Kesgrave, his lips twitching with familiar amusement, reminded his wife that there was no need for them to assume false identities. “We will stride into the bank as the Duke and Duchess of Kesgrave and announce that we would like to deposit funds in a new account.”
Bea, whose opinion of his plan had not improved upon repetition, pointed out yet again how foolish it was to act with such blatancy. “The clerk will know at once something havey-cavey is going on when two such august personages purport to step into their bank on a Sunday afternoon to personally open an account.”
“You must not worry: Our forthright manner will disconcert them,” he said definitively.
Not worry about marching into enemy territory without an assumed identity! ’Twas madness. “I cannot comprehend how you can say that with such certainty.”
“Because all these months later I am still disconcerted by yours,” he explained, teasingly.
“Now you are trying to flatter me,” she muttered, “but I am not as susceptible to blandishments. If you cannot do a Scottish brogue, let us try Welsh, which is perhaps a little less of a challenge, as it is phonetically similar to the English spoken in Bristol, although it is non-rhotic.”
But rather than speak with a melodic lilt or make any attempt to lengthen his vowels, the duke slipped forward on the bench, brushed a wisp of hair gently back from her forehead and took possession of her lips. Startled, she protested briefly, then succumbed to its effects, for it was intoxicating and sweet, and made her heart thump with happiness and need.
It ended as abruptly as it began, with Kesgrave sliding back in his seat.
Bea curled her fingers under the cushion to ensure her balance, which felt a little unreliable, and stared blankly for a moment, taking the time to gather her wits.
No doubt that had been precisely his intention.
“Really, Kesgrave, you should have a little self-respect,” she said satirically, “for you are not wholly without rhetorical gifts. Before attempting to seduce me into agreement, you owe it to yourself to at least try to make a persuasive argument.”
Naturally, he did not own the tactic, insisting the display of affection was an earnest gesture, not a calculated maneuver. “You are genuinely irresistible, brat.”
Bea did not doubt his sincerity, for the Duke of Kesgrave had long revealed himself to be a man of unusual tastes, and as gratified as she was by his lack of resistance, she did not allow it to alter her purpose.
Acknowledging the compliment with a brisk nod, she wondered if perhaps he would not do better with an accent from another region altogether. “What if we go farther southward and try Cornish? The language itself is derived from the Brythonic branch of Celtic, and lenition occurs in the f, s, and th sounds.”
Aghast at the information, Kesgrave said, “How on earth did you acquire such an arcane assortment of dialectical minutia?”
Bea was vaguely shocked by the question, for the answer should have been readily apparent to him. “Wattlesworth’s History of Languages and Their Improving Effects on Civilization from the 15th Century through the 18th Century with a Brief Sojourn to 13th-Century Salisbury.”
“What is a Wattlesworth, I wonder,” he murmured.
“Although I applaud the effort, your grace, your attempt to distract me will bear no fruit,” Bea said matter-of-factly, her grip on the cushion loosening as she grew more confident in her stability. “That said, a Wattlesworth is Lester J. Wattlesworth, a don of comparative philology at Oxford, and I am happy to lend you his compendium if your own library does not already contain it. Now please, if you will, demonstrate your proficiency in your preferred dialect and we shall construct our identity from there.”
“I cannot decide if I am gratified by your assumption that my education was so comprehensive as to include lessons in thespianism or insulted that you’d think a peer of my standing would require them,” he replied.
“Ah, so you are lacking the skill entirely,” she said with a hint of disappointment. “You must not feel bad, your grace. I did not think to ask you which accents you were capable of before we wed, and that oversight is mine. No matter. I will do the talking once we arrive. Are you content to be the Erskines from Thurso or do you have some objection?”
Refusing to be provoked, Kesgrave announced that his family name would stand them in excellent stead, especially if Mr. Mayhew was present.
To be sure, this was a wrinkle Bea had failed to consider, for she could not imagine any gentleman returning to his post only a day after a member of his staff had been ruthlessly decapitated. Even if he cared little for the chef’s death, having contrived it personally himself, she thought it behooved him to at least appear too distraught to take up his responsibilities.
Pointing this fact out to the duke, Bea was irritated by his insistence that it made no difference either way to the success of their scheme and mumbling softly under her breath, lamented the vexatious assurance of overly confident men. It was, she knew, an unfair charge, for no matter how much the duke’s unshakable certainty might frustrate her, it bore no resemblance to Mr. Mayhew’s unearned entitlement.
Unaware of the company to which she had silently consigned him, Kesgrave chuckled and promised her his confidence was always perfectly calibrated to the situation.
At this statement, which seemed to prove her point, Bea wanted to screech, but she was denied the opportunity by their arrival at the bank.
Blast it!
They had still yet to settle on an approach.
As if suddenly aware that her anxiety was genuine, the duke took her hand in his and said
