Page 27 of My One and Only Duke
Much destruction of the spirit could be rendered with mere words, with inaction, with indifference. Jane’s heart suffered a blow every time she noticed that another of Mama’s mementos had been carted off to the pawnbroker’s.
Papa touched the worn linen to the corners of his eyes. “Jane Hester, never did I think that a daughter of mine would seek worldly riches, much less worldly riches of such an unfortunate origin. I shall pray nightly for Mr. Wentworth’s soul, but I shall pray without ceasing for yours.”
Jane tried mentally counting to three and praying for patience, her mother’s preferred prescription for life’s aggravations. No patience was to be found where Papa’s posturing was concerned, not today, not when Quinn Wentworth was likely being measured for a shroud.
She closed the trunk and fastened the straps, then dragged its dead weight from the bed.
“And for your grandchild, Papa? Will you pray for that innocent soul as well? Will you give thanks that even as Mr. Wentworth faced certain death, his concern was for a child he’d never have a chance to know? Will you be grateful that I was not forced to take up with another Gordie, or worse, simply to keep body and soul together?”
Papa folded his handkerchief, his gesture a well-rehearsed study in sorrow.
“I have made inquiries regarding Mr. Wentworth, Jane Hester. His antecedents are most irregular, and all agree the source of his initial fortune is unsavory. You leave this house without my blessing.”
She was supposed to apologize and beg Papa’s forgiveness, for leaving, for having been widowed, for a lack of faith in the very Deity who had taken both Mama and Gordie before Jane had been prepared to deal with either loss.
“Judge not, Papa, lest you be judged. I’ve left my direction with Mrs. Sandbridge downstairs. You will always be welcome to visit in my home.”
Not to dwell there. Mr. Wentworth had made that clear.
Mr. Wentworth, who was dead.
Jane used the fury that thought inspired to wrench the trunk across the floor—she hadn’t the strength to lift it—and to the top of the stairs. Papa sat on the bed looking forlorn and bewildered, which he did well.
What sort of father watches a pregnant daughter wrestle a heavy trunk and lifts not a finger to help her?
The question popped into Jane’s head in Quinn Wentworth’s voice. She hoped she’d be hearing that voice frequently in the coming years, because she had genuinely liked her late husband. She’d respected him, and she was endlessly, endlessly grateful to him.
Getting the trunk down the stairs was a noisy business—thunk, scrape, thunk, scrape—and Jane was put in mind of the steps a convicted felon climbed to ascend the gallows.
Light-headedness assailed her. She knew better than to ignore it, so she sat on the trunk in the foyer until coach wheels and shod hooves clattered to a halt in the street. A large conveyance judging from the racket, not a mean little gig.
Jane rose—slowly, always slowly—waited a moment, then cracked the door.
A smart black town coach drawn by four matched grays sat at the foot of the steps. The coachman and grooms wore black livery trimmed in red, and the coach’s appointments were also done in black with crimson piping.
Lucifer would arrive in such a conveyance, somber and dashing at the same time.
“I have grown fanciful,” Jane muttered, grabbing her cloak and opening the door wider. In truth, she was famished, but had dared only half a slice of dry toast with a few sips of ale to break her fast.
She had not met Mr. Penrose. She’d communicated with him only in writing, and thus when a largish gentleman stepped down from the coach, she wasn’t shocked. He was attired in sober perfection for the time of day, top hat brushed to a sleek shine that matched equally handsome boots.
His linen was immaculate, his clothing exquisitely tailored. His arrival on this street would be talked about for days, so uncommon a sight was he. The fellow knew how to make an impression, and his height helped in that regard. Put a high-crowned beaver hat on a man as tall as Mr. Wentworth had been…
A queer feeling came over Jane as the gentleman mounted the porch steps. The same mental dislocation that an impending faint caused, though she wasn’t dizzy.
“Mr. Wentworth.” And not a version of Mr. Wentworth who had any concern regarding his liberty or his continued existence. A splendidly turned-out version of a splendidly self-possessed, handsome man.
“Mrs. Wentworth.”
Same deep voice, same steady blue eyes that gave nothing away.
Jane pitched into her husband and wrapped him in a tight hug.
“You are alive. Thank heavens, you are alive.” She wept tears of joy and relief, wrinkling his cravat, breathing in the lovely, lovely scent of him. “You did not die. I am so glad you did not die. You are alive.”
He drew Jane aside, so two footmen could take her trunk down the steps, but Jane could not turn loose of him.
“I was pardoned,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I take it you regard this as a cheering development?”
