Somersham, Cambridgeshire

August 1818

"The duchess is so very… very… well, really, most charming. So…" With an angelic smile, Mr. Postlethwaite, the vicar of Somersham, gestured airily. "Continental, if you take my meaning."

Standing by the vicarage gate while she waited for the gig to be brought around, Honoria Wetherby only wished she could. Wringing information from the local vicar was always one of her first actions on taking up a new position; unfortunately, while her need for information was more acute than usual, Mr. Postlethwaite's comments were unhelpfully vague. She nodded encouragingly-and pounced on the one point which might conceivably mean something. "Is the duchess foreign-born?"

"Dowager Duchess." Mr. Postlethwaite beamed. "She likes to be called that now. But foreign?" Head to one side, he considered the point. "I suppose some might call her so-she was French-born and -bred. But she's been amongst us so long, she seems a part of our landscape. Indeed"-his eyes brightened-"she's something of a feature on our limited horizon."

That much, Honoria had gleaned. It was one reason she needed to know more. "Does the Dowager join the congregration here? I didn't see any ducal arms about." Glancing at the neat stone church beyond the vicarage, she recalled numerous commemorative inscriptions honoring the deceased from various lordly houses, including some scions of the Claypoles, the family whose household she joined last Sunday. But no ducal plaques, helpfully inscribed with name and title, had she discovered anywhere.

"On occasion," Mr. Postlethwaite replied. "But there's a private church at the Place, quite beautifully appointed. Mr. Merryweather is chaplain there. The duchess is always reliable in her devotions." He shook his head sadly. "Not, I'm afraid, a general characteristic of that family."