizens of the country but gave significant breaks to the aristocracy. A ridiculous concept, as indeed the state would garnish more income from the large coffers of its blue-blooded citizens.

But King Ernest's only supporters and popularity came from those similar to himself, and he only wanted to boost his appeal in their eyes.

There was ugliness in the air. There was no denying the poor in the streets of London that had been there for decades, but it was nothing compared to the poverty rates now that King Ernest's ridiculous tax "break" had been instituted, backed by some of the most powerful men in England.

But Theo was the Duke of Kingfield. He was a powerful man, and he would help Andrew just as his father would have done if he were still alive.

Newly compelled, Theo crossed his disastrous study and left the room. He followed the softly lit corridors of his home, his feet treading upon dark hues of carpet. Theo knew he wouldn't be so lucky as to simply happen upon the missing princess in the streets of London, as much as Andrew might wish for such a thing.

Instead, he'd have to start at the root of where all knowledge did. His quick strides took him into the library, and he glanced around with a sigh. The room held an impressive number of articles, novels, and literary essays.

Perhaps from somewhere in its depths he could garnish a clue to the whereabouts of Princess Adelaide.