“Is that why you’ve never had him to dine?” she asked as the banker turned his attention to the escritoire.
“Not at all,” he replied, “I respect ambition and would never penalize a man for possessing it. He is tediously dull and pompous, which you no doubt discovered for yourself during your conversation. How long were you bracketed in here with him before I arrived?”
“I cannot say because I do not know when you arrived,” she pointed out logically.
“In time to hear you call me pedantic,” he replied.
She was instantly contrite. “Oh, dear. I am so very sorry.”
He assured her he took no offense. “Naturally, I am accustomed to the charge, for you lodge it against me almost daily.”
“I was not expressing sympathy for you, but for the poor tenants with leaky roofs whose repairs will be delayed so much longer because of Mr. Mayhew’s penchant for pontification,” she explained, then narrowed her eyes in confusion when the man in question began to attack the bergère next to the writing desk. “Goodness gracious, what is he doing now?”
“Overcoming his awe of chairs,” Kesgrave said.
In fact, after an extended struggle to extricate the front left leg, which had got snagged by the rug, the banker sat down at the table, extracted a sheet of paper from one of its compartments and dipped a nib in ink. “Oh, I see, he’s writing an editorial for the London Morning Gazette about the new Duchess of Kesgrave’s huge impudence,” she said wryly. “I hope you don’t mind public ridicule, your grace.”
“As long as it’s not in the form of a caricature by Rowlandson, I have no objection,” he replied.
Since their host seemed to have settled in to pen his missive, she decided to make herself comfortable as well and reached for the pot of tea, which had cooled to tepid while Mr. Mayhew was expounding on his illustrious family’s many accomplishments. “I believe that ship sailed long ago, your grace. If Rowlandson wasn’t already making my wan cheeks excessively red after the incident at Lord Stirling’s ball, he will begin as soon as our episode at the Particular becomes more widely known. Rest assured, the servants are already talking about it,” she said, pouring a cup and offering it to the duke, who accepted it with a murmured thank you. “I expect a print of me wearing a comically large pair of spectacles and examining the lint in Prinny’s pocket to appear in Hannah Humphries’s window by Thursday week, so you must resign yourself to it now or be prepared to give testimony against me in ecclesiastical court later. Concerned more about your dignity than my happiness, Aunt Vera would consider a print shop in St. James sufficient provocation and instigate the proceedings herself.”
“You inflate your aunt’s excesses. Rather she would take the more practical route of instructing me to buy all the copies and offering to burn them herself. Divorce would shame your family too,” he said.
Affecting astonishment, Bea stared at the duke. “Good lord, Kesgrave, I don’t know what you have been about these past few weeks if you have failed to learn that my aunt would gladly tarnish her own name to burnish yours. Her awe of nobility might not be as self-serving as Mr. Mayhew’s, but it is just as tedious.”
Kesgrave, who refused to allow that anyone’s awe of nobility could be quite as tedious as Mr. Mayhew’s, glanced at the clock and noted the time. “It appears to be a long editorial.”
Bea took a sip of tea that had cooled beyond tepid to outright cold. “My impudence is very huge.”
He smiled broadly as he raised his own cup to his lips. “To my infinite delight.”
As sighing in infatuation could not be deemed an appropriate activity for the drawing room of a tiresome neighbor, she contented herself with a growl of impatience and wondered if she could finish her interview with Parsons while his employer was distracted. Mr. Mayhew was unlikely to notice her absence.
Perhaps that was the sum total of Mr. Mayhew’s plan and the reason he was writing furiously at the escritoire. He thought if he ignored the impertinent interloper long enough, she would leave of her own accord.
If that was his scheme, then it was a facile one. Having felt no compunction about elbowing her way into his home to scrutinize the floor under his kitchen cupboards, she would certainly not find a writing desk to be an insurmountable barrier.
Possibly, that was the level to which his scheming rose—simple minded and futile. She had already noted his lack of intelligence and the misplaced confidence he had in his own abilities.
“Three more minutes,” she said firmly.
Kesgrave returned his teacup to the table and agreed to her plan, for three minutes was a sufficient amount of time for Mr. Mayhew to finish his article. “Or is it a novella?”
“Then we storm the escritoire,” she said rousingly.
Responding to the slight revolutionary fervor in her tone, he owned himself ready for the battle. “Just hand me my quill.”
Bea laughed lightly at the image of the elegant Duke of Kesgrave in his pristine tailoring brandishing a pen against poor Mr. Mayhew is his clashing silks. Calmly, she inquired about his presence at number forty-forty. “I am still not clear why you left Mr. Stephens in a froth over the tenants to pay a call on a neighbor whom you dislike. Your actions defy logic, your grace.”
“My actions defy logic?” he said softly with pointed emphasis before insisting that froth overstated the steward’s condition. “Let’s call it a fizz. And, yes, Mr. Stephens was in a fizz over the tenants, but he was also understanding of a newly married man’s needs.”
“To spend time with his wife?” she asked archly, leaning forward to grasp the handle of the teacup and wishing Henry would appear soon with a plate of cakes. His delay was hardly surprising given the
