“You hurry away,” he replied, trailing his fingers down her cheek. “I suspect I’m not the only person in this carriage with secrets, Theo. You might consider trusting me with yours.”
Never. “Here’s a secret. Seraphina waits up for me, so I must not linger conversing with you here, or she’ll ask what I found to discuss with the handsome, charming Mr. Tresham.”
He opened the door. “Handsome and charming. Now you dissemble when I’ve been nothing but honest. Sweet dreams, Theo.”
She took the footman’s hand and let him escort her to the door, then slipped inside the house lest any neighbors see an elegant town coach parked by her doorstep at such a late hour.
“You are handsome and charming,” she said, closing and locking the door behind her, “and I cannot be your duchess.”
* * *
“One generally rejoices to receive a duke on one’s doorstep.” Anselm handed Jonathan his hat and walking stick, as if Jonathan were the bloody butler. “You look like a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
Jonathan was a man not in the mood for His Grace’s games. The night had been long, the encounter with Theo unsettling. Then Moira had started fretting again.
“Which word? Duke? I’m learning more about that sorry reality every day. For example, being a duke means employing a staff who claim venerable years. Said staff is prone to rheumatism, catarrhs, hay fevers, gout, and all manner of ailments about which one must be regaled at length. I conclude that whatever other faculties fade with an abundance of years, verbal stamina only increases.”
Theo would scold him for whining, but the housekeeper, butler, and first footman were all laid low with one ailment or another.
“The word I referred to,” Anselm said, “was rejoice. A handy verb. To feel joy or delight. From the Latin gaudere. One rejoices to behold my splendiferous self on one’s doorstep.”
“Rejoice,” Jonathan said, leading his guest up to the estate office. “Rhymes with no choice and Miss Annabelle Boyce of the contralto voice. If I should become a duke—not that I wish for the day—will I also enjoy your handsome complement of humility?”
Anselm had the good sense to wait until he was behind a closed door. “Tresham, are you well?”
Had Jonathan indulged in even two hours more rest over the past few days, had Moira not been in such a mood last night, had the discussion with Theo not been so puzzling, had any of the various ledgers he was wrestling with balanced, he might have conjured up an appropriately witty reply.
“Why must women be so complicated, Anselm?”
“Because men are so thickheaded?” Anselm’s answer sounded tentative, like a working theory developed after much thought, which made Jonathan feel marginally better.
“The hypothesis has merit. Are you in the mood for spirits, tea, or something else?”
The Quimbey estate office overlooked the gardens, an abundance of windows being conducive to accurate calculations. Compared to the tidy geometry of the garden, the office was a mess.
“I’m in the mood for friendly conversation.” Anselm moved a stack of ledgers from the boys’ foundling home to clear off a reading chair. “You’ve been busy.”
The remains of Jonathan’s breakfast tray sat on the blotter. The rest of the room was adorned with piles of correspondence, ledgers, wage books, and agricultural treatises.
“Quimbey is in love.” Jonathan tossed himself into the seat behind the desk. As a boy, that chair had felt like an oversized throne. Now it felt too small for his weight and in need of new cushions. “And even the furniture in this household is ailing.”
“Quimbey’s affliction is relatively recent.” Anselm helped himself to a slice of cold, buttered toast. “This office looks as if somebody has been battling the forces of chaos,”—he munched his toast—“and losing the fight.”
“Quimbey has been relying on the same house steward for fifty years, Anselm. If I see Carruthers tap his forehead one more time and assure me, ‘It’s all up here,’ I will not answer for the consequences. I like ledgers generally, I enjoy math, and make a contribution with my skills where I can, but this…”
“You don’t enjoy math. You delight in it with a passion most men reserve for a new hunter or their first love. What’s changed?” Anselm went after the cold tea next.
“Anselm, I can ring for a fresh tray, though it won’t arrive before Michaelmas.”
“No need for a fresh tray. This one’s only half gone. I suspect the chaos in this room has something to do with a particular widow being complicated.”
