Either way, the banker’s face lost all hint of color when Kesgrave murmured softly, “I am generally indifferent to the opinions of others.”
Ah, so he had heard that part.
Mr. Mayhew, despite the limitations imposed on him by generational privilege, arrived at the same conclusion with equal speed and adjusted his tact in an instant. “What a remarkable coincidence, your grace, for I had just said the very same thing to your duchess not ten minutes before. It is such an admirable trait to have. So many of us worry what society will think, and I count myself among that number. That is why your outlook is so refreshing. So…refreshing,” he repeated slowly as he came to the end of his steam of flattering prattle and realized he did not know how to proceed.
Amused, Bea watched his eyes flutter erratically as he evaluated the situation, trying to figure out where the duke stood on the matter of his wife’s strange proclivities so that he may stand there too. On the face of it, it should have been a simple calculation, for Kesgrave loathed inconvenience and allowing his wife to interfere in another man’s household would create endless nuisances.
Clearly, he should hold the line.
And yet the duke was there in Mr. Mayhew’s own drawing room—after two years of invitations!—bestirring himself on behalf of his wife’s strange proclivity.
Like a gambler trying to access the strength of another player’s hand from the expression on his face, Mr. Mayhew examined Kesgrave’s features for a long moment and, detecting nothing useful, made a wild guess.
“And so, even though I know it might present a few challenges, I would be deeply grateful to her grace if she would consent to look into the matter of Monsieur Alphonse for me,” the banker said with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm. Having made his decision, he seemed alive to the benefits of allowing a duchess to run tame in his home.
Although the request was made of Bea, the appeal itself was addressed to her husband, who displayed no inclination to reply, causing Mr. Mayhew to clutch the handkerchief so tightly his knuckles turned white. Bea allowed the awkward silence to stretch to a second past intolerable and pronounced herself delighted to offer her expertise.
“Wonderful, simply wonderful,” the banker said, his smile as disgruntled as it was relieved. “Do make yourself comfortable, my dear, while I ring for fresh tea and cakes. And for you, your grace, perhaps a glass of port,” he said, eagerly tugging the bell pull.
Almost immediately, Henry presented himself at the door, and having arranged for the comfort of his guests, Mr. Mayhew sat down in the chair opposite them on the settee. “I have not congratulated you yet on your good fortune, your grace, which is quite remiss of me. I wish you and the duchess every happiness in your union.”
As it was most certainly not a social call, Bea refused to indulge his pretense that it was and asked him what he had hoped to achieve by having le peu guillotine destroyed.
It was a simple enough question, but Mr. Mayhew professed himself utterly baffled and repeated it out loud several times with varying emphasis in an effort to improve his understanding. “What did I hope to achieve? What did I hope to achieve?”
Slowly, the implication of the query seemed to occur to him and his outrage increased by degrees until every part of him was consumed by offense. Jumping to his feet, he launched into a tirade against her extraordinary impudence. “How dare you come into my home and ask me what I hoped to achieve. I am not insensible to the insidiousness of your claim. You are implying that I had something to do with Monsieur Alphonse’s death. It is an act of inconceivable gall, inconceivable gall I tell you, to sit on my settee in my drawing room and accuse me of something so contemptible as cutting the head off my own chef. I am a gentleman, your grace. A gentleman! I do not settle arguments with kitchen implements. By God, I don’t! If violence is necessary, it is pistols at dawn! And you dare to imply that I have behaved with murderous intensity. I, the head of Mayhew & Co., a banking institution that dates back over one hundred years. You insult not only me but generations of Mayhews. Generations! I cannot conceive of your insolence.”
Pacing the floor, he vented his outrage with no concern for his guests, and Bea, little worried she would miss something important, such as an inadvertent admission of guilt, slid closer to the duke. “Another successful frank conversation,” she observed in a low voice. “I cannot thank you enough, your grace, for that helpful suggestion. I have found it to be a very effective technique for gathering information.”
As if incapable of resisting the urge to touch her, he ran his fingers lightly down her back and said softly, “I am willing to concede that I might have somewhat of an advantage in initiating frank conversations, as I’m reasonably certain I’ve never caused anyone to rail at the drapery.”
She looked across the room at Mr. Mayhew, who was demanding an explanation for Bea’s impudence from the curtains. “I believe he’s in consultation with them. Oh, no, wait, he’s raising his fist in anger. Now he is railing. I am not sure how to respond to his tantrum. Without question, the more humane reaction would be to interrupt before he collapses in apoplexy or embarrasses himself in front of the servants, for Henry will be back at any moment with the tray. And yet I cannot help but feel it is good for him to rant freely in the presence of a duke, for overcoming his awe of nobility can only improve his character.”
Kesgrave’s lips twisted cynically. “It is
