Page 26 of My One and Only Duke
The extent of the Walden debts would be a challenge even for Quinn, though exactly the sort of challenge he was equipped to meet.
“The dukedom, as Stephen has noted, is real,” Joshua said. “In typical Quinn fashion, he’s anticipated his obligations and already found himself a duchess.” And a potential heir. Joshua would let Quinn explain that development, if any explanation were needed.
“Quinn is engaged?” Althea asked, drink halfway to her lips.
“Not engaged,” Joshua said, with the same direct gaze he used when he foreclosed on a mortgage. “Married. Quinn has taken a bride, and she’ll be coming to live with you here.”
A historic beat of silence went by, for the three younger Wentworth siblings were all quiet in the same room at once.
Stephen stared at his cordial, his lips moving in a silent pattern of what appeared to be French profanities.
Constance muttered, “I believe I’ll have another,” and reached for the decanter.
Althea, dignified, self-assured, lady-of-all-she-surveys Althea, spluttered her drink all over her skirts, while Duncan patted her back and said absolutely nothing.
Chapter Eight
“But from whence cometh your late husband’s wealth, Jane Hester?” Papa asked, for the dozenth time. “The god of Mammon is a jealous god, and you cannot think to prosper by worshipping at his altar.”
“Not prosper, Papa,” Jane said, folding her mother’s last good shawl into the battered trunk. “Survive. An infant needs food, shelter, and safety, and I intend that my child have those blessings.”
Before Jane had been old enough to put up her hair she’d realized that Papa used his voice as a weapon. Everything, from the piety of his King James syntax to the sheer volume of his declamations, was intended to bludgeon the conscience if not the nerves.
She had learned to wield the same weapon, to appropriate the vocabulary of holiness and faith, and to quote scripture or misquote it as the occasion demanded.
“You’ll bless your child with the filthy lucre of a felon?” Papa could not pace, for Jane’s quarters were too small to afford him that bit of stage business. “You’ll use Wentworth’s ill-gotten gains to surround yourself with luxuries? Did your misadventure in Scotland teach you nothing?”
“My marriage to Gordie taught me that life is precarious, and I must provide for his offspring as best I can.”
Papa put a hand on the bedpost as if she’d hurled a dagger at his heart. “Jane Hester, what would your mother say?”
Get out while you can, probably. Mama had been a dutiful wife and a pragmatic mother.
“Mama would rejoice that an innocent life will not be born into undeserved hardship. She’d be grateful that some good fortune has come my way, despite the great sorrow of Mr. Wentworth’s passing.”
Jane had lain on her side in bed that morning and watched the sun creep down the cracked, water-stained wall. Executions were held first thing in the day, the better to accommodate a crowd that could not miss work to take in its entertainments.
Davies had told her that Mr. Wentworth’s execution would happen in the courtyard, by some miracle of bribery, meaning Jane’s husband had died almost three hours ago.
She could not bear to dwell on that reality for more than a moment or two.
He’s gone. That great, complicated, beautiful beast of a man is no more.
I’m widowed again.
Mr. Quinn Wentworth has been put to death.
This should have been a relief, that matters had for once proceeded in exactly the fashion promised. For the first time in her life, Jane was free, she was possessed of a small fortune, and she could order her affairs as she saw fit.
She was anything but relieved.
Mr. Joshua Penrose had arranged for a coach to fetch her and her “effects.” When that coach arrived, she’d be ready. Perhaps then—once she was away from these cramped, miserable quarters—she could cry for her late husband.
“You disappoint me, Jane Hester,” Papa said in his most funereal tones. “You break your father’s heart. Sharper than the serpent’s tooth—”
“My child would not thank me for giving birth in these surrounds when a cleaner and more wholesome alternative is available,” Jane said. “My child would not thank me for being unable to afford a trained accoucheur. My child would not thank me for—”
Papa had taken out his handkerchief. The last, most potent weapon in his arsenal. He eschewed violence—Turn the other cheek, Jane Hester!—but his definition of violence was limited to the physical.
