Heiress for Hire

Book 1: Duke's Heiress Romance

by Madeline Hunter

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

In this stunning series debut from New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter, a duke’s mysterious
bequest brings fortune—and passion—to three young women …
Minerva Hepplewhite has learned the hard way how to take care of herself. When an intruder breaks into her
home, she doesn’t swoon or simper. Instead she wallops the rogue over the head and ties him up—only to realize he
is Chase Radnor, a gentleman and grandson of a lord, and a man who makes it his business to investigate suspicious
matters. Now he’s insisting that Minerva has inherited a fortune from his uncle, a wealthy duke. Only one thing could
surprise her more: her sudden attraction to this exasperating man …
Chase can’t decide whether Minerva is a wronged woman or a femme fatale. Either way, he’s intrigued. Maddeningly,
with her unexpected inheritance, she has set up a discreet detective business to rival Chase’s own. She may be the
perfect person to help him uncover the truth about his uncle’s demise. But as proximity gives way to mutual seduction,
Chase realizes he craves a much deeper alliance …

Release date: April 28, 2020

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 289

Sample

Did you kill him?

The voice spoke in his head vaguely, as if traveling through distance and fog. Not as the voice of his conscience, the way he so often heard the question. A different voice now. A female one.

I doubt it. Help me here.

He looks dead to me.

I promise that he isn’t dead. Now, take this and hold it while I . . .

A bit clearer now. Closer. So close it made his head bang with pain. Each word created a hammer blow. The more words, the more blows, and the closer they sounded.

I should call Jeremy to come here.

We do not need Jeremy. See?

Bam. Bam.

Bad enough already, without that.

We are not the ones at fault here. Hold the lamp closer, so I can make sure it is safe. Wait, give the lamp to me . . . This is no ordinary thief, from the looks of him.

What are you doing with that?

Bam, bam, bam.

Bringing him around so I can find out who he is and why he is here.

Bam—

The fog disappeared, washed away by an onslaught of liquid that forced him back to full consciousness. He tipped his tongue out to lick some drips on his lips. Not water. Wine.

He did not open his eyes right away. He spent a few moments accommodating the pain screaming on his scalp. His legs felt strange and his arms hurt. He tried to move both and could not. He realized they were both tied behind him, and together, bowing his body. Someone had trussed him like a sheep, only backward.

He opened his eyes to see the end of a pistol mere inches from his head. His gaze traveled up the arm that held it, until he looked into the furious dark eyes of a very handsome dark-haired woman. She held the pistol like she knew how to use it. Her bright gaze said she hoped he gave her a good reason to.

Hell. Tonight was not progressing at all the way he had planned.

“He looks to be coming to,” Beth said. She raised the bed warmer as if to give another blow.

“Put it down. He is tied and I have my pistol.”

“He looks big. The ropes may not hold him. He may overpower you. I should be ready just in case.”

“He will not attack me.” He had indeed come to. His long lashes moved. After a moment he strained against the bonds. Minerva waited for him to accommodate his situation.

His garments appeared very high quality. Blood now stained a cravat once pristine and crisp. His face might be called handsome if not for the strong bones that made the angles more severe than now fashionable. Something about him made her inner sense send out warnings that prickled her spine. He appeared to be a wealthy gentleman and . . . official. Whatever his reason for entering this house, it had not been to steal a few shillings.

Various reactions assaulted her while she trained her pistol on his harshly handsome face. Fear. Vulnerability. She experienced a surge of the unsettled spirit that had plagued her for over a year once, and that she thought she had banished forever.

Finally those lashes rose. Sapphire eyes focused on her pistol, then his gaze moved up until he looked right into her eyes. He again strained at the ties that bound him.

“Minerva Hepplewhite, I presume? My name is Chase Radnor. I apologize for the lack of a proper introduction.”

Beth sucked in her breath. “Odd for a thief to be so particular about etiquette and such.”

Except he was not a thief, was he?

“You can untie me,” Radnor said. “I never take chances with pistols, and I am not a danger in any case.”

“You are an intruder. I intend to leave you like that while I swear down information against you,” Minerva said.

“If you do it will come to naught and will only delay my mission. Now, untie me. I have something important to tell you that will explain why I am here.”

