Page 13 of My One and Only Duke
The footmen standing on either side of the doorway, a pair of blond Vikings in livery who were not twins but as good as, didn’t so much as blink. Quinn had found them in Stockholm, though like many of his finds, their story remained a mystery. They went everywhere together on their half day, shared a room, and bickered in their own language like an old couple.
More than that, Althea did not need to know.
Dodson resumed his seat and used four of his remaining minutes to sketch a genealogy that dug a rabbit warren of family history back through three centuries.
“So you see,” Dodson concluded, “your brother truly is the Duke of Walden, and you would be Lady Althea Wentworth and Lady Constance Wentworth. I cannot imagine our gracious king allowing such a lofty and respected title to lapse when a legitimate heir is yet extant to claim it.”
Oh, of course. Dear George was occasionally gracious, but he was invariably greedy and ran up debts with the enthusiasm of a debutante shopping for hair ribbons.
“This will destroy Stephen,” Constance said. “The boy is wild with rage at Quinn’s situation, and inheriting a title will drive him past reason. You may keep your dukedom, Mr. Dodson.”
Stephen, at seventeen, did not enjoy a solid grasp of reason most days. He had all of Quinn’s intelligence and none of Quinn’s self-restraint. Stephen was ungovernable at present, and, as Cousin Duncan had observed, understandably so.
“No, madam,” Dodson said, hands on hips. “At the risk of contradicting a lady, I may not keep the Walden dukedom. Titles don’t work that way. I cannot expect you to understand the details of titular succession, but when legitimacy has been established, and letters patent provide that male heirs—”
“Your five minutes are up,” Althea said, gently, because Dodson was only trying to do his job. When Quinn had done his job, many had criticized him for it, called him flint-hearted, greedy, and unprincipled.
“The difficulty,” Althea went on, “is that you might well be right: Quinn has inherited this title, he’s due all the honors and whatnot, and you may even manage to wrangle a pardon from King George.”
“You’d best be about it, if you intend to try,” Constance said, checking the watch pinned to her bodice. “Though it won’t do George any good. He’s not getting Quinn’s money.”
Any mention of wealth was vulgar. Bedamned to vulgar, Quinn had always said, when ignoring financial realities meant his family went hungry.
“If the king signs a pardon, then your brother will not die,” Dodson retorted. “A duke might be plagued by scandal, but polite society is usually willing to overlook peccadillos when His Majesty’s example does likewise.”
Manslaughter was not a peccadillo. The last doubt about Dodson’s scheme evaporated. The Crown wanted Quinn’s fortune, but Quinn had made sure his fortune was safe from royal plundering.
“We wish you every success obtaining a pardon for an innocent man,” Althea said, rising. “But Quinn will refuse his sovereign’s mercy. Our brother is all but dead, and we have the Crown to thank for that. No piece of paper obtained at the last minute, the better to steal from a grieving family, will earn Quinn’s notice. Good day, Mr. Dodson.”
“Safe journey,” Constance added, coming to her feet.
Ivor and Kristoff opened the double doors at the same moment. Althea had caught them practicing that move, like the acrobats at Astley’s practiced their tumbling.
“Your brother shall not die,” Dodson said. “I know my duty.”
Althea said nothing. Constance linked arms with her.
And Dodson stalked out, Ivor on his heels.
Kristoff closed the door and passed Constance a handkerchief, then tidied up the tea tray and left both sisters their privacy.
“Why must Quinn be so stubborn?” Constance lamented, dabbing at her eyes. “And how shall we manage without him?”
“He’s stubborn because that’s all he knows how to be,” Althea said. “Quinn’s stubbornness saved his life and ours—and he’s not dead yet.”
Though, of course, he soon would be.
Chapter Five
Quinn had been offered marriage on a few occasions, and he’d been propositioned many times, but he’d never asked a woman to be his wife. Based on Miss Winston’s worried gaze, he’d made a bad job of his first and only proposal.
“I can leave you enough to live comfortably,” he said, returning the cat to the bed, “you and the child. My only condition is that you not squander the money on your father’s unholy schemes. The child will be considered my legitimate offspring in name, because I’ll leave a witnessed letter with my man of business attesting to same. I assume you’ve been in London for most of the past year?”
Miss Winston unfastened the frogs of her cloak and let the collar fall open. “I’ve spent my whole life in London. Are you sure of that part about the child being your legitimate offspring?”
No, Quinn was not, not with a prior marriage that had ended only months ago.
“I’m sure the law complicates the whole business, or barristers and solicitors would go hungry. If you are my widow at the time of the child’s birth and you have the means to provide for your offspring, then who will even raise the issue?” Quinn moved his chair, so he sat at Miss Winston’s elbow rather than across from her. “Your goal should be to gain security and independence, which marriage to me will accomplish easily.”
