Page 99 of My Own True Duchess
Dorning had moved to the next bin, which held a very fine cognac. “Why? You have a widow to woo, and I have a wine cellar to fall in love with.”
“The widow might well have already left for the country, in which case I will have to renew my acquaintance with Hampshire. If she hasn’t departed, then I have time to make you an offer you cannot refuse, but I don’t intend to do it on an empty stomach.”
Dorning collected a bottle of cognac and waved it in the direction of the steps. “Lead on, Mr. Tresham, though I warn you, I drive a hard bargain.”
Jonathan took the steps two at a time. “I’m not inviting you to dicker, Dorning. Either you take the offer, or I’ll make it to Lipscomb and Henries. I’d rather make it to you, provided you can inveigle your brother Ash to join you in the venture.”
Dorning scampered up the steps, a bottle in each hand. “What’s he got to do with anything?”
“He has caught Lady Della’s fancy, and she can’t very well bring him up to scratch if he’s ruralizing in Dorset. I’m also told that siblings are a blessing of the highest order. Ash Dorning is proficient with numbers, and I like that in a fellow.”
“I’m proficient with numbers.”
One of the undercooks had set a place for Jonathan in the dining room. A plate of steaming eggs, a tray of bacon, a rack of buttered toast… hearty fare for a man with much to do.
“You are proficient at looking idle while spying. I persist in the hope that you have potential nonetheless. The Tresham family is tenacious, if nothing else. Find a seat and prepare to listen carefully.”
“I’d rather find a wineglass.”
Jonathan tucked a table napkin into his collar. “Save the boyish charm for the patrons, or for the magistrate. You might well be meeting with him later today in an attempt to persuade him to modify his plans for next week. I’ll equip you with a substantial sum of money to use in any manner you see fit, though I suspect coin will figure in your discussion with the authorities—assuming you accept my offer.”
Dorning took a seat and snatched a strip of bacon. “I accept. What are you offering?”
* * *
The garden was the only part of the London residence Theo would miss. She’d told her solicitor not to rent the property out just yet—a precaution, in case Cousin Fabianus proved to be impossible rather than merely dull.
Hampshire doubtless had flowers, but these were her flowers. She had separated the irises the year Archie had died, the muguet des bois the year after that. Those had grown from plants she’d taken from her mother’s garden, and they’d thrived so well they needed separating again.
The garden was a small, important remove from the house itself, and Theo had needed that distance badly. Perhaps she should take a few cuttings to Hampshire as a gift for her host.
The gate creaked behind her, though Williams had departed with both girls for market not a quarter hour past. Perhaps Diana had forgotten her penny-rhymes-with-many again.
“Mrs. Haviland.” Jonathan Tresham strolled around the potted herbs. He was resplendent in morning attire, though he still looked tired to Theo. “I knocked on the front door, and nobody responded. You gave me a very bad moment, madam.”
Theo was having a bad moment—a good bad moment. “Mr. Tresham.” She didn’t bother rising to curtsey, lest she throw herself into his arms.
“May I join you on the bench?”
“Of course. How is The Coventry?”
He took off his hat and rested it on the rim of the herb pot, then sat a decorous foot from Theo’s side. “We’ll get to The Coventry. How are you?”
Miserable. Much of Theo’s unhappiness was grief, a familiar and irksome burden. Not grief for a life wasted this time, but grief for a dream lost. She had set Jonathan aside, certain of her course. Now, she had time for regrets.
“I’m somewhat fatigued,” she said. “Yesterday was busy, and last night went late, then I spent much of today finishing up my packing. I gather you were out later than I?”
Jonathan looked… different. Not as confident, not as self-possessed. Theo took a measure of satisfaction from the possibility that he was sorry to see her go, perhaps even troubled.
She was certainly troubled.
“I fell asleep as the sun rose,” he said, “and had not Lady Della roused me with a hard poke to my ribs, I’d likely still be snoring amid The Coventry’s bills and ledgers. We had our busiest night ever, thanks to you and your scheming ladies.”
“My friends.” That they’d rallied to her cause—a duchess, a countess, several other titles Theo barely knew—had been bewildering. She had been invited to Her Grace’s card night for ladies, and she’d been assured that cards played little part in the gathering.
“Your friends,” Jonathan said, snapping off a sprig of rosemary. “I hope you consider me a friend, Theodosia.”
The piney scent of the herb cut through even the fragrance Jonathan wore. “I am not in the habit of wagering my savings on behalf of mere acquaintances, Mr. Tresham.”