That hypothesis also had merit. “I generally find peace in numbers. These numbers reduce me to cursing. Quimbey must be the last peer in England to own unenclosed land, and I don’t fancy the hue and cry when I rectify his oversight.”
“My ducal seat remains unenclosed,” Anselm said. “Enclosure is expensive. It puts a whole village off the land and invariably reduces the circumstances of any who remain. If the village retains an open common, then every family can have a decent garden, a cow or two, some sheep. England is no longer at war, so claims that every acre must be driven to maximum productivity ring false.”
That was not an argument put forth by any other aristocrat of Jonathan’s acquaintance. “But you lose money.”
Anselm added a dollop of milk to his cold tea. “Those people have been loyal to my family for generations, Tresham. I have enough money. Do I really want a larger fortune at the cost of forty-five families’ well-being? No, I do not. Be whatever sort of duke you please, but that is the sort of duke I am and intend to be. My duchess disapproves of greed, and I don’t much respect it myself.”
His Grace brushed imaginary crumbs from his cravat, though his words were either so backward as to be feudal or the stuff of reform.
“Theo disapproves of greed.”
“Theo, is it? Well, then, I suppose you’ll be offering for her.” Anselm’s supposition bore a certain inference, one redolent of pistols at dawn for a man who trifled with impoverished widows.
Which was surely one of the reasons Anselm was worthy of the name friend. “I’ve asked permission to court her. She’s making me earn that privilege.”
“Smart woman.” The duke took a sip of cold tea, managing to look more elegant than Brummell in full evening regalia.
“She feels it necessary to remind me that I have many other options, but that she alone holds the power to accept a marriage proposal from me.”
“Brilliant woman, rather. Has she discussed with you the circumstances of her husband’s demise?”
“Very openly, I think.”
Anselm’s attention was absorbed with choosing a biscuit from the tray, though there were only three on offer. “Tread lightly. The late Mr. Haviland had faults, but he was her husband.”
And now, Anselm, who never trod lightly, was stirring his cold tea.
“Go ahead and dunk your biscuit, Anselm. You know you want to. Dunk it in the milk, and I won’t tell a soul.”
“I am a duke,” he said, dipping his sweet into the little pitcher of milk. “I am allowed my crotchets. What will you do with the club?”
How a man could look imposing while dipping a biscuit into the milk pitcher was a mystery known only to dukes.
“What has the club to do with anything?”
Anselm took a bite of his sweet. “Dukes are well advised to avoid illegal activities.”
“You lent me money to help finance the purchase of the place.”
“I was new to my station. I’ve since married a very demanding woman, and I know better than to give anybody grounds to create a scandal lest Her Grace be wroth with me. My children would be disappointed in me, and that is a penance with which no man should acquaint himself.”
Slurp.
“A father who betrays his children’s trust is a disgrace to the male gender,” Jonathan said.
He got up to pace, because Anselm had put his blunt finger on an issue that Moira had tried to raise again las
t night. A gambling establishment was illegal, while a supper club where a man could have a game of friendly cards was entirely within the bounds of the law. The line was far from clear, but The Coventry operated on the wrong side of it.
“We won’t be raided, Anselm. I take precautions.”
“Well, then, what matters a little illegality in the hands of a peer’s heir if you’re taking illegal precautions to hide your illegal ventures? Hasn’t it occurred to you that your competitors could easily join together and take other precautions and raise your bribe—or your bet? That business of offering free food and drink after midnight cannot sit well with them.”
“Then they don’t deserve to stay in business. The free food and drink more than pays for itself by attracting a greater crowd. When the house takes a percentage of every bet, the customers are assured I have no incentive to cheat. Moreover, certain rules—such as the dealer winning all ties—ensure that by a margin which runs true over time, the games favor the house. Add in the membership fees and the paid fare before midnight, and only a fool could lose money at such a venture.”
