Page 44 of My One and Only Duke
Or some evil had befallen Duncan. He was the only family member not given to drama, and if he’d taken sick, had a mishap, got the worst of one of Stephen’s rages…Duncan had never once hinted that managing Stephen was a thankless or difficult task, though Stephen on a bad day was a human tempest. If Duncan was planning to leave the household, panic was warranted.
“You didn’t look this thunderous when they was striking off your shackles,” Ned said. “If tragedy’s afoot among your family, then somebody woulda said.”
Quinn took a corner as fast as gravity allowed. “You saw the guards taking off the chains?”
“We all did. Had box seats. You made the whores cry.” Ned’s voice was casual—and vaguely accusing—suggesting the boy had also lost his composure. When a child had nothing else to his name save a few ragged clothes, composure was precious.
Quinn had neither the time nor the focus to spare for a lad’s scolds, however deserved they might be. “I can never again swing for the crime of killing Robert Pike, Ned. And you should not have seen me hanged.”
“You should not have been hanged. You didn’t swing, you dropped like a horse turd hits the street. Bloody bad business, and you’d best get to the bottom of it.”
A tiger also dispensed advice, apparently, and took an inordinate interest in equine digestion.
“I do intend to get to the bottom of it, but as far as you’re concerned, I was the victim of a simple judicial error. These things happen.”
Ned snorted as Quinn turned the vehicle into the alley behind the house.
“Ju-di-ci-al error,” Ned said, as if tasting a new batch of ale. “I like that. Sounds big. You should take Davies with you to and from the bank, you know.”
Quinn pulled up as a groom ran out of the carriage house to take the horse. Ned leapt down—nimble as a tiger—before Quinn had brought the gelding to a halt.
“You don’t take on my battles, Edward.”
Somebody had washed the boy’s hair and dragged a comb through it, put him in clean clothes, and even managed to get a matching pair of boots on his feet. By a street urchin’s standards, Ned had come into a dukedom, and all the dignity of his office glowered up at Quinn.
“When it comes to me mates, nobody tells me what to do, guv. I’ll hold your horses, I’ll trot around fetching your shirts from the tailor, I’ll eavesdrop on the maids for you, but I’m me own man.”
I bloody don’t have time for your juvenile dramas. Quinn managed to keep the words behind his teeth, barely, as raised voices cut across the morning air.
“You got trouble with your womenfolk,” Ned said, not a trace of gloating in the words. “Best make haste.”
Quinn made haste—at a decorous pace—Ned trotting at his heels. “You will be relieved to know that as I travel to and from the bank, a running footman always accompanies me. I’ve let it be known that I never carry cash when I’m on the bank’s business, and I don’t wear enough glint to attract notice.”
“I didn’t see no footman and I kept a sharp eye.”
Quinn let himself into the back stairway. “You won’t see them. They aren’t in livery, and they know how to blend in. They carry knives as well as pistols and a pocketful of sand.”
Ned snatched an orange from a bowl on the sideboard. “Knives is good and quiet. Sand has blinded many a man at a handy moment. Your womenfolk are loud.”
Never had Quinn thought the sound of domestic discord would reassure him, but if Althea—that was Althea, plain as day—was bellowing like a robbed fishwife, then nobody had died.
“Eat that in the kitchen,” Quinn said, “and don’t let the maids catch you eavesdropping.”
Ned tossed the orange into the air and caught it behind his back. “I never do. Good luck with the warring parties, your worship.”
Quinn wanted to take the stairs two at time, for the altercation was happening in the family parlor. He instead proceeded at a reasonable pace, nearly knocking over the Jamaican maid—Penny?—on the landing.
“She’s not come to any harm,” Penny called.
The words allowed Quinn to slow, marginally, but they also underscored the problem he’d wrestled with across half of London: He was responsible for his wife. The law and his own conscience agreed in that regard, and Quinn was prepared to write bank drafts, see to the succession, and put a roof over Jane’s head accordingly.
Nothing on his list of husbandly duties required him to worry about her, though, to fret over her worn boots, watch her while she slept, or wonder what she’d name the baby. And—God save him—what if she took to worrying about him?
The voices rose, and Quinn broke into a run.
Chapter Twelve
“I will not have this discussion before an audience, Althea.” In truth, Jane didn’t want to have this discussion at all.
