Page 108 of My One and Only Duke
Word was all over the newspapers within a week, and by then the invitations and calling cards had reached flood stage.
Epilogue
Nothing helped, not looking forbiddingly ducal as Almack’s patronesses approached, not hovering protectively near Jane, not casting threatening glances at Duncan and Stephen.
Althea and Constance were too busy fending off handsome bachelors to do more than smirk in Quinn’s direction between dance sets, and Joshua was tucked in some corner with a widowed marchioness doubtless advising her about how to conserve her assets.
Quinn was doomed to bow over the hands of a legion of debutantes and to lead each blushing young lady onto the dance floor like the ducal paragon Jane was determined to fool the world into taking him for.
What a lot of bloody nonsense.
“Might I ask Your Grace a question?” Lady Marianne Honeycutt’s blue eyes were lit with the determination of the very young.
“Of course.” Quinn turned her ladyship down the room, though the waltz was German, which meant the tempo was funereal. Lady Marianne would probably have his life history before the set ended.
The prettied-up version of his life history Jane had made him rehearse, a taradiddle about humble origins, working hard, finding favor with a kindly elderly banker…That Jane’s story was entirely true was mere coincidence, for it was also entirely misleading.
Lady Marianne stared hard at Quinn’s shoulder. “I have a bit of coin, a very little. I’d like to invest it. Have you any advice for me?”
What the devil? “Surely you’ve a father or brother—”
She shook her head, making the violets affixed to her coiffure bob as if in a gale. “I’m not to trouble my pretty head, they say, as if my pretty head can’t foresee the day when I’ll have to sign marriage settlements or maintain my own household as a spinster or a widow. The gossips say you built a fortune from nothing.”
“One cannot always believe gossip; in fact, one rarely should.”
“You have enough money to establish a charitable trust for women seeking to join transported spouses—a large trust. Papa grumbled about it, but I know he admires you for it.”
“My duchess established that trust in memory of her mother.” Would this waltz never end?
“But Your Grace”—Lady Marianne leaned closer—“Papa says that the charitable endowment is enormous, and if you have that much money to give away, then you know how to turn a few coins into a modest sum. I don’t need a fortune; I simply need…”
She frowned, though Quinn had it on good authority—Constance’s—that young ladies were discouraged from adopting any expression that wrinkled the countenance.
“You want some say in your future,” Quinn suggested. “Some security against a rainy day.” The same goals that had motivated Quinn as a youth, the same objectives that sent most people to their labors day after day and year after year.
“Exactly. My brother has control of his funds, though he’s squandering his allowance quarter after quarter. Mama says he’s headed for scandal.”
This conversation was scandalous, and yet, Quinn appreciated the young woman’s initiative. Fortunately, Jane had admonished Quinn that a duke did not take on every challenge as an army of one. A duke led a loyal force and contributed his cunning and courage without taking any unnecessary bullets himself.
“When we conclude this interminable penance of a dance, meaning no insult to present company, I will introduce you to my brother, Lord Stephen. His grasp of finances is superb, and he’s blunt to a fault. He will explain all you need to know and arrange for your funds to be handled through one of our investment accounts, if you so choose.”
Nothing in that offer broke the law, though it certainly broke with convention, and required a good deal of trust on the lady’s part.
“Lord Stephen is your heir?”
“For now.” Which status Stephen exploited with all the delicacy of a large hog untroubled by pretensions to dignity.
“His lordship has a nice smile.”
Stephen had a naughty smile, though dragooning him to Almack’s along with Duncan and the sisters seemed to please Jane. Quinn’s duchess roosted amid the potted palms like a partridge nestled in a sunny hedge, though of course she was not as plump as a partridge—yet.
“Someday,” Lady Marianne said, “I want the esteem of a man who will look at me as you look at your duchess, Your Grace.”
Jane waggled gloved fingers in Quinn’s direction and provoked half the room to smiling. Had any other duchess assayed the same informality in these surrounds, unkind talk about standards and decorum might have ensued. With a few smiles, a few soft answers where another woman would have offered criticism, Jane had made informality a virtue and marital affection fashionable.
Quinn’s duchess worked miracles, witness a guttersnipe from York was waltzing his evening away with the year’s current crop of debutantes.
“Thank you,” Lady Marianne said, as Quinn bowed over her hand at the conclusion of the waltz. “You promised to introduce me to Lord Stephen.”
