Page 49 of My One and Only Duke
“My wife is a duchess,” Quinn said. “Might as well get in the habit now of addressing her as Your Grace.”
The pair of them withdrew, no longer smirking.
Quinn got Jane situated on the balcony and took some pleasure in her appetite. She finished two beef sandwiches and a pair of ginger biscuits before pronouncing herself satisfied. Quinn saved her half of his sandwich, because she apparently didn’t stay satisfied for long.
“We didn’t say grace.” Jane folded her table napkin and laid it beside her empty plate. “I am very grateful. Not only was I hungry, but my digestion appears to be settled for once.”
That was it. “Thank you, Jane.”
She took a third ginger biscuit and held it out to him. “For what?”
Quinn detested ginger biscuits. They were never sweet enough. “For sharing your ideas with me.” For trying to protect your husband. He broke the biscuit in half and passed her the larger portion. “For being honest.”
“Let’s agree that our union will be characterized by honesty. The truth is serving us well, so far.”
Oh, Jane. If Quinn were honest about the details of his past, they’d have no union at all. If he were honest about his plans for his enemy, they’d have no future.
“I will look forward to many more of your frank opinions, Duchess. Shall you rest before our outing?”
She nibbled her biscuit. “I believe I shall. Give me an hour, and we’ll storm Oxford Street.”
Quinn stood and kissed her cheek—she’d said she liked the scent of him near. “I’ll send one of the maids to fetch you in an hour.”
He needed to get away from her, needed time to think, to explain the situation to his family. He needed time to consider what it meant that he was grateful to his wife, purely, simply grateful.
And that he was determined to thoroughly deceive her.
Chapter Thirteen
“The news is all over the clubs,” Cuthbert, Earl of Tipton, said. “Nobody’s quite sure what to make of it.”
Beatrice took a slow, stalling sip of her chocolate. She ought to have ordered a tray in her room, because her husband always broke his fast in the morning parlor and always read the paper from front page to back. A former diplomat’s habits died hard.
“I beg your pardon?” she said. “Might I have the jam?”
The footman at the sideboard brought the jam pot to Beatrice’s end of the table. She sat where no impertinent beam of sunlight could strike her face and otherwise blight the beginning of her day.
Her husband’s relentless good cheer accomplished that feat most mornings. She didn’t hate Cuthbert, but managing him was wearisome.
“That damned Wentworth,” he muttered, turning a page. “You may be excused, Thomas.”
The footman, whose name was Harold, withdrew.
“Wentworth?” Beatrice made a production out of choosing a slice of toast from the rack on the table. The toast was warm, and Cook had flavored half the batch with cinnamon.
“Quinton Wentworth, the banker. He was to be hanged for murder, and now he’s larking about at liberty again, free as you please. One of King George’s many queer starts. Butter, pet?”
“Please.”
Cuthbert brought her the butter, for he was ever considerate. Beatrice wished he’d curse, rant, and accuse, but he never did. Not ever. Another relic of his days as a diplomat.
“Murder is distasteful so early in the day.” Beatrice tore her toast in half. The crime had been manslaughter, though the difference mattered not at all to the victim. The distinction was one of intent. A murderer sought to end the victim’s life. A manslaughterer might have shoved the victim to the ground or come at him with violence in mind, but without intent to take a life.
Ulysses had explained the nuances to her in tedious detail, as if the legalities should fascinate her when Quinn Wentworth had once again survived despite all odds to the contrary.
“His bank has to be reeling,” Cuthbert said, in the same tones he’d report that a cricket team was doomed without its best pitcher. “Though with a royal pardon in his pocket, Wentworth will likely come right soon enough. Please do have more toast. I can’t abide the cinnamon myself.”
Was he baiting her?
