Page 23 of My Own True Duchess
“He’ll sign over the contents of his stables to me before he takes ship. Tattersalls will do the rest. As long as he’ll be in France, I’m doing him a favor by eliminating a large and needless expense from his ledgers.”
Moira took another ladylike sip of her brandy and went back to twiddling the beads of the abacus. “Which do you enjoy more, the numbers, or playing God with people’s lives?”
The question was unlike her, both in its abstraction and in its resentfulness. “I do not play God. Davington accosted a woman at tonight’s ball, a lady who wanted nothing to do with him, and he forced his attentions upon her. He brings his fate upon himself.”
“You are turning into a duke,” she said. “I feel as if I’m watching a season change, and no matter how many fires I light or how many potted plants I bring into the conservatory, the cold will overtake the land. You probably called him out, but he refused the challenge. Where would I be with you dead in some foggy clearing, Jonathan?”
Jonathan poured himself a half portion of the brandy, which was too good for a conversation this unsettling.
“Moira, nothing will change. I can keep the books from the Quimbey town house, in my apartment across the street, or at The Albany. I’ve done it before. I monitor the ledgers for several other enterprises and don’t intend to drop those responsibilities either. What ails you?”
She was wealthy by any standard. If she chose, she could present herself as an heiress from the north, or she could resettle in Paris and call herself an English widow. She could marry a marquess’s younger son and jaunt about with a courtesy title, and nobody would remark her resemblance to Mrs. Moira Jones, late of The Coventry.
If anybody even noticed.
“You aren’t here as much as you should be,” she said.
“I’m here more than ever. You managed this place on your own for weeks at a time when I still had properties in Paris. I come by almost every evening we’re open, and you are in a pet about something.”
The beads fell silent, and Moira lifted her glass to the branch of candles on the desk. “I turned twenty-eight today.”
Not an occasion for celebration, apparently. “Go on.”
“Frannie is four years younger than I am and soon to be a mother again. You are taking a wife. I sit here night after night, worrying about everything—the larders, the staff, the wine cellar, the dealers, the authorities, the coal, the everything. You assure me things will not change when you marry. I’m no longer certain that’s a good thing, Jonathan.”
She was beautiful by candlelight, and Jonathan was put in mind of Theo Haviland. The ladies shared a weary discontent with life, an air of determination.
“You have been away from Nottingham for ten years,” Jonathan said, making a leap based on the cards he could see. “Go home for a visit, Moira. Arrive in style, take the ducal traveling coach, wear your finery, buy property in the area. Make the peasants see you for the success that you are.”
He expected her to laugh, though he knew the value of proving oneself to those who’d offered judgment instead of support.
Moira shook her head. “If you think I’ll turn my back on this place now, when you’re larking about on a duchess hunt, when Frannie’s back to casting up her accounts, and the authorities are itching to raid every establishment in the neighborhood, you have sadly miscalculated.”
Her word choice was a dig—another dig. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your loyalty, Moira?” Jonathan had never had the luxury of larking about.
She rose and set the half-finished drink on the credenza. “You pay me a duchess’s ransom in wages. I’m loyal to my salary. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
Jonathan weighed whether to try to jolly Moira out of her birthday blue devils, to dive into the books, or to leave. If he dove into the books, he’d be here until dawn—a tempting prospect—but tonight his jollying skills were inadequate to Moira’s mood.
“I’ll bid you good evening,” Jonathan said. “Send Lipscomb home at daybreak.”
Play occasionally lasted around the clock, but Jonathan frowned on the practice for any but the most skilled members. Staff needed rest, and the authorities needed assurances that at least the veneer of a common club was maintained. The premises also required a regular airing and cleaning, which was difficult to do with a crowd gathered around a table.
Moira waved a graceful hand and put her glasses back on. “I’ll escort Lipscomb from the premises myself, as Your Grace wishes.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Good night, Mr. Tresham.” She lifted the abacus and shook all the beads to the left side.
He should stay, he should humor her, he should ask what she was working on, except that he knew better. Moira would recite every minor occurrence at the club, but she had never been able to simply report what troubled her. She either did not know herself, or she was constitutionally incapable of admitting that something bothered her.
She was entitled to her pride. That Moira was all but dismissing Jonathan from his own club was a petty display he would allow—this time. He’d need some rest if he was to be at his best when facing Mrs. Haviland in the morning.
Because his negotiation with the widow was not quite concluded.
Chapter Five
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