Page 12 of My Own True Duchess
Somebody unkind and talkative. “Perhaps Tresham seeks to spare you talk. You’ve made your come out, but you haven’t secured a match.”
Della wrinkled her nose, which made her look about eight years old. “Secured a match, like a hunter filling his game bag. Nobody has secured me, Nicholas, and while you and Leah are doubtless happily wed, few Society unions can say the same.”
Why did every subject with Della—every one—traverse boggy ground? She’d seemed smitten with Mr. Ash Dorning, brother to one of the Haddonfield in-laws, and a decent sort. As an earl’s younger brother, Dorning suffered a predictable lack of means, though means could be found for a determined suitor.
Dorning was back in Dorset on some family business that likely had to do with unruly siblings, while Della was stomping around Mayfair, preoccupied with a half-brother who dared not openly acknowledge his connection with her.
“Promise me you won’t meddle where Tresham is concerned,” Nick said. “I was once an heir beset by the matchmakers, Della. A man in that position cannot be rude, but he cannot be friendly either. He trusts no one, though he’s expected to be gracious to everyone. His every trip to the men’s retiring room is a fraught excursion, and if he likes a woman, he doesn’t dare dance with her twice in the same week. Tresham has his hands full.”
Della rearranged Nick’s collection of drill bits, so they were in size order rather than order of most frequent use.
“Socializing takes up a few evenings a week, Nicholas. Jonathan isn’t seen at the fashionable hour in the carriage parade, he doesn’t attend the theater, and he’s not a member of Parliament. What is he doing with the rest of his time?”
What an odd, insightful question. “Learning the business of the duchy?”
“Quimbey’s holdings are modest, as ducal estates go. Her Grace of Quimbey has said as much, because she’s pleased the duke needn’t spend half the year traveling from one property to another. What was Jonathan about when he wasn’t in England, Nick? I don’t see him as the sort to goggle at art and architecture, and nothing in the letters between my parents suggests Jonathan inherited great wealth.”
She lined up the whetstones with Nick’s whittling knives, just as she was trying to tidy up her understanding of her half-brother.
“He likely has investments,” Nick said. “The present duke had only the one nephew and would have seen him provided for.” Maybe. Every family dealt with heirs and younger sons differently.
“Jonathan isn’t the type to live on family charity,” Della said, “and even if he is a ducal heir, what if he’s unable to support a bride, Nick? Respectable families encounter difficult circumstances all the time.”
God, spare me from anxious sisters. Though Della’s curiosity was justified. Everybody proclaimed that Tresham was the catch of the Season, a ducal heir, young, good-looking, and wealthy.
But nobody mentioned the source of his wealth, not in whispers, not in asides at the clubs. The rise of business speculation as a means of increasing wealth had also—as any form of gambling must—made losing a fortune that much easier as well.
“I’ll make a few inquiries,” Nick said, “though I expect Tresham has put money into the funds, the same as the rest of us. You will please not interfere in his affairs, Della. I’m asking you that as your brother, whether you think you’re my sister or not.”
She should have wrapped him in one of her signature hugs and told him not to be silly. Della instead remained across the workshop, arms crossed, brows knit, her gaze on the unfinished nightingale.
“Thank you, Nicholas. Please be discreet. Jonathan will not appreciate any more speculation aimed in his direction than he’s already enduring.”
Chapter Three
* * *
“Merry widows and matchmakers,” Beatitude, Lady Canmore, muttered beneath the chatter of Lady Brentnock’s other guests.
“Bachelors and buffets,” Theo murmured in response.
Bea was a friend from finishing school. Like Theo, she’d married up, been widowed early, and found herself in precarious circumstances despite a connection to a titled family. Not that she and Theo ever discussed finances, but the signs were there.
Dresses made over from Season to Season, refreshed with such lacework and embroidery as a lady could do herself.
A pretty brooch frequently worn last spring no longer in evidence.
A tendency to partake heartily of the buffets.
And a cloud of men watching from an interested, not always respectful, distance. Bea—poor dear—was beautiful in the blond, blue-eyed manner Society most preferred. She paused in the buffet line at the selection of meats and chose ham—cured ham lasted well—heaping several slices atop of her mashed potatoes.
Theo held out her plate. “I’m thinking of retiring to Hampshire. Two slices will do for me. Three, rather.”
They moved on to the beef. “I would miss you,” Bea said. “Do we have something to discuss over a cup of tea, Theo?”
Theo took two slices of beef still showing a hint of pink at the center, exactly as she liked it. “Diana would benefit from rural life. She finds too much mischief here in Town. Country mischief isn’t as dangerous.” Theo had found some mischief in the person of Jonathan Tresham. He haunted her dreams as Archie never had.
“Does the current Viscount Penweather know you’re considering a repairing lease?”
