“Bit of an extravagance, don’t you think?”
A casual question, but it might also be an attempt to shift the interrogation away from Anthony’s bastard children and to put Deene on the defensive.
Or were the rumors in Town just taking a greater toll on Deene’s composure than he’d realized?
“I have larger problems than whether I can afford to stock my spice rack, Anthony, or perhaps I should say, we have greater problems.”
Anthony frowned at him. “If you’re going to harangue me about the ledgers, old boy, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in nigh a week, and much of what you want is kept in Town.”
“Anthony, while you have the luxury of maintaining a casual establishment with a female, I am very publicly soon to be in the market for a wife.”
Anthony topped off his teacup and stared at his plate. “I know you feel you must marry, Deene, but you’re hardly at your last prayers, and if need be, I can stick my neck in the marital noose. If nothing else, we know I can get children. Mary Jane will raise ten kinds of hell, but sometimes a little liveliness has enjoyable results.”
“You’d marry to spare me the effort?”
Anthony’s gaze when he met Deene’s eyes was hard to read. “I
Something eased in Deene’s chest, a doubt, a worry, something he was relieved not to have to name.
“You cannot know how grateful I am to hear it, Anthony, because our situation might come to such a pass.”
They spent more than an hour in the breakfast parlor, dissecting each rumor, tracing its likely impact.
“Kesmore isn’t a gossip, but he lurks in the usual places—at the clubs, in the card rooms, and at Tatt’s. I trust his information.”
Anthony’s expression was thoughtful. “What about his motives?”
“In what sense?” While it was good to have a sounding board, Deene could not like the direction of Anthony’s thoughts.
“He’s married to a Windham, and there are at least two of those yet available for marriage. If he’s not in favor of your courting his countess’s sisters, he’ll want to discredit you—all’s fair in love and war, right?”
Eve had brought up the same point. “I served with him in Spain, Anthony, and as far as I can see, the man would simply tell me to take my business elsewhere. He does not lack for courage or suffer an excess of delicate sensibilities. Moreover, it makes no sense he’d start a number of rumors and then be the first to inform me of them. I say we’re back to Dolan.”
Anthony winced and rearranged his cutlery on his empty plate. “What’s his motive?”
“Spite. The same motive he has for keeping Georgina from us.”
When there was no reply, Deene lifted the pot to refresh their tea, only to find it empty.
“What aren’t you saying, Anthony?”
“I, of all men, have a reason to hate Dolan. Marie and I…” Anthony looked away, out the windows toward the pastures rolling beyond the gardens. “That is ancient history, but I cannot help but wonder from time to time about what might have been. I should know better, but memory is not always the slave of common sense.”
This was tricky ground. Deene did not interrupt.
“But even I, who cannot stand to hear Dolan’s name, am not entirely comfortable ascribing this behavior to him. For one thing, if there is a scandal to be brewed regarding unsound health or finances, the scandal will eventually devolve to Georgina’s discredit. Whatever else he is, Dolan is not stupid.”
Valid point—an aggravatingly valid point, and yet Deene did not want to acquit Dolan of mischief he’d clearly delight in.
“Dolan is cunning, I’ll grant you, but he’s an upstart. He will not know that ten years is nothing when it comes to Polite Society’s recall of scandal and gossip. He might very well think he can topple my expectations now, and when Georgie makes her come out, there will be no association between my ruin and her fortunes. It makes one worry for the girl.”
“Worry for the girl will not redress the reality that insufficient worry was devoted to her mother, though to the extent that I can, Deene, I appreciate your sentiments regarding Georgina’s welfare.”
On that sad note, Anthony took his leave while Deene remained at the table for another half hour, staring at the empty pot.
Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, was looking adorable. Her husband of more than thirty years closed the door to his private study and took a moment to appreciate the privilege of seeing her thus.
She was curled on the end of the sofa closest to the windows, her feet tucked under her, a lurid novel in her hand, and a pair of His Grace’s reading spectacles on her elegant nose. As the door clicked shut behind him, she looked up and smiled at her spouse.
When he’d suffered a heart seizure two years past, His Grace had lain amid all the ducal splendor of his household, praying with abject fervor to be allowed to live for a just few more years—even a few more months— basking in the warmth of that smile.
“Percival Windham, you shouldn’t have.”
He glanced down at the yellow tulips in his hand. “I spared the roses, and it’s my own damned garden. I can pick a few posies for a pretty girl when I jolly well please to.”
He crossed to the sideboard, poured some water in a glass, and stuck the flowers on the windowsill. His wife would pass by the bouquet, move a couple of blooms about and rearrange the greenery, and instead of looking ridiculous in a ducal study, the flowers would look exactly right.
He adored this about her as well.
She set her novel aside—reading one by daylight was a sure sign none of the children were in residence—and patted the place beside her on the sofa. “What’s the occasion?”
“Does love need an occasion?”
She cocked her head and studied him. “Give me a hint.”
“It is the anniversary of our third kiss.”
The smile blossomed again, a trifle naughtier to a doting husband’s eye.
“The Scorcher.”
She had named many of their earliest romantic encounters.
The Scorcher. The Ambush. The Ravishment of My Reason. The Obliteration of My Resistance.
He particularly enjoyed recalling that last one and thought she did too. Nothing had pleased a young husband more than to hear a catalogue of his wooing as categorized in Her Grace’s intimate lexicon.
“Yes, the Scorcher.” He took a seat beside her, and when he reached for her hand, she was already reaching for his. “Such an occasion is not to pass without a token of my esteem.”
“And we have the day to ourselves.”
“My love, though I know you enjoy my company without reservation, you do not sound particularly happy to find us home alone without a single child underfoot.”
She blew out a breath, her expression suggesting His Grace’s marital intuition had scored a lucky hit. “I worry about the girls.”
She worried about all the children, their spouses, the grandchildren.
“They’ll look after one another. How much trouble can they get into with the entire Morelands staff ready to peach on them should they get up to mischief, and Kesmore close at hand?”
“Peaching is all well and good, but better yet they should be prevented from getting up to mischief in the first place.”
His Grace did not entirely agree with his wife on this point. Children needed to err and stumble and right themselves early and often, in theory. In practice, he knew he had the luxury of assuming such a posture—for it was a posture—only because Her Grace was indulging a rare spate of fretting.
They took turns at it, truth be known.
“You are concerned for our Evie,” His Grace observed. “Or am I mistaken?”
