Page 70 of My Own True Duchess
“Della has been dubbed the Haddonfield changeling. She knows about talk.”
“No, she does not. When nobody offers for her, Season after Season, despite her settlements becoming more and more generous, then she’ll have an inkling of the damage talk can do. When her daughters, should she escape the fate of an old maid, are treated to slights and whispers and her sons beaten bloody in the schoolyard, then she’ll know. When an outing like this—innocent, if ill-advised—becomes common knowledge, and her reputation is sullied past all recall overnight, then she’ll know.”
Jonathan had not raised his voice, but inside, annoyance had escalated to indignation and then rage. Why couldn’t Haddonfield see the peril he’d allowed their younger sister to blunder into?
“From the grave,” Jonathan said, rising and leaning over the table, “our father has the power to ruin her. She does not grasp this. She who has brothers and sisters to spare merely wants to add to her collection.”
Haddonfield sat across the table, his expression as impassive as a judge’s. “You said you’d call on her.”
Bloody hell. Jonathan sank back into his chair. “I will.”
“Call on her tomorrow, if you value your sanity, and if you value that of her other siblings. You think she wants merely to flit about on the arm of a ducal heir to whom she has hidden connection. You do her a discredit. She wants to know who her family is, and she does not grasp how you can ignore her when she’s the only sibling you have. She was raised as a Haddonfield. We do not turn our backs on family.”
Jonathan was very glad he’d confided this situation to Theo. Her counsel would clearly be needed going forward, because Haddonfield was making some obscure point that Jonathan hadn’t the patience to pursue.
“I will call upon Lady Della tomorrow afternoon,” Jonathan said. “Somebody is trying to sabotage this club, and the less she’s seen here, the better.”
“Della would not betray family like that.” Haddonfield fiddled with the wick on the lamp, turning the flame brighter, then to a tiny glow. “But how would you know that? You did not have a family, not worth the name. Such an existence bewilders Della, and she has made it a mission to console you for that terrible lack.”
Which was, of course, what Della would tell a doting brother if she wanted his aid to gain access to the club.
“I have been given leave to pay my addresses to Mrs. Theodosia Haviland,” Jonathan said. “I am hopeful that I will at least have a bride in the very near future and that family will follow in due time. This is a recent development, not common knowledge.”
Haddonfield wrinkled an aquiline beak. “Does Mrs. Haviland know that Della is your half-sister?”
“Yes. I trust Mrs. Haviland’s discretion utterly.” Her loyalty, her discretion, her everything, and what a relief that was.
Haddonfield rose and collected the lamp. “If you’re marrying the woman, then trusting her discretion should be a foregone conclusion. Mrs. Haviland is well connected in polite society, and my sister-in-law speaks well of her.”
His sister-in-law would be… the Countess of Bellefonte. How Theo kept the whirling cast of polite society’s characters straight was a marvel.
“You will please not disclose my marital aspirations, Mr. Haddonfield.”
Haddonfield moved toward the door, the lamp in his hand. “You have much to learn, Tresham, but because I am not allowed to instruct you with my fists, I will attempt the less reliable route of instructing you with words: You will tell Della of your marital aspirations. You will bring Mrs. Haviland to call upon her. You will intimate that nobody, save perhaps old Quimbey, has been alerted to the news before you confide your joy in your only sibling. That’s how it works with sisters, Tresham, unless you have some bosom bow from your boyhood whom you must inform first.”
Anselm was hardly a bosom bow. Jonathan hadn’t thought to write to Quimbey. “My thanks for your insights. If you’d see to it that Lady Della’s visit is brief and uneventful, I’d appreciate it.”
Haddonfield paused in the doorway, the light from the corridor making him appear as a looming shadow.
“She thinks you own this place. I think she’s right. I wonder how Mrs. Haviland reacted when you confided that secret, assuming it’s true.”
“Good night, Mr. Haddonfield.”
Haddonfield bowed, twirling his wrist to turn the gesture ironic. “My brother the earl claims there is no trouble so dire as woman trouble. He knows of what he speaks.”
Jonathan rose as another snippet of memory prodded him. “Does Mr. Ash Dorning have woman trouble? Della seemed fond of him.”
Broad shoulders slumped. “As best we can decipher, Mr. Ash Dorning has money trouble. He’s a younger son without means. Bellefonte made it plain that Della will require a certain standard of living, though that lecture—which Dorning should have expected—doesn’t explain why the man rusticates at such length. Perhaps Della is interrogating Mr. Sycamore Dorning on that very subject as we speak.”
He withdrew, taking the lamp with him and leaving Jonathan in nigh complete darkness.
“I should tell Theo that I’m responsible for building this place up from its humble beginnings, for turning it into one of the premier venues of its kind anywhere in the world.”
She’s be surprised, but in Theo fashion, she’d take the news in stride. She might even have ideas for how to improve the club’s appeal.
“But first, I must solve the mystery of who is trying to ruin my club.”
That sequence made sense. Clean house—or stop Lady Della’s mischief, if that was what the marked cards were about—then invite Theo for a tour. She’d be reassured to learn the true extent of Jonathan’s personal wealth and to know how reliable The Coventry was as a source of income.
