Dolan listened, then sat back and rubbed his chin.
“You would make these terms public, Deene?”
This was the crucial moment, when Dolan’s shrewdness and social ambition had to blend and balance so the choice Deene wanted Dolan to make became the choice Dolan grasped as his own device.
“You would not trust my word any farther than you could throw me, Dolan.” Deene shot his cuffs and fiddled with a sapphire-encrusted sleeve button.
“Would you trust mine?”
Deene wrinkled his nose. “Marie accused you of many things, but dishonesty was not among them. Your reputation, plebeian though it is, is one for veracity.”
“Such flattery, Deene… I can only return the compliment. You are a pompous, arrogant, overstuffed exponent of your most useless and only occasionally decorative class, but if you give me your word you’ll abide by the terms laid out here today, then I will give you my word as well. Neither of us would be served by visiting notoriety on Georgina’s situation.”
Deene thrust out a hand. “Done. On the terms stated.”
Dolan had a firm handshake, and somewhere along the way, somebody had explained to him that the gentleman’s handshake was not an exercise in breaking finger bones.
“When shall we do this, Deene, and where?”
“There’s a practice course not two miles from Epsom, and I’m thinking the week before the June meet. Much later, and the heat can be oppressive.”
He should have been more casual, should have kept his cards closer to his chest, but to let the matter linger was going to wear on Eve and see the horse overconditioned.
“Last week in May, then, with the social crowd still preoccupied in Town. The alternative would be July, when the house parties start up, or after the grouse moors open in August.”
Dolan was watching him, no doubt gauging from Deene’s reaction just what the state of King William’s conditioning was.
“Suit yourself, Dolan. I was going to enter William at Epsom—anybody with ears has heard that much in the clubs.”
“May, then. I’ll be having a look at this course before I agree to turn my pony loose on it, Deene. Dirty footing or rotten timber serves no one.”
“Now you do attempt to insult me, Dolan. I thought Greymoor might head the ground jury.”
“A ground jury? This isn’t exactly a Jockey Club match, Deene.”
“Nor is it merely a lark between two gentlemen.”
Dolan appeared to consider the point. “Greymoor and two fellows of his choosing, one from your set, one from mine.”
“Fair enough.”
“And, Deene? This match will be conducted as if it were a lark between two gentlemen. I want a damned crowd to see you go down to defeat, a big, not entirely inebriated crowd, the titled half of which is going to line my pockets every bit as much as you are.”
“But of course.” Deene had the sense this boasting was where the real posturing had begun. “We’ll make it the usual holiday, and see who goes down to defeat before whom.”
Dolan smiled again, but this time, the expression reached the man’s eyes. It struck Deene that had he wished to, Jonathan Dolan might have been a charming man, even handsome in his way.
“I’ll see myself out, Dolan, and wish you best of luck.”
“Oh, and the same to you, Deene. You’ll need it.”
A beat of silence went by, during which Deene suspected he was to ask again after his niece, perhaps even ask to see her. He did not ask; Dolan did not offer.
Deene took his leave, trying to formulate how he’d convey this development—some acceptable version of this development—to his wife.
“What is this?” Eve looked at the shreds of paper in her lap, and the red string among them.
“That is my promise to you, Eve.”
Deene stood over her where she sat at breakfast. Since they’d last made love a week ago, it was as close as he’d come to her, even in bed.
“Your promise?” Eve glanced up and noticed that the footman typically assigned to tend the sideboard was nowhere to be seen. “What promise is this?”
“We’re at a stalemate, Wife.” Deene moved off and closed the door to the breakfast parlor. “You cannot countenance a lawsuit. I cannot abandon a promise made to my sister. I am promising you I will not now, I will not ever, resort to litigation to keep my promise to Marie.”
He looked very fierce but also guarded. The guardedness kept Eve from throwing her arms around his neck in relief.
“I am very pleased to hear this, Deene. Can we discuss this?”
“What is there to discuss?”
He took the seat at the head of the table, which was at Eve’s right elbow. The way he snapped his serviette across his lap only confirmed Eve’s sense that their problem was intensifying, not resolving.
“How will you keep your promise to Marie when Mr. Dolan does not allow you to be a proper uncle to our niece?”
“Are you sure you want me to answer your question, Eve? If I do answer, you might like it even less than you liked the idea of a perfectly legal civil suit brought by legal intermediaries and resolved by a judge according to rules of evidence, statute, and case law.”
The tea Eve had begun her day with started rebelling in her belly. “I do want you to answer the question, Deene.”
But Eve wondered what he could say that she’d want to hear? That he’d decided his niece meant nothing to him? That his niece meant less than his wife? Was this what Westhaven had been intimating all those days ago? Was Eve angling for some assurance of her place as foremost in her husband’s affections?
Was she still that insecure? Still that much afraid her past controlled her future?
“There is to be a friendly little match race between Dolan’s colt and King William. A sum of money has been wagered, all quite symbolic and good-natured.”
She studied him as he poured a cup of tea for her, then one for himself. The pleasant scent of Darjeeling wafted to her nose, and steam curled up from their cups as Deene set the cream and sugar by Eve’s plate.
“You have wagered my dowry, haven’t you?”
He spooned sugar into her cup. “I have made a gentleman’s wager with Dolan. It will not be reflected on any betting books. The amount remains between Dolan and myself, and even he understands that to bruit it about would only redound to our mutual discredit.”
Deene poured cream into Eve’s cup and gave her tea a stir. So attentive, her husband, so considerate.
What had she done?
“I was given to understand our finances are tentative, Deene.”
“By whom?”
“Anthony, for one. He was apologizing for the household allowance at Denning Hall before he last took his leave of us, but I honestly cannot agree with his assessment of matters.”
Deene stirred his own tea. “In what regard?”
“The allowance is ample, at least based on what I know so far. Her Grace and Westhaven have been on something of a campaign in recent months to make sure Jenny and I understand and can manage our own funds. It isn’t complicated.”
Deene blew out a breath. “It should not be, but add properties all over the realm, throw in a sorry lot of bankers, allow a few solicitors onto your dole, and fairly soon, it’s all Anthony can do to keep the picture up to date, much less make improvements upon it.”
His words, tired, quiet, and laced with despair tore at Eve even as they enraged her. “So why in God’s name