She hated how that provoked her curiosity, and also her trepidation. He might tell her that the investigation into Algernon’s death had been revived. Then again, he might reveal that at long last the poacher involved in that accident had been found. Or he might tell her that he had come to take her to gaol.

She collected herself. It was foolish to build monsters out of this stranger’s presence. There had been nothing to indicate he knew about her former identity and life.

“Explain yourself first.” She leveled the pistol firmly. “I am not inclined to trust a housebreaker.”

He gave one furious tug on the ties behind his back. He narrowed his eyes. “I have come to inform you of something that benefits you significantly.”

“What is that?”

“You have inherited some money. A large amount of it.”

Chase did not like when carefully laid plans failed. Now he grimaced while the servant called Beth dabbed at his scalp to clean the wound of blood.

A good deal of blood. He knew from his time in the army that scalp wounds were notorious for bleeding, no matter how minor.

Not that his felt all that minor. The hammer still banged.

He was sitting on a stool while the stout woman did her nursing. Fifteen feet away Minerva Hepplewhite waited patiently, watching. Lounging, damn it. The pistol now lay on a table next to where she relaxed on a divan.

She appeared composed. At ease. Minerva Hepplewhite had a level of self-possession that unaccountably irritated him.

“Explain yourself,” she said. “If you had information to give me, why didn’t you show up on my doorstep and present your card?”

That was hard to explain without putting her on her guard. “I wanted proof you were Minerva Hepplewhite. I did not want to risk speaking to the wrong woman.”

She frowned over that.

The hands on his scalp lifted, then returned and pressed against his head. He almost cursed the woman, even though he knew she only applied a poultice.

The woman Beth stepped back, taking the scent of cheap rose water with her. “Done. Shouldn’t bleed much now. You will want your valet to wash your hair carefully for a spell. If he soaks your shirt in salt water, it should help get the blood out.” She gestured to his coats. “Not much help for those stains, though.”

The two women exchanged looks. Beth left the library and closed the door behind her.

“How did you find me?” Minerva Hepplewhite asked.

“It is my profession to find people.”

“Ah, you are a runner. Is this not an odd assignment? I thought it was your profession to find paramours of married individuals, then tell their spouses about their misdeeds.”

He did that too. It was the least interesting work, and an assignment he did not seek. Yet it came to him too often, since so many spouses committed so many misdeeds.

“I am not a runner. I am a gentleman who on occasion conducts discreet inquiries.”

“If the fine distinction gives you comfort that you are not a servant, hold to it.”

He stood. His scalp gave a few good hammer blows in response, but they were not quite as bad as they had been.

“Tell me about this inheritance,” she said.

She wore an undressing gown. It sported a good deal of frothy lace around her neck and at its hem, but it had seen better days. Shapeless but soft, it revealed her form while she sat there with it billowing over the divan’s faded rose toile cushion.

“A fortune was left to a woman named Minerva Hepplewhite, currently resident of London, by the late Duke of Hollinburgh.”

He took satisfaction in how her eyes widened. Then she laughed. “How absurd. This must be a joke. Why would the Duke of Hollinburgh leave me a fortune?”

He shrugged. “Believe me, that is my burning question as well. You must be . . . a good friend? A retainer? . . . A lover?”

Her frown dissolved and a broad smile took its place.

“A lover?” She swept her hand—an exceedingly lovely hand, he noticed—gesturing at the chamber. “Do I look like I have enjoyed the favor of a duke? Did you see a footman in the entryway? A fine carriage in the yard?”

Like that undressing gown, only serviceable furniture populated the library, and none of it was new. This certainly supported what she was saying, for this modest house on Rupert Street would hardly satisfy a duke’s mistress. . . at least, so it seemed.

Still smiling, she caught his gaze with her own. She had a talent for captivating one’s attention with that compelling focus. She appeared to invite him to look into her soul, to learn whether she spoke the truth or not. To discover—everything. He was not immune to the lure. She was a damned attractive woman. Distinctive. Unusual. Her disconcerting self-confidence made her interesting.

“Mr. Radnor, not only was I not this duke’s lover or mistress, but I never even met him.”

And with those words, Chase’s current assignment suddenly became much more difficult.

A fortune. A duke. Minerva tried to absorb the astonishing revelation.

“There must be some error,” she murmured.

Radnor shook his head. “‘Minerva Hepplewhite’ is not a common name. I found you by putting a notice in The Times. One of your neighbors came forward and pointed me to you.”

