Page 6 of My One and Only Duke
“Good work, Timmons. Good work indeed. The Crown will be most grateful. Let’s have a look at what you’ve found, and please do close the door. Damned draft can give a man a lung fever.”
Timmons closed the door and spread out his genealogical research on Dodson’s desk. To rescue the Walden dukedom from escheat—and the Crown from an enormous pile of debt—Timmons had had to go back nine generations. He’d racketed all over the North of England, visited graveyards without number, and studied parish rolls so dim with age as to be mere whispers of records.
He’d interviewed grannies, taken tea with earls, and called upon vicars no London gentleman had called upon in years.
His diligence had been rewarded. “Thank God the heir is not some shepherd living in a hut,” Dodson said. “I do so hate to see noble titles thrust into the hands of those unprepared for such responsibility.”
“He’s wealthy,” Timmons said. “Rich as a nabob, beautiful London house, equally lovely estates in Yorkshire, gives handsomely to charities and doesn’t make a great fuss about it. We have only one problem, sir.”
There was always a problem and seldom only one. “The king is in Brighton, where he’s expected to bide for the next fortnight at least. We have time to tidy up a few loose ends, and it’s to His Majesty that this good news must be conveyed.”
Timmons’s excitement dissipated, and a tired, aging clerk stood where a dedicated royal herald had been a moment before.
“Waiting a fortnight makes sense, sir, because the present candidate for the title is enjoying the king’s hospitality, so to speak, though he’s not likely to do so for long.”
“Have a seat, Timmons, and pray do keep your voice down. You said the heir was wealthy, generous, propertied, and in good health. In what sense is he enjoying the king’s hospitality?”
“The bad sense, sir. The criminal sense.”
Damn and blast. Why couldn’t a man blessed with every possible advantage in life keep himself from the magistrate’s clutches?
“Tell me about the brother.”
Timmons lit up like an ember finding a fresh breeze. “The brother’s a right enough fellow of seventeen years, not yet married. He should inherit all that wealth in less than two weeks. His Majesty will like that part. Can’t fault a man for having his affairs in order, even if he is convicted of taking a life.”
Dodson took up his quizzing glass and pulled Timmons’s painstakingly detailed family tree closer. “There’s nobody else? We have the criminal’s brother or nobody?”
“That’s right, sir, but for a distant cousin. We can have the convict or his brother—who’s young enough to need a guardian, of course—and I can guess which option His Majesty will choose.”
“So can I.”
Chapter Three
Nothing helped.
Not reading, though how many times had Quinn promised himself he’d read all the classics his lordly customers were always quoting? He’d been beguiled by numbers, while words were simply a means to an end: Pass the salt. Can’t you see I’m busy? The bank is not in a position to make a loan to you at this time.
Showing Davies how to play chess did not help. He was a clever young man, but impatient, and chess wanted nothing so much as patience. To teach Quinn chess, Cousin Duncan had needed patience without limit and a Wentworth’s full complement of strategy.
Teaching Ned to read did not help, because the boy would never be able to afford books, and in his own words, he couldn’t eat books or use them to stay warm unless he burned them.
Which he would do without a qualm.
Training Plato, Ned’s favorite mouser, to shake paws did not help. Only a bedlamite tried to train a cat—even a hungry cat—to do anything. Plato doubtless knew this and occasionally performed the desired waving of a front paw, likely out of pity. The beast was all black with yellow eyes that never seemed to close or blink in the presence of food.
When Plato appropriated a place on Quinn’s lap and commenced rumbling, that truly did not help. Purring when death was less than a fortnight away made Quinn want to pitch the cat out the window, and that reminded Quinn that every window was stoutly barred.
A knock sounded on the door, which was open only a few inches.
“Come in.” Even in Newgate, a man didn’t have to be home to callers, one of the many odd dignities the prisoners granted one another.
Miss Winston—Quinn forgot her first name, something that began with a J—peeked around the door. “Do you have a moment, Mr. Wentworth?”
All he had were moments. “I can fit you in to my schedule.”
She was attired in the same gray shroud of a cloak, the straw flecking her hems up to midcalf today.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” she said. “Ned should be warned to remain alert on Wednesday. These situations are always subject to change—routines shift, people fall ill—and Wednesday is the next opportunity.”
