Page 91 of Anything But a Duke
Something else he didn’t give a damn about was the invitation perched on the edge of his desk. For days he’d been waiting for word from Diana. He’d expected an invitation to meet with Grace Grinstead. He’d hoped for a letter declaring her love. In the end, he’d received neither. Instead, a note had come from Lady Elizabeth Thorndyke inviting him to a ball that the Ashbys and Miss Grinstead would attend.
Aidan couldn’t imagine anything worse than attending a ball with the woman he desperately wanted to wed and two of her friends to whom he’d been introduced for the purpose of matchmaking. No, actually, he could imagine something worse. Another sleepless night spent without Diana in bed beside him. Or under him. Or on top of him.
Damn it all to hell.
He stared around his office and loathed every inch. He stood and his chair groaned as loudly as his muscles. He’d almost become welded to the damned thing over the past handful of days. One night he’d slept in the chair, his head resting on his desk. For half a day, he’d considered installing a day bed in the corner and living in his office.
What was the point of going back to an empty tomb of a town house with more rooms than he’d ever have use for? Work was what he understood. Work was the only thing he’d ever done well.
But he’d spent so many hours in these four walls of his office that he was beginning to detest them too.
Approaching his curio cabinet, he stared at the figurines he’d purchased, the books he’d chosen mostly because the cover and title intrigued him rather than any pursuit of scholarly knowledge. He was an amateur at collecting just as he was an amateur at being a true gentleman. He possessed only the polish that money could buy, but he’d always be a mudlark deep down.
The fiddle reminded him of those days. He’d bought it from a street seller shortly after escaping the workhouse. Learning to play had occupied hours, and when he’d gotten good enough, he’d sometimes claimed a corner and earned a few bob for a ditty.
Now he could only look at the violin and think of Diana and the song he’d played for her. God, he’d behaved like a smitten fool. He was, in fact, a smitten fool. And of course he’d chosen to fall in love with the one woman in London who was as stubborn as he was.
Lord, he’d made a muck of it.
“Mr. Iverson.” Coggins’s voice came before his usual three short raps. “Visitor to see you, sir.”
“I have no appointments. Send them away.”
Aidan opened the curio cabinet and retrieved the violin. The wood had taken on a dark patina over the years and he could almost feel its history when he held the instrument. Even when he’d been chased from a doss house for not paying or had to change lodgings sharpishly, he’d made sure to retrieve the instrument.
In a sense, it represented a sentimentality he hated acknowledging in himself. Perhaps it was time to put such nonsense aside. As far as he could determine, the dividends of sentimentality were wild expectations, hellish disappointment, and misery.
He let the violin fall through his fingers and drop to the carpet below. Then he lifted his foot and considered crushing the thing to pieces.
“Mr. Iverson,” Coggins called. “May I enter, sir?”
Aidan sighed wearily. The young man was as tenacious as cold in winter. “Come.”
Coggins stuck his neatly greased head inside the room. “She says she insists on seeing you, sir. I’ve spent the last few moments trying to put her off, but she won’t be dissuaded.”
“She?” Aidan swallowed against the ridiculous surge of hope that welled up. “Who is it?”
“She says her name is Brook, sir. Lady Josephine Brook.”
“Josephine?” Aidan’s mouth went dry, and his heart crashed painfully against his ribs. He peered past Coggins at the woman in the outer office. Tall, darkly garbed, veiled. She fit Callihan’s description.
He wanted to run out and confront her, but part of him was also terrified to hope.
“Send her in,” he told Coggins.
After the young man closed the door, Aidan swept a hand through his disheveled hair and worked to tighten the necktie he’d gradually loosened over the course of the morning.
His sister. For so many years he’d believed he’d lost her. Failed her. But a tiny seed of hope had remained, and now it had bloomed into desperation to see her again, to know that she was well and safe.
His hands shook as he retrieved his suit coat from the back of his chair, shrugged into it, and waited.
“Lady Josephine Brook,” Coggins announced as he led her into the room.
“Have a seat?” Aidan gestured toward the chairs at the front of his desk.
“Thank you, Mr. Iverson.” She sat stiffly on the chair and anxiously clutched the reticule in her gloved hands. “I don’t wish to take up too much of your time.” Her voice was rich and her accent polished, just as Mr. Callihan had described. After a moment, she lifted her veil.
Aidan’s heart stopped. He scanned her features, desperate to find something he recognized.
