Page 12 of My One and Only Duke
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“I was hoping to speak with your man of business,” Mr. Dodson said, “but he’s apparently otherwise occupied, and his office directed me here. I apologize for intruding on your privacy at such a difficult moment.”
Althea Wentworth took her time preparing Mr. Dodson’s tea. In the wing chair opposite the low table, Constance also held her peace, while Mr. Dodson barely hid his gawking. The Wentworth town house was tastefully appointed.
Very tastefully. He’d expected something else, of course. They all did.
“A death warrant has been signed for my brother,” Althea said. “Difficult is putting it mildly, when we know him to be innocent.”
“Your loyalty does you credit,” Mr. Dodson replied. “Without having met Mr. Wentworth, I sincerely hope that if he was convicted in error, then the timely intervention of the Almighty or a nearly comparable force will save his life.”
Constance was tapping the arm of the chair with each finger in succession eight times—a piano exercise, played silently when she was troubled.
“Your tea,” Althea said, passing over the French porcelain cup and saucer. She prepared Constance’s tea next, though Constance had no use for tea.
“Do you ladies have any idea what the College of Arms does?”
“Also called the College of Heralds,” Constance said, fingers moving at the same steady tempo. “The College has authority to grant new coats of arms, research matters of heredity, and oversee the recording of pedigrees. They also have authority over the flying of flags on land. Their charter dates from 1484 and was granted by King Richard. The Court of the Lord Lyon performs comparable duties for our neighbors to the north.”
Constance had the same azure eyes as Quinn, and they gave her a feline ability to look imperious when she stared rather than simply rude. Althea’s eyes were plain blue, though she saw clearly enough.
Mr. Dodson was a man quivering to deliver exciting news. Althea and Constance had had enough excitement of late, thank you not at all.
“Just so,” Mr. Dodson said, bouncing a bit on his cushion. “Just exactly so. We at the College undertake our efforts on behalf of the sovereign, who relies utterly on our discretion. As you might imagine, when it comes to pedigrees and inheritances, that discretion can be sorely tried.”
Althea stirred her tea. Quinn had insisted his sisters know how to preside over a tea tray. Even he hadn’t the power to make them drink the wretched stuff.
“Mr. Dodson, Constance and I are coping with a significant strain. Our patience is sorely tried by any who seek to take advantage of us at this most challenging time. We are furious with the Crown on behalf of our brother and not inclined to tolerate flummery.”
“Enraged,” Constance added. “One might say murderously so.” She smiled, an apology for her honesty that made her all the more intimidating. Truly, she had learned from Quinn’s example.
Dodson set his cup on its saucer and deposited both on the tray. “The College of Arms does not deal in flummery. Just the opposite. We unearth the truth, no matter how uncomfortable that truth might be. We’ve uncovered illegitimacy in the best families of the realm, we’ve unearthed secret marriages that resulted in bigamous unions by titled men. We—”
“Why are you here?” Althea asked. “If there is a grief worse than mourning, we’re enduring it. You offend decency itself by wasting our time over tea.”
Dodson was a small, tidy man, though lack of height imbued some with a need to posture, witness Constance’s histrionics. As he rose and started a slow tour of the room—admiring the bust of George III, peering at shelves of classic literature—Althea spared a thought for Quinn.
He’d asked them not to visit him again, asked them to cease pestering the barristers for appeals and pleas that would only waste money. Quinn had ever been too pragmatic for his own good, and now he was to die for it.
“I’ll get straight to the point, ladies,” Mr. Dodson said, grasping his lapels with pale, manicured hands.
Constance shot a glance at the clock on the mantel.
“Your brother,” Mr. Dodson said. “Your brother Quinton Wentworth has inherited the Walden ducal title, along with various minor titles, properties, and financial appurtenances thereto. I’m off to Brighton, where I hope to convince a compassionate king that a man facing such responsibilities, even a man convicted of a serious crime, should be shown mercy by his sovereign.”
“Get out,” Constance said, rising and pointing at the door. “Get out, and take your greedy, rotten little scheme with you. Quinn is innocent, and you’ll not get him to hand his fortune over to the Crown with this ramshackle farce.”
Constance was ever one to surprise people—men especially—with her intelligence, though the logic she’d applied was all but obvious. Quinn had not left any of his siblings a great fortune, and he’d had reasons for that, good reasons.
Ergo, if the Crown was intent on producing a title to preserve Quinn’s life, then the Crown was in truth interested in preserving Quinn’s fortune, though not Quinn’s possession of it.
“You are overset,” Mr. Dodson said. “I do apologize for causing you to be discommoded, Miss Constance, but I tell you nothing less than the truth.”
“The truth is what the Crown says it is,” Constance retorted, “and the Crown has said my innocent brother, who never cheated or killed anybody, and who has shown generosity to more than a few, is to die next Monday.”
By rights, Quinn should already have met his fate. Joshua had explained the reprieve, if a reprieve it was. Constance’s description of Quinn’s character was accurate, but very much a minority view.
“Tell the rest of your truth in the next five minutes,” Althea said, “or Ivor and Kristoff will see you out.”