She stood and paced while she accommodated the shock. She all but forgot Radnor stood by the fireplace until she turned to retrace her steps and saw him there. Tall. Dark. Formidable. A strict posture. Perhaps he had been in the military. His somewhat craggy features would look good in uniform and giving commands on the field. His blue eyes alternated between deep pools and icy barriers.

He exuded power and authority. He was the kind of man that tempted a woman to depend on him for protection and care. And, perhaps, much more. Oh, yes, Mr. Radnor’s presence contained that kind of power too. She experienced an urge to believe anything he said merely to obtain his good favor.

“How much is this inheritance?”

“There is a direct legacy of ten thousand.”

She gasped, her eyes wide, then turned away as she absorbed her shock.

“There is also a partnership in an enterprise in which the duke had invested,” he said to her back. “That holds the promise of much, much more.”

For the very first time in her life she worried she would swoon. To learn such a thing, and in such a bizarre manner—

That sobered her. Her mind cleared and her thoughts lined up the events of this night. She turned and eyed him. “Who are you? Why were you the one sent to find me?”

He crooked his elbow on the edge of the mantel and relaxed into a pose of aristocratic nonchalance. “The duke was my uncle. His heir, my cousin, asked me to help the solicitor find the unfamiliar legatees so the estate can be disbursed in a timely way.”

His cousin was the new duke. That made him the grandson of a previous one. She tried to picture him at a society ball, but instead kept seeing him in a Roman centurion’s uniform. From the evidence revealed by his snug trousers, he had the legs to look good in one.

“How did the duke die?”

He did not respond right away, which only heightened her interest.

“His country manor house has a parapet at the roofline behind which one can walk. He often went there at night to take some air. Unfortunately, one night he . . . fell.”

The slight hesitation and the subtle shift in tone sent a shiver up her spine. She conquered the alarm and held her composure. “An accident, then.”

“Most likely.”

“You are not sure?”

“It will probably be investigated. Dukes have their privileges, even in death.”

She advanced on him until she stood only five feet away. She gazed right into his eyes. “I think you believe it was no accident. You believe he was pushed.” She stepped closer yet. “Perhaps you believe that I was the one who pushed him.”

The ice with which he met her gaze melted and for an instant she saw enough in his eyes to know she was correct.

“Not at all,” he lied. “Now, to claim this inheritance, you will need to present yourself to the solicitor who is serving as executor of the estate.” He reached into his frockcoat and removed a card. “Here is his name and the location of his chambers.”

He made it sound so simple. Only it wasn’t. This legacy would complicate everything, and reopen a perilous door.

She took the card.

“I will show myself out.”

As he walked toward the door, she stared down at the solicitor’s card.

“Oh, there is one other thing,” he said, turning back. “The solicitor may ask you about your history, to ensure you are the right woman. The will referred to you as Minerva Hepplewhite, previously known as Margaret Finley of Dorset, widow of Algernon Finley.”

Then he was gone, leaving her utterly stunned.

She would have sworn that no one in London knew about her history, except Beth and Beth’s son Jeremy. No one.

Yet apparently this duke—the Duke of Hollinburgh—knew exactly who she was.

Now that she thought about it, she was sure Mr. Radnor had not entered her home to make sure he had her identity correct, as he had claimed. There were better ways to do that. He had done so because he had suspicions about her.

Perhaps because he already knew about the murder accusation she had run from back in Dorset.

The next morning, Chase left his apartment and walked across St. James’s Square. He approached a warren of buildings on the western edge of Whitehall.

Robert Peel had written, asking him to meet at nine o’clock. No one else was about yet. Chase wondered if that had been the plan, or if as an industrialist’s son the home secretary always started the day at this hour.

Had the request come from the last home secretary, Chase would have declined. He did not like Sidmouth, or approve of how he had used the power of the office. There had been too many poorly supervised agents making too much trouble throughout the land for his taste. Peel, however, had proven adept at finding other ways to hold down unrest, and had already shepherded a reform of the criminal laws through Parliament.

A good man, from the evidence so far. His father had accumulated tremendous wealth in his textile factories and other ventures, and the son had been raised and educated to have a place in government and society. The next Pitt the Younger, it was said. Home secretary already, and a protégé of Wellington’s, eventually he would probably be a prime minister, and inherit not only that wealth but also the title of baronet his father had received.