Anselm finished his biscuit and dusted his hands. “You’re a commoner now, Tresham. What sort of fool risks arrest, scandal, and the enmity of his clientele when he’s trying to woo a prospective duchess?”
“One who has worked hard to earn his fortune and sees no reason to part with it. London is full of clubs doing exactly as The Coventry does, and that is no secret. Theo, by contrast, has not put all of her cards on the table.”
“She owes you the unblemished truth while you court scandal in the shadows?”
A duke in a contrary mood was tribulation incarnate. “Nobody save yourself knows of my ownership—yourself and Moira, and the senior staff. A few of the junior staff have likely caught a glimpse of me, and the bookkeeper is an acquaintance of long standing, but I’m careful, Anselm. My coach doesn’t await me in the alley. My comings and goings are discreet. My signature appears nowhere in public, and I own the property, so there’s no leasehold to give my ownership away.”
“Then there’s a deed, Tresham, and anybody could deduce who the ratepayer for your address is. Mrs. Haviland’s husband came to grief at establishments like The Coventry. She will likely take issue with your ownership.”
“When she is my duchess, if my ownership of the club should ever become an issue, then we’ll discuss it. I’ve sold all of my Paris holdings, but the day I bought The Coventry was the day I became truly free of my father, the succession, and anybody else’s opinion of me. I tested my theories there before going to Paris. I learned how the cards work and how a club works. You didn’t enclose the village at the ducal seat, and I’ll not sell The Coventry.”
Anselm dunked another biscuit. “Did you know that you can be recognized by your tread on a stair? You ascend three steps and pause to look behind you. Ascend three, another pause. A sort of waltz unique to you. Your pace is quick and steady, one might even say distinctive.”
Munch. Munch. Munch. Perhaps this was a taste of what having a sibling was like. Intrusive, well-intended, irksome as hell. If so, no wonder Lady Della was extraordinarily tenacious. She had to be, with a herd of older, larger siblings to harry and be harried by.
“What’s your point?”
“You are also, apparently, the only man in all of London to wear a scent that combines jasmine and tuberose, a Paris blend.”
“My scent also contains gardenia, and as far as I know, it’s blended solely for me. What of it?” Jonathan’s question was dispassionate, but the accuracy of these details was unnerving. A lover might note such information, or an astute competitor.
Or a sibling?
“Your anonymity is subject to attack,” Anselm said, rising. “So is your club. Nobody need cheat. The appearance of dishonesty will see you raided and ruined despite your precautions, and very likely jailed as well. The common man loves to see the aristocrat revealed for the parasite he can be.”
Parasite? “My father was such a man, Anselm, while The Coventry is an honest club. I insist on that. I also insist on paying excellent wages and doing my bit for the less fortunate, but mostly, I simply run The Coventry according to sound business principles. A deck holds only so many cards that can be played in only so many combinations. Over time, the winning and losing hands balance out. Once I realized that, making a profit was simple.”
“Profit is seldom simple, but far be it from a mere duke to instruct you on that point. I’m hearing rumors, Tresham. Rumors of crooked play, rumors regarding your ownership of the club. Have a care, or wooing Mrs. Haviland will be the least of your worries.”
Jonathan sank into the chair behind the desk, a lump of cushion prodding him in the backside. “You are hearing rumors?” His tired brain tried to list possible sources of such rumors, enemies made in Paris, employees let go for cause.
Lady Della had also mentioned rumors.
“Rumors couched as musings intended to be overheard by somebody who’s friendly with you. Warnings, I suppose you’d call them. I’ll wish you good day and good luck. Mrs. Haviland will not succumb to your paltry charms without significant inspiration. A penchant for maths is fine for ruling in a gaming hell, but I doubt it will stand you in good stead if you aspire to serve in her personal heaven.”
He swiped the last biscuit and sauntered toward the door. “I’ll see myself out. You should get some rest. Wooing is hard work, and a man wants to put his best foot forward.”
“Thank you for that stunning insight, Your Grace.”
