Page 28 of My Own True Duchess
“You won’t meet with immediate success,” she said. “We’ll encounter false hopes and blind turns. Fortunately, the Season is only beginning and no betrothals have been announced, so my list will include a fair number of names. You must steel yourself for a forced march, Mr. Tresham, though I will be figuratively at your side for much of it.”
So earnest, so sincere, and Jonathan had passed muster with her. He pulled his gloves on and tapped his hat onto his head.
“Your stalwart guidance alone will sustain me. If you’d like to ride in the park Tuesday morning, I can bring a lady’s mount with me and call prior to breakfast.”
“Thank you, no. My habit is years out of date, and the less we overtly associate in public, the better. I will not be the only lady coming up with a list of matrimonial prospects.” She passed him his walking stick and moved to the door.
Well, damn. She could not be tempted from her mission, something else to like about her. Jonathan risked a kiss to her cheek and straightened.
“My sincere thanks for your time today, Mrs. Haviland. I’ll look forward to our next encounter.”
He jaunted down the steps, in charity with life for the first time in weeks and in charity with Theodosia Haviland. She should be on somebody’s list of possibilities. She was pretty, sensible, kind in her rather stern way, thoughtful, intelligent, artistically talented, and she smelled good.
That last ought not to matter to Jonathan, but he did favor the scent of jasmine. He turned his steps toward The Coventry, mentally considering his many London acquaintances. Mrs. Haviland would make somebody a lovely wife, perhaps even a titled somebody. Casriel needed a countess…
But the idea of Casriel marrying Theodosia Haviland, having all that sense and dignity, all that subtle humor and latent warmth for his own, when the earl was mostly concerned with crops, tenant cottages, and wayward younger brothers… Casriel was a dear, but Mrs. Haviland would be wasted on him.
Not Casriel, then. Definitely not Casriel.
* * *
When Lady Canmore had suggested Theo keep her funds at Wentworth and Penrose Bank, her ladyship had offered a cryptic observation as well.
“Mr. Wentworth neither flirts nor flatters, and I’d trust him with my last farthing.” Bea had likely done just that. Theo certainly had, though she hadn’t understood Bea’s remark until she’d laid eyes on the man.
Mr. Quinton Wentworth was the epitome of masculine pulchritude. He was decades younger than any banker of Theo’s previous acquaintance, not a trace of gray in his sable hair. His eyes were a brilliant northern blue that should have been arresting, except that all of his features, individually and as a whole, were beyond perfection.
Lips slightly full, nose exactly proportioned to convey character without disturbing the symmetry of his face. He had height and brawn to ensure that understated sartorial elegance contributed to the impact he made at first sight.
And second, and third.
Theo had been lucky. The first time she’d had an appointment with Mr. Wentworth, she’d arrived a few minutes early. She’d noticed a man in a corner of the bank’s fern-studded lobby, crouched before a small boy attired as a bank messenger. The man’s back had been to Theo, but she’d seen the child’s face.
The boy had been riveted by the adult who’d troubled to address a child at eye level. Man and boy were having a conversation that doubtless dealt with bank messenger business, though the gravity of the discussion suggested the safety of the realm was at stake. The child had not only listened, he’d replied, and nodded, and gestured in the direction of the stairs that led to the bank offices above the lobby.
Theo had been in few purely commercial environments, but she was sure that in all of London, no other well-dressed gentleman was having a serious discussion with a mere messenger boy on the premises of a bank.
The child fell silent. The man gently patted his shoulder, rose, and turned.
As the boy trotted away, Theo had pretended to search for something in her reticule. The man’s gaze had been arctic, without sentiment of any kind. If she hadn’t seen him touch the boy, hadn’t seen the child hanging on his every word, she would not have believed her banker and that patient, considerate gentleman were the same person.
And yet, they were. In all the years Theo had dealt with Quinn Wentworth, she’d never seen him show any hint of affection again, never seen him smile, but she’d also never met his like for unfailing discretion or conscientious attention to detail.
“Mrs. Haviland.” He welcomed her to his establishment now as he had then, with a bow to a correctly deferential level, no lower. “You are ever punctual.”
And he had come down from his office to greet her, as he always did. She suspected Mr. Wentworth liked mingling with his customers, catching snippets of conversation while terrorizing his clerks.
Though the clerks were a cheerful lot at Wentworth and Penrose.
“Thank you for seeing me on short notice,” Theo replied. “Let’s be about our business, shall we?”
Another man might have been offended at her forwardness. Mr. Wentworth never gave any sign of offense. He was never rude, but he was reliably, wonderfully blunt.
“May I offer you tea, Mrs. Haviland?” he said when he’d closed the door of his office behind her.
“No, thank you. I’ve come on a matter of some delicacy.”
He gestured not to the chairs before the enormous mahogany desk across the room, but to a tufted sofa positioned against the wall. A silver tray of biscuits sat on a low table, and a bouquet of daffodils spiced the air with sweetness.