As he turned into the Treasury passage and walked beneath its stone vaults, he spied a figure at the end. Of middling height and size, the man had fashionably cropped hair and a face with regular features except for a prominent aquiline nose. Peel was meeting him halfway, and wore his greatcoat. It seemed they would not talk in the office. Chase decided the early hour had been to avoid witnesses after all.

After greeting him, Peel eyed the poultice on his head. “I trust the other fellow fared worse.”

No, the woman who did this is both unharmed and unrepentant. He had considered Minerva Hepplewhite long into the night, wrestling with the way she both annoyed him and . . . fascinated him. If he was correct about his uncle’s death, however, she remained the most likely culprit. Not only her sudden good fortune said as much, but also the very self-possession that impressed him. She was not one to be underestimated.

“It is a small wound—it looks worse than it is.”

“Walk with me,” Peel said.

They fell into step together and began slowly retracing Chase’s path.

“It is my hope that you can solve a conundrum for me,” Peel said. “It has to do with your uncle’s death.”

Peel had been among the many at the funeral. As had Peel’s father, with whom the late duke had some business dealings.

“Had things progressed as they usually do, if his heir received everything, everyone would say what a shame he fell, and that would be that,” Peel said. “That will of his has got tongues wagging, I’m afraid. So much money, and yet so little to the family.”

“That is common knowledge already, is it?”

“Your aunts and a few cousins have not been quiet about their disappointment.”

“It was his personal fortune, to bequeath as he chose.”

“Of course. Of course. And yet, so many angry relatives. Ambiguous circumstances. Mystery legatees. It begs explanation.”

The mystery legatees certainly did. Three names. Three women. No one in the family had ever heard of any of them, and Chase had only tracked down one in the past week. In the fury that greeted the reading of the will, a variety of characterizations of these women had been cast down by family members, none of them flattering.

What were these women to Uncle Frederick? Minerva claimed she was not a mistress; perhaps the others weren’t either. They may have never met the duke, just as she said she had not. They could be dead, for all anyone knew. Some relatives rather counted on that.

Would Uncle Frederick be so eccentric, so perverse, as to give a sizeable portion of his personal estate to three women he had nothing to do with? Chase did not reject the notion out of hand, but if that had happened, how had his uncle come up with these particular women?

“If you say it all begs explanation, I am not going to disagree with you.”

“It is not I who says so. My inclination is to leave it all be. The king, however, says so. The prime minister agrees. Other ministers and several other dukes have called on me. My own father, heaven preserve us—I have been getting many earfuls all week. ‘No way in hell he fell.’ That sort of thing.”

They continued their slow stroll out onto the street.

“I assume you went up there and took a look at that walkway and parapet. What is your view of things?”

No way in hell he fell. “I have not investigated sufficiently to have a view. I assumed if anyone pursued the matter, it would be your office.”

“Ah, yes. Yet to do so would only feed the storm. It would be very public. Everyone would know that suspicions existed. It would be a scandal for your whole family, no matter what was learned. Hence the conundrum.”

“Surely you have someone who can be discreet.”

“It is sure to get out if we launch an official inquiry. Nor are the best agents at my disposal known for being delicate. The insult to your family will be sharp. The destruction of their privacy unthinkable.” Peel stopped walking and faced him. “You have experience in such things, I believe. From your time in the army, and now in society. You are a man to contact if one needs discreet inquiries, I’ve been told.”

“If you are suggesting that I conduct this investigation for you, let me point out that I am hardly disinterested.”

“I am counting on your being most interested. He was like a father to you. You were a favored nephew. I’m sure you want to know what happened. In fact, I assume you intended to conduct an inquiry of your own, no matter what we did.”

Hell, yes, he planned to find out what happened. That was different from acting as an agent of the Home Office, however. “My position will compromise whatever report I give.”

“You mean that if the information points to someone close to you, or to a conclusion that casts aspersions on your uncle’s good name, you will be tempted to turn a blind eye, or handle it the way gentlemen often do.” Peel vaguely smiled. “Well, yes.”

Did you kill him? That knowing smile made the question echo quietly in his head.

“However, your integrity in the matter will never be questioned,” Peel continued. “You are known as a man of character even if your methods are at times unconventional.”

Peel had been talking to people, that was clear. He probably had received more information than Chase wanted to think about. “No matter what I find, there will be those who will think the worst.”

