Page 77 of My Own True Duchess
“Delphie, that’s enough,” Frannie said. “Go find your bunny.”
Delphie clambered from the saddle, pulling Jonathan’s mane, then whacking his bum with a hearty, “Good pony, Thunder!” before cantering down the corridor, unruly curls bouncing.
“He’s quite the horseman.”
Frannie moved a few pillows and settled on the sofa, the baby in her lap. “Philadelphia is a girl. What do you want, Jonathan? You can’t have fouled up the ledgers already. Even with Moira’s help, that would take more than a week. Don’t expect me to serve you tea. The children spill everything, and money will be tight now that you’ve found another bookkeeper less likely to get with child.”
“We seem to have a misunderstanding.”
“I understand your services are no longer needed quite well. Don’t drip on my carpets.”
Her carpets were worn and needed a good beating. A wooden duck on wheels, a pony made of straw and sheep’s wool, two storybooks, and a wooden beaker were scattered across the rug before her hearth.
Jonathan shrugged out of his greatcoat and set it on a chair near the fire so that the drips would fall on the hearthstones.
“I never told you that your services were no longer needed. Your services are very much needed. Now more than ever.” Without the weight of his seven-caped coat, he was cold, and a chill that had nothing to do with the weather was spreading within him.
“If I’m still needed, then you should not have had Moira sack me, should you?”
“Moira and I discussed your situation weeks ago. I told her I’d handle the books while you took leave, the same as we’ve always done for your confinements. The club is quiet in late summer. It’s the easiest time for you to be less in evidence. That is all I heard of the matter until Moira told me last night that you’d left us.”
Not taken leave, apparently, but quit.
Fannie glowered up at him, the child snuggled to her shoulder. “Moira handed me five pounds and thanked me for all I’d done. She said a bookkeeper less prone to fits of motherhood would serve the club better.”
“Moira overstepped.” Again.
“You pay her to overstep, Jonathan. You can swan about, the owner, lord of all you survey from your screened stairway and shadowed balcony, while Moira has tantrums in the kitchen that make Armand look like the soul of decorum. She paints the owner as a demon to the junior staff, a mysterious, unreasonable despot who pinches pennies and expects perfection. One by one, you’ve lost the best staff, and she replaced them with…”
The baby fussed, clearly unhappy.
“Now I’m upsetting my offspring.” Frannie held the child up in both hands and beamed at him. “No fussy, little man. No fussy for Mama. Mr. Jonathan will go bye-bye, and Mama can use all the bad language she wants to talk about him. That will be soooo muuuuuch fun, won’t it?”
The baby continued to fuss.
“Frannie, I did not want you sacked, and I had no idea that Moira was annoying the staff.”
“Annoying. What a genteel, lordly word. I suspect she insists on doling out the wages herself so that she can pocket some of the coin and make up reasons why the full amount isn’t due.”
The baby was starting to cry, a hiccup-y undertaking that scraped Jonathan’s nerves raw. He plucked the child from Frannie’s grasp and pressed his cold nose to the soft, little cheek.
“No displays of temper before the ladies, sir. Your mother has important information to pass along.”
Big blue eyes stared at him, then a little pink mouth turned up in a merry smile.
“You like that,” Jonathan said, brushing his nose over the baby’s cheek again. “I like that you’re quiet.”
“For now,” Frannie said. “Wait five minutes and prepare to be deafened. Moira claims you are turning the business over to her in all but name. You’re preparing to step into the ducal shoes, and a gaming hell is beneath your notice.”
Jonathan cradled the child against his chest. “Frannie, I love The Coventry and would never refer to it as a mere hell. My proudest day was when I acquired that enterprise. It’s a model club, patronized by the best of polite society, and I make no apologies for that to anybody. Let those who can’t enjoy a hand of cards take their custom elsewhere and leave me and my patrons to have our diversions in peace. Now you tell me that Moira has run daft, spreading lies, alienating my allies.”
“That child doesn’t like anybody, but he likes you. There is no accounting for taste.”
“You are not sacked,” Jonathan said. “You, especially, are not sacked. Why didn’t you tell me what was afoot with the staff?”
“Because you are never on the premises during daylight hours anymore, and I was told that coming by in the evening, when James can watch the children, was no longer allowed. If I’d called upon you in your bachelor residences when my employment at The Coventry is known to the staff, I’d be jeopardizing your privacy. You need to have a long talk with Battaglia too. He’s considering a position at White’s.”
The child was snuffling, so Jonathan began a circuit of the parlor. “Because?”
