Page 24 of My One and Only Duke
“The situation is simple, Your Grace. You are heir to the Walden dukedom, the seat of which lies in the north, not far from the place of your birth. Given your exalted station, the king has spared your life so that you might carry out the duties of your office, in gratitude to a benevolent sovereign.”
Gratitude, to the very Crown that tried to hang him? Had hanged him?
“Bloody bedamned to your pardon, Mr. College of Alms. If King George thinks I’ll hand over my fortune for his rotten title, ye can tell him to shove his seal up the royal bunghole—if he can find it.”
Quinn’s speech had reverted to the dialect of the York slums, and Mr. Dodson had retreated to the door. One of the guards snickered, then began coughing when Quinn turned a glower on him.
“Think of it as a commutation,” the warden said. “You were in a prison of one sort—ugly maids, bad food, poor company. With a title, you’ll be in a prison of another sort. Better food and comely maids, though I can’t vouch for the company you’ll find.”
That perspective had merit. Then too, Quinn had siblings and a business partner, and they needed the money his will provided. Then there was Jane, waiting for her five thousand pounds. Quinn marched over to Dodson and treated him to what Stephen called his damnation-and-doom glower.
“Tell the truth, or I’ll hunt you down and use a dull, dirty knife to relieve you of body parts your missus might once have been fond of. What happens to my money if I accept George’s pardon?”
Dodson blinked twice. “You keep your money.”
“And?”
“You inherit the debts that the Walden estate has amassed.”
“To the penny, man, or I swear I’ll find a way to have a fatal accident.”
Dodson named a sum that would have felled any mortal who hadn’t spent the last ten years assessing which lords were worth lending money to and which were hopelessly bankrupt.
“Income?” Quinn pressed.
“From five different estates. They have been more than self-sustaining in the past and include tenancies under lease.”
If the task was clawing a path out of debt, Quinn was better suited to that challenge than any other subject of the Crown, and King George likely grasped as much. What His Majesty could not know was how determined Quinn was to bring his enemy to justice.
The laws of the slum were few and simple. One directive stood foremost among them in Quinn’s mind: Show weakness to those who disrespect you, and you’ll be devoured like the prey you are. An eye for an eye meant wrongdoing was punished, and honor upheld. Any other course was as good as begging to be victimized again.
“Mr. Dodson and I are in want of privacy,” Quinn said, “and send my footman to me.”
The warden smiled faintly. “He means the prisoner Davies.”
Quinn ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. “I mean my footman, Davies. When I depart this cesspit of injustice, I’ll need the services of my tiger, Edward, as well as my chambermaids, Penny, Susie, and Sophie.”
Dodson looked pleased, the idiot parasite. “Anything else, Your Grace?”
Forgive me, Jane. “I have a duchess. I must inform her of my good fortune.”
* * *
“He’s alive!” Joshua Penrose never shouted, never displayed even the cold temper that characterized his business partner, but a damned roll of black crepe sat on the sideboard, and the footman already sported a black armband.
“The bloody sod’s alive and pardoned. Althea! Constance! Stephen! Quinn is alive and he’s coming home.”
Joshua had posted eyes inside the prison, and what those eyes had related nearly restored his faith in a God with a sense of humor.
Althea, dressed head to toe in black, appeared on the landing. “Mr. Penrose, have you taken leave of your senses?” She descended one dignified step at a time, until she was on the bottom stair, which put her nearly eye level with Joshua.
She was beautiful in her grief, but then, she was beautiful all the time. “I have indeed taken leave of my senses, and so has the Crown. Quinn Wentworth received a royal pardon. The news is all over the prison, and he’ll be home this afternoon.”
Althea’s knuckles showed white as she gripped the newel post. “He accepted the pardon? I did not want to hope.” She bit her lip and stared past Joshua’s shoulder.
Overhead the clank of metal and the sound of ratcheting chains suggested Stephen was using the lift to descend from the upper floors.
“Get Miss Wentworth some damned brandy,” Joshua said, taking Althea’s hand. “She’s had a shock.”