Anselm went on his way, closing the door softly in his wake.
Jonathan surveyed the estate office, which was not so much in chaos as in the midst of a reorganization. The Coventry’s books were among the detritus, as were the ledgers from Quimbey Hall, the London house, and several other organizations with whom Jonathan had a business connection.
The lot of it—a great pile of numbers and patterns and calculations—should have called to him as seductively as a troupe of sirens sitting amid a heap of trigonometric formulae.
“I need a nap,” Jonathan informed the Quimbey wage book. “Fatigue explains why I resented having to stop by the club last night.” He took a sip of milk directly from the little pitcher on the tray.
Fatigue did not explain why he’d longed to follow Theo into her home last night, and bedamned to the club, Moira’s dramas, and a few pesky rumors.
* * *
“I cannot marry Jonathan Tresham.” Theo made this announcement in Bea’s back garden, where no sister, daughter, maid, or footman could overhear.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Bea replied, snipping the end from an iris stem.
“I am stating a fact.”
Bea’s garden still sported a fountain, though at present, the fountain was quiet. Three broad ceramic dishes of water were stacked like a giant étagère beneath a statue of the Apollo Belvedere, whose proportions put Theo in mind of Jonathan Tresham.
But then, everything put Theo in mind of Mr. Tresham of late.
“You do not state a fact, Theo. You are trying to dissuade yourself from making a brilliant match. Pass me that pink tulip.”
Theo passed over the flower. “I am nobody. I own nothing save one small house rapidly falling into disrepair. I can’t be a duchess.”
“My father was a vicar, and yet, I’m a countess. Somehow, my lofty status has given me no talent for flower arranging.”
“You and your late husband were a love match. I want no part of love matches. You have to decide if your arrangement will be formal or informal, Bea.”
The countess set the shears on the little wrought-iron table. “Flowers are flowers. They smell good, or they don’t. They aren’t formal or informal.”
Theo removed the irises from the vase. “Because you’re using a simple container, you can go either way. Strict symmetry, a limited number of colors and shapes, a bouquet that appeals equally from all sides. You could also attempt a less geometric approach, the b
alance achieved by assembling many varied elements with an originality that charms for its uniqueness.”
Bea sipped her lemonade. “You lecture me only when you’re vexed. Mr. Tresham’s proposal vexes you, because you do long to marry him. If you did not, you’d thank him kindly, pass the you-do-me-great-honor sentence upon him, and go back to turning your dresses.”
Theo started with a few stems of ferns, then three purple irises. “Who would not want to marry a ducal heir?”
“Precisely my point. You fancy him, or you’d send him packing. That already looks better than what I had.” She walked around the table to stand beside Theo. “Tresham is handsome, wealthy, eventually to be titled, and not given to overt vices. The matchmakers are quivering to bring him down. I would never have thought to put the yellow irises in with the purple.”
“Contrast enlivens most arrangements, and they are the same shape, which provides harmony and variety at the same time. Do you happen to know the basis of Mr. Tresham’s wealth?”
“I do not. Why?”
“Because I left that inquiry to my parents’ solicitors the last time I married, to my very great sorrow. I never hear Mr. Tresham discuss his investments, but when it comes to the ladies, I know this one is a coal heiress, that one will inherit thousands of acres in a specific county. We know what the ladies bring to the bargain. Why don’t we know what the men offer?”
Bea passed her a pink tulip. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Theo jammed the tulip among the irises, where it looked ridiculous and out of place. “I cannot fall in love, Bea. Archie cured me of that malady.”
“You’re scared witless, because you want to be with Mr. Tresham, want to know everything about him. You fall asleep dreaming of his kisses when he hasn’t so much as… Well, perhaps he has. We’re widows. We may do as we please in certain regards.”
Theo took the shears to the lone white tulip. “Find me a few sprigs of lavender.”
“The lavender hasn’t bloomed yet.”
My Own True Duchess Page 16
