Page 26 of A Most Improper Duchess
He nodded. ‘I didn’t set out to. I needed to know you loved me for me.’
She prodded him in the chest. ‘Don’t do it again.’
They tumbled out of the carriage, and finally on solid stone at the entrance of his home, he pulled her tight. He lifted her toes from the ground before spinning them both in a half circle. She gave a short squeal, then kissed him again. She was the air in his lungs, the bright sun he had craved and already he knew she would make his dreary days light. She would be the companion to his loneliness. She had seen him with nothing and loved him. With everything, they would be so happy.
A sharp cough came from the doorway.
Arley placed Vivianne on her feet. ‘Cecil. This is Miss Chevalier. We’re engaged.’
Cecil visibly drew on all his years of experience to not let the surprise in his eyes reach his voice. ‘Very good, your grace.’
Arley grasped Vivianne’s hands in his own. ‘This is Cecil. He runs Number 10. Anything you need, anything, ask him, and he’ll help you.’ He held out his elbow. ‘Care to see your new home?’
Cecil coughed again. ‘Given that a hackney has just driven through the gates after witnessing your jubilant homecoming, and is now circling London, do you think it might be prudent to pen a message to your mother, your grace?’
Cecil’s words sent a jolt of reality through him. He wasn’t an invisible clerk visiting Paris anymore. He was a duke. And telling his mother about his engagement by telegram, followed by a letter, was better than her hearing from a speculative report inThe Tattler.
‘You’re right.’ He pressed Vivianne’s hands to his lips, kissed them briefly, then released her. ‘Cecil, take Miss Chevalier to the front room. Tea, coffee, food—are you hungry?’
She shook her head.
‘I won’t be long, then I’ll give you a tour.’ And with a final kiss, he parted from her, and made his way to his study.
In his brief absence, the mass of letters had multiplied. They may as well have been rabbits for their prolificacy.
Diligent, dutiful Cecil had separated his correspondence into two piles. One, the towering mountain of inane invitations, the other, just two letters—one from Winton, the other from Tillman, likely a quarterly report.
Arley sat at his desk and pulled a sheet of paper before him. As he reached for his pen, a thin manilla folder slapped onto the desk before him. He startled, then looked up. ‘Do you have to be so dramatic?’
Phineas shrugged. ‘If one can be, then why not?’
As far as everyone knew, Phineas worked as a bank clerk. An occupation so pedestrian that no one even bothered to ask which bank he was employed at. And everything about the man screamed mediocrity—his dress, his hair, his looks, his conversation.
Phineas did not work at a bank.
Phineas was a spy.
Arley had never asked what branch or department he answered to. He doubted Phineas would have told him. The man was inscrutable. His defences tumbled only once a year, around Christmas, when he would become thoroughly soused, make nonsensical statements about life and love, and then collapse into his chair and sleep through until Boxing Day. Then, he would emerge from his townhouse, pick a fight with Lawrence Hempel, and the rhythm of life would return.
Phineas fell into the chair on the other side of the desk and stretched a foot over his knee. ‘I put this together after I got your telegram about the banns. Did you know she’s a—’
‘Ballet dancer. Yes, I’m aware.’
A half smile tugged at Phineas’s mouth. ‘Likely nothing more problematic in there than what you already know, then.’
Arley flipped the folder open and scanned the page. A line of dates ran down one side, and beside them was a list of disjointed names, places and events, but with the web of Vivianne’s conversations, he strung them together. Her arrival in the capital from the countryside. The outbreak of the war. The siege. The Commune.After. Arley flipped the cover over and pushed it across the table in disgust. ‘I know what she was, and I don’t care. When did you become a moral crusader? Been attending meetings at Number 5 in my absence, have you?’
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ Phineas sniped. ‘And not from some misguided sense of morality. You might not give a damn, but investors and potential clients won’t have the same outlook as you. And your contribution to this business might be pocket change and a trip abroad, but it means more to others. What do you think would happen to Iris if this company failed because of your bad press? Hasn’t Elise lost enough?’
Arley sunk into his chair with a huff. ‘Are you getting soft?’
‘There’s a difference between being soft and being an inconsiderate arsehole.’
An uncomfortable pang of guilt stuck in Arley’s chest. Phineas was one of the few, possibly the only man in London, who didn’t care for his friendship or seek his favour. That’s what he liked about the man. Mostly.
Arley crossed his arms. ‘I’m not the first peer to marry below his station. What about Hamish?’
‘Iris exceeds him in wealth and wits. And this has nothing to do with station. She’s aballerina. There’s not a nobleman or wealthy merchant in England who doesn’t appreciate the implications of the word.’
