Page 30 of My Own True Duchess
“I have ever been one to heed your suggestions, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Ask him about his charitable activities. If he hasn’t any, then he might be just another conscienceless aristocrat, or he might have a reason for keeping his wealth quiet. When the charities know a man has coin to spare, they dun him without ceasing. If he has charitable causes, that will tell you much about his priorities.”
Mr. Wentworth had charitable causes. How could Theo not have realized this? “You are certain he’s wealthy?”
“As certain as I can be. I maintain a close watch over the funds, I have eyes and ears in unlikely places, and Mr. Tresham’s name does not come up where it shouldn’t.”
Theo held out the tray to him. “These are exquisite. You must have one.”
The moment turned awkward, with Mr. Wentworth considering the tray and then Theo, before shaking his head.
“I avoid sweets. One can grow accustomed to them.”
“And a bit of sweetness in life is bad for us?”
He rose, and Theo did as well, rather than allow him to loom over her. “The lads…” He looked away, as if seeking guidance from the landscapes on the walls. “Any biscuits not eaten at the end of the day go to the messengers. They can eat them or sell them. One boy makes it a point to feed a few crumbs to the pigeons—his charitable project. I would not deny him that experience of generosity.”
This admission embarrassed Mr. Wentworth. He’d once been a hungry, grubby boy without a crumb to give away. Theo was as certain of this as she was of his present wealth and integrity.
“You might consider marrying,” she said. “My own brush with the institution left much to be desired, but I love my daughter beyond all telling. I’m not sorry I married.”
“You’re sorry you married Mr. Haviland. You’ll choose carefully for Tresham and quietly. Shall I see you to the door?”
“I can see myself out, Mr. Wentworth. My thanks, as always.” Theo paused in the doorway with him. “Have a biscuit every once in a while, Mr. Wentworth. Life can’t be all about impecunious widows and crumbs fed to pigeons.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He was laughing at her, though his expression was more solemn than an undertaker’s. “See what you can find out about Mr. Tresham’s charities, and if I come across any relevant information, I’ll pass it along.”
“Thank you.”
She left the bank feeling better than she had in months. So Mr. Tresham was discreet about his means. That spoke well of him. Theo was hundreds of pounds richer than she’d been a week ago, and all she had to do to earn that money was find some other woman for Jonathan Tresham to marry.
That notion made her so happy, she went across to the bakery and bought a half-dozen biscuits, though by the time she arrived home, only two remained in the box.
Chapter Six
* * *
“Mrs. Haviland, I cannot be seen with the medusa on my arm at occasions of state.” Jonathan spoke calmly when he wanted to shout.
“Dora Louise is not a medusa,” Mrs. Haviland retorted. “She comes from good family, she is ambitious enough to make you a very creditable hostess, and she likely does not have any say over her coiffure. You were kind to her, you must have some regard for her.”
They were in the dove parlor again, this time with the door closed. Jonathan was pacing a worn spot into the carpet before the hearth to match the one by the door.
“I am kind to any number of street urchins, impecunious scholars, and aged sailors, but I don’t want to marry them,” Jonathan said. “Miss Dora Louise schemes. Schemers are unpredictable and unscrupulous. A bad combination for a duchess.”
Mrs. Haviland rose from the sofa. “Her determination indicates that she’s highly motivated to gain and hold your notice. If she were a man, you’d call her enterprising. You’d say she shows ingenuity and initiative.”
Of all the daft reasoning. “She is not a man, and she cannot be my duchess. What sort of woman exercises no influence over her own hairstyle?” What sort of woman ambushes a man who should have known better than to be ambushed?
Mrs. Haviland closed her eyes and rubbed the center of her forehead. She had an ink stain on her index finger, suggesting a late night with correspondence, or possibly with ledgers.
Lucky woman.
“Dora Louise is a young woman of good birth,” she said, pressing her index finger to the spot between her eyebrows. “She is being paraded before polite society in hopes of making a match. How many times have I told you—?”
“Does your head hurt?”
She’d come to a halt before him, as if to stop his pacing. “A slight headache only. I spent too much time with the household accounts last night. I’m sure it will pass.”
