Page 52 of My One and Only Duke
The Duke of Elsmore sat on the board of directors for the Dorset and Becker Savings and Trust. The bank was ancient, and Elsmore’s family had been involved at a genteel distance since its inception. From what Quinn had seen, the Dorset and Becker was an honest organization, though it catered to wealthy gentry and titles from the northern shires, and its investments were uniformly unimaginative.
Elsmore met Quinn’s gaze when the horses were a good twenty yards apart.
“Look bored,” Quinn muttered, motioning the groom to hang back. “Say nothing.”
Stephen snorted. “As Your Grace wishes.”
Elsmore brought his horse to a halt a few feet up the path. “Wentworth, good day. Perhaps you’d introduce me to your companion?”
Elsmore was several years younger than Quinn, had dark hair, and preferred severe attire to the gold buttons and lacy finery some of his class favored. At the rare gatherings where their paths had crossed, Quinn had sensed only polite curiosity from Elsmore rather than the lurid interest most hid so poorly.
“Your Grace, good morning. May I make known to you my brother, Lord Stephen Wentworth. Stephen, I present to you Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore.”
Lord Stephen Wentworth. That merited an upward twitch of Elsmore’s eyebrow.
Dodson had informed Quinn that the royal hand had been put to the appropriate warrants. Three days ago, Quinn had observed the bare minimum of ritual with the Lord Chancellor, and the Wentworth siblings now sported courtesy titles.
With this introduction to Elsmore, all of polite society would soon hear that news.
“Congratulations are in order,” Elsmore said, his smile surprisingly fierce. “One hears rumors. A ducal title?”
“Yes.”
Silence fell. Quinn’s horse snatched at the reins. Ruddy beast had no manners, but he was fast and fearless.
“Damned George probably saddled you with a load of debt,” Elsmore said, simply an observation from a commercially astute peer. “My condolences must accompany my congratulations, but you’ll sort it out. One hears rumors of a different sort, however.”
You’ll sort it out. From a duke, much less a director at a rival establishment, that was tantamount to sponsoring Quinn for vouchers at Almack’s. Doubtless, Elsmore expected something in return.
“Lord Stephen is in my confidence in every regard,” Quinn replied, and Stephen, who apparently aspired to reach his eighteenth birthday, did not fall off his horse overcome with mirth.
“One hears a certain viscount is considering moving his funds,” Elsmore said, gaze upon the greenery overhead.
Was this a warning, a confidence, an inchoate request for a favor, or…? Ah. Detwiler. A request for help making a decision, then, though a banker never, ever violated client confidentiality.
“Some viscounts can move their assets about in a thimble,” Quinn said, “while their debts would require a wheelbarrow.”
Elsmore appeared fascinated by the surrounding maples. “A wheelbarrow?”
He’d never struck Quinn as slow before. “A bloody big muck cart.”
“With a cloud of flies buzzing over it,” Stephen added, “that you can hear from halfway up the street.”
Accurate, given that Detwiler’s finances were under discussion, though Stephen couldn’t know that.
“I see.” Elsmore gathered up his reins. “Such a pity when that’s the case. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“The best London has to offer,” Quinn replied.
Elsmore touched his hat brim. “Your Grace, Lord Stephen, always a pleasure to pass the time in beautiful surrounds. I’ll wish you good day.”
He sent his horse at a walk between Quinn’s and Stephen’s mounts, his air of self-possession as subtle and bright as the sunbeams lancing down through the trees.
The bay’s hoofbeats faded, while Quinn tried to make sense of the encounter.
“What the hell was that about?” Stephen asked.
“The Duke of Walden has made his come-out.” Which Jane had doubtless known would happen on such an excursion.
