Page 21 of The Dueling Duchess

She shrugged and glanced down at her hand, absently wiping away some of the gun oil with a cloth. “It is doubtful the next king would have engaged a female gunsmith, but my father had nobody else. He taught me everything he knew. I am an expert gunsmith,” she said, her chin lifting, her voice as proud as her posture.

Guy doubted there was an English peer alive who didn’t yearn to possess a Blanchet firearm—either a pistol or a fowling piece—which were works of art as well as exceptional guns.

“Why aren’t you producing guns?” he asked in amazement. “I would think—”

“I have no right to do so. My cousin Curtis Blanchard owns the rights to manufacture Blanchet firearms in Britain,” she said, the words clipped and abrupt, and clearly not a subject she was interested in discussing with him.

Guy left the matter alone, instead saying, “My grandfather has a Blanchet fowling piece. It is his favorite gun.”

She smiled faintly at that. “How did he acquire it?”

“It was a gift from the king—Louis the fifteenth—who gave it to him when my grandfather was on his tour of the Continent, something young aristocratic males did back before the War.”

“That would have been made by my grandfather.”

“There are initials on the gun—M.C.B.”

“Every Blanchet male has borne the same name—Michel Charles—so there is no way to distinguish the guns by name, but there should have been a number?”

“Yes—I actually remember it because he has allowed me to use the gun on occasion. It’s a 1747-19.”

“That is the year it was made and would have been the nineteenth gun my grandfather finished that year.”

Regardless of the promise he’d just given, Guy was on the cusp of asking why her name didn’t begin with an M if her father had trained her to be his successor.

But her next words stopped him. “What I just told you is something I’ve not told anyone else—not even Marianne.”

It was clear to see the two women were close, even though separated by at least a decade. Guy felt both startled and honored. “I won’t tell anyone.”

She turned back to her table. “I will see you next week, Mr. Darling.”

This time she didn’t stop him when he left.

Chapter 4

“Clean the dressing room from top to bottom and make sure all the costumes that are jumbled on the settee are returned to the wardrobe mistress. Give the stove a fresh blacking and fix the leg of the wobbly stool,” Guy muttered in a high voice that—admittedly—sounded nothing at all like Marianne Simpson’s. “And don’t forget to wash the mirrors and clean out the drawers in both dressing tables. And while you’re about all that, make sure you take time to turn water into wine.”

Somebody snickered behind him, making him jump.

Guy turned to find Elliot. “Good Lord! I thought it was her behind me.”

“I doubt she would have laughed,” Elliot pointed out.

“Could you at least make some noise if you’re going to sneak up on me?” Guy demanded pettishly.

Before his friend and roommate could answer he accused, “I thought our all-powerful employer-slash-overlady gave you dispensation to leave today, so why are you still here?”

“Look who got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

“That’s because it’s six thirty in the bloody morning.”

Guy, Elliot, and Sin had just left the crack-of-dawn twice-weekly meeting that Marianne insisted upon. It was not an event that put Guy in a good mood.

“Who gets up this early?” Guy demanded.

“Pretty much most of the population of London.”

“Yes, well, they don’t usually stay up until five, do they?” Guy yawned so hugely that it threatened to dislocate his jaw.