Page 50 of My One and Only Duke
Cuthbert was an odd combination of shrewd and oblivious. He’d come into a second cousin’s title years ago, but the wealth had taken some time to free up from trusts and bequests. His solution had been to spend time in the diplomatic corps, living more cheaply overseas, drawing a salary, and periodically abandoning his younger wife for months at a time.
He made a credible earl, a touch of gray about his temples, his frame lean, and his wardrobe dapper.
Cuthbert wasn’t ugly, wasn’t stupid, wasn’t anything in particular that a wife was entitled to complain of. He was a considerate and undemanding lover, when he bothered to recall he had a wife.
Beatrice wasn’t sure which she resented more: his neglect or his attentions.
“I like variety in my treats,” she said. “Plain toast grows boring even with butter and jam.” She’d spoken without thinking, a simple truth about breakfast fare, but Cuthbert gazed at her consideringly over the top of his newspaper.
“If you’re bored, we might take a trip to Lisbon before the weather grows too warm.”
Any excuse to drag her off to his favorite haunts. “The social season has only started, my lord. What can you be thinking?”
He smiled, the diplomat’s self-conscious, gracious smile. “I’m avoiding my parliamentary committees, if you must know. What difference does it make how many hackneys trot around London, or how loudly George begs for more money? Will I see you at Almack’s tonight?”
“Possibly.”
He folded the paper and rose. “I’ll live in hope until this evening. Should I send Thomas back in?”
Harold-Thomas was handsome—footmen were required to be handsome—but he needed a better acquaintance with soap.
“No, thank you. I’ll enjoy the rest of my meal in solitude.”
Cuthbert kissed her cheek, the newspaper tucked under his arm. “Maybe we’ll go to Lisbon this autumn or sail off to Rome. You’d like Rome.”
All those ancient statues with their chipped noses and eternally staring eyes? Having a doting husband fifteen years Beatrice’s senior was bad enough.
“Let’s think about it. Autumn is months away.”
Cuthbert patted her hand. “You ladies do so enjoy your waltzing. I’ll take lunch at the club, see what the fellows have to say about this Wentworth debacle. A few of them bank with him, despite the availability of many more venerable institutions. Some say he stole his first fortune, the rest remain strangely reticent, even in their cups. All very interesting.”
“Money,” Beatrice said, putting a world of disdain into two syllables. “Was there ever a more boring topic?” Or a more interesting topic than Quinn Wentworth?
“A club man is easily amused,” Cuthbert replied. “Enjoy your day, pet.”
“Save me a waltz.”
“I’ll be happy to.” He left the morning parlor at his usual brisk pace, though why—why in the name of every gentlemen’s club in St. James—must Cuthbert focus on Quinn Wentworth now?
Beatrice closed the door after her husband, drew every curtain in the room, and resumed her seat. She rested her forehead on her crossed arms and hated her whole dreadful life.
And Quinn Wentworth. For good measure, she hated Quinn Wentworth too.
* * *
“You’d best tell me,” Stephen said, patting his gelding. “Whatever has you half deaf at table, and off to the bank at all hours, is worrying the sisters. You’ve been out of prison for nearly two weeks, and yet you might as well still be locked away somewhere for all we see of you.”
“The sisters always worry.” They’d also taken to shopping like coachmen sampling free summer ale. Instead of bickering incessantly, Constance and Althea planned mercantile raids, compared prices between establishments, and tried on bonnets without number. Jane abetted these excesses, and when Quinn had arrived home last evening—half an hour earlier than usual—he’d heard feminine laughter coming from the family parlor.
Who would have guessed?
“The servants tell me everything,” Stephen said, turning his horse down a quiet bridle path. “Everything, Quinn. If you want eyes and ears at home, I’m your man.”
On horseback, Stephen looked older than when in his Bath chair. He was growing into Quinn’s height, and he’d chosen a mount that stood more than seventeen hands. To compensate for the weakness in his leg, his upper body strength was significant, and his chest and shoulders were well developed as a result.
By the laws of the street, Stephen was a man.
“You’re my baby brother. Asking you to spy for me only puts you in harm’s way.”
