Page 3 of My One and Only Duke
“You don’t read the papers?” Quinn asked.
“Papa would have apoplexies if he caught me reading that drivel. We have souls to save.”
“I don’t think I’d like your father. Might I have a seat?” Because—for reasons known only to the doomed—Quinn wanted to sit down with her.
“This is your abode. Of course you should have a seat. You need not feed me or offer me drink. I’m sure you can better use your provisions for bribes. I can read to you from the Bible or quote at tiresome length from Fordyce’s Sermons if you like.”
“I do not like,” Quinn said, slicing off a portion of cheese. He was a convicted felon, but he was a convicted felon who’d taken pains to learn the manners of his betters. Then too, somebody had to set an example for the boy. Quinn managed to cut off a slice of bread with the penknife and passed the bread and cheese to Miss Winston.
She regarded his offering with a seriousness the moment did not warrant. “You can spare this? You can honestly spare this?”
“I will be grievously offended if you disdain my hospitality,” Quinn said. “Had I known you were coming, I’d have ordered the kitchen to use the good silver.”
Ned cast him a nervous glance, but Miss Winston caught the joke. Her smile was utterly unexpected. Instead of a prim, nipfarthing little pinch of the lips, she grinned at Quinn as if he’d inspired her to hilarity in the midst of a bishop’s sermon. Her gaze warmed, her shoulders lifted, her lips curved with glee.
“The everyday will do splendidly,” she said, accepting her portion of the humble fare. “So whom are you supposed to have killed?”
Chapter Two
That Papa would forget his only daughter was nothing new. Jane had learned to appreciate his forgetfulness—let others listen to his moralizing—though he was growing worse.
He always grew worse around the anniversary of Mama’s death. Then his visits to the prisons and poorhouses became incessant. Jane accompanied him because he demanded it, also because she feared for his well-being.
She needn’t have. Few places were safer than the inside of Newgate jail during daylight. Her present host—not the first condemned man she’d met—watched her guardedly, as if she were the unpredictable element in the room.
Courts erred all the time. The guilty went free and the innocent were convicted, but Mr. Wentworth had not one shred of innocence about his bearing. He struck Jane as dangerous rather than wicked. If he had taken a life, he’d faced his opponent head-on and waged a fair fight.
“Surely, Miss Winston, we can find a more cheerful topic than my late victim? One mustn’t speak ill of the dead, and in my present situation, speaking well of the deceased eludes me.”
The delicacy of Mr. Wentworth’s words was undermined by a Yorkshire accent that suggested generations of hard winters and harder work.
He would have made a fine picture behind a plough or at a forge. His height came with a pair of broad shoulders that some tailor had clad in an exquisite lawn shirt. The tucks where the sleeve gathered at the shoulder were so small and numerous, Jane would have gone blind stitching them. His waistcoat was burgundy with gold embroidery and perfectly balanced ostentation with good taste.
He wore no coat—a terrible breach of propriety elsewhere—but different rules applied in prison. He might be paying for these comforts with that coat, or the guards might have plucked it from him “for safekeeping.” Hanging was a messy business, and few men went to their executions in Sunday attire.
Mr. Wentworth took down a pewter mug from the quarter shelves built into a corner and poured half a tankard of ale.
“We’re fresh out of tea.” He set the mug before her and resumed his seat. “I do apologize. Is the fare not to your liking?”
The question became…mythological, with shades of Persephone in the underworld. Hades in this case was dark-haired and blue-eyed. His hands were as clean as a gentleman’s, his hair was neatly combed if longish. His minion was an anxious urchin watching the adults as if one of them might hurl something breakable against the whitewashed stone walls at any moment.
Hades would not yield to that impulse, not today. Mr. Wentworth regarded Jane so steadily his gaze was a force more powerful than time. Patience and inscrutability looked out at her in equal, infinite measures. If the eyes were windows to the soul, Mr. Wentworth’s soul was a bleak, silent moor under a gray December sky.
Though, ye angels and saints, he was a stunning specimen. His features were both masculine and beautiful—a slightly full mouth, perfectly proportioned nose, brows with a bit of swoop to them, and a jaw that put Jane in mind of Roman sculptures. Add the wintry blue of his eyes, and he was breathtakingly attractive.
And by offering Jane sustenance, he was being gracious.
“I am a preacher’s daughter,” Jane said. “I know better than to be ungrateful, and I’ve dined in humbler surroundings than this. For what I am about to receive, I am sincerely thankful.”
She took a bite of surprisingly fresh bread, a small bite. She had in fact dwelled in surroundings less luxurious than Mr. Wentworth’s prison cell. He came from means as clearly as she came from righteous penury—now.
“Himself is not to be hanged.” The boy’s voice was high even for one of his tender years, and he’d spoken as if a lapse in the conversation might permit some foul miasma into the room.
“Your sentence has been commuted to transportation?” Jane asked, washing her bread down with a sip of cool ale. Commutations for capital offenses were regular occurrences, though far from certain.
“Ned misspoke. I am not to be hanged this Monday. The executioner is otherwise engaged, and this is not a suitable topic to discuss with a lady.”
“Old Fletcher’s got a terrible case of—”