“Let us not worry about all the those. My only concern is with very specific people who want this laid to rest. You would not be in our employ, of course. You would not be one of our agents. Your report would be to me alone, and would be private. I in turn can then respond to those specific people, privately.”

“What if action less private is required? We are talking about a possible murder.” Using the word bluntly sounded stark within all this polite chatting.

Peel gave him a quick, deep scrutiny. “If you conclude justice requires formal and official action, it will have to be taken.” They began walking back to the passage.

“Can I start my day knowing this has been settled?” Peel asked. “I would like to send a few notes indicating an unofficial inquiry is underway.”

Chase weighed the offer. Peel had shifted the conundrum onto him. Yet he had fully intended to use his skills to determine just what had happened up on that roof. If he accepted this private mission, at least there would not be some Home Office agent getting in his way. On the other hand, even in an unofficial capacity, his option to turn that blind eye would be seriously compromised. Finding the truth would become a matter of duty, not just one of personal curiosity.

Perhaps that would be for the best.

“You can write your notes to the king and prime minister. I will do the inquiry and see it through to wherever it ends.”

Two mornings after hitting Chase Radnor on the head, Minerva poured coffee into three cups sitting on the worn wooden table in the kitchen. Beth spooned porridge into bowls, then laid down a loaf of bread along with butter and some cheese. Jeremy, ever polite in his table manners, waited for both of them to sit with him beneath the ceiling beams in the warm chamber. Then he ate with the appetite of the young man he was.

Minerva still saw the boy Jeremy had recently been when she looked at him. She at times had to remind herself that he was one and twenty now.

She broke some bread and spooned at her own porridge and watched him devour the cheese. He was probably still growing. She remembered when he was a lanky blond youth of fifteen. Now he was a lanky blond man, filling out but still thin by nature. His hair hung long because he said his mother always made him look like a serf when she cut it.

He finally slowed down enough to talk. “You should have called me, that’s all I’m saying.”

He picked up a conversation from yesterday, when he had learned about Mr. Radnor’s unusual appearance.

“If you hadn’t moved into the old carriage house, you’d of already been here,” Beth muttered.

“Not that again, Mum.”

“I’m just saying that with you out back we could be butchered in our sleep and you wouldn’t even know.”

“At least he would not be butchered too,” Minerva said. “We did just fine on our own, Jeremy. He didn’t know what hit him until he came to. Now, I want to talk about the legacy.”

Jeremy grinned. “I do too. That’s a lot of money. I was dreaming of a fine pair and a carriage most of last night.”

“I’m glad you were dreaming. I didn’t sleep the last two nights at all. I’ve been too shocked,” Beth said. “Ten thousand is a fortune. And there’s more you said. Even a hundred would be riches I’d never dare pray for. You’ll be wealthier than some fine ladies.”

“We’ll all be rich,” Minerva said. “I am still as stunned as you are. It is too astonishing. All the more so since I never met this duke. I’m sure of it.”

“You must of at some time and just don’t remember,” Jeremy said.

“I’d remember meeting a duke.”

“Maybe he is one of those peculiar sorts who likes to do odd things like give money to strangers,” Jeremy said. “You were just lucky.”

“I have no explanation except that. Yet he knew about me, so it wasn’t entirely random.”

“Knew too much, to my mind,” Beth muttered.

Minerva chose to ignore that. “Someday we will learn how this happened, but I intend to take advantage of the miracle it is. While you dreamed of horses, Jeremy, I was thinking of how we could use some of that money. I have some plans I want to tell you both about.”

“You intend to visit that solicitor and claim it then?” Beth said. “I’m not saying it isn’t tempting. I’ve done some dreaming too the last day. I could use some new pots, for one thing, and a few new caps. But it seems dangerous to me. What if—” She jabbed her spoon into her porridge. “Five years you’ve been safe here. Five years no one knew about your marriage, or about—the rest of it. Now, this could be opening up a door we’d closed and bolted.” She gave Minerva a sharp glance.

Minerva considered Beth her best friend, so she took that glance seriously. Beth had worked for half wages as a servant in Algernon’s home, in order to be allowed to have her young son with her. She had become a mother to the young bride Algernon brought home too. Long before Minerva had found a way to escape that house, these two had become her true family.

“Beth, rejecting the legacy wil. . .