Page 61 of My One and Only Duke
She’s not your Jane. “The fellows at the College of Arms tell me I’m stuck with the title, and with the debts amassed by the entailed estate.” Which were, indeed, substantial.
Under Duncan’s supervision, two clerks were reviewing the ducal ledgers for fraudulent charges, double entries, overcharges, and bookkeeping “errors.” In Quinn’s estimation, the estate had been pilfered by disloyal subordinates more than it had been mismanaged by the aging titleholder. When the old fellow had died, the pilfering had expanded into outright pillaging.
Constance and Althea would delight in cleaning house at the family’s newly acquired seat in Yorkshire, though that would leave Quinn more privacy with Jane in London, which would not do.
“I could use a spot of marmalade.” Winston applied butter to his toast as if caulking a ship of the line for a voyage to China. “A duchess should have pin money.”
Quinn’s eggs curdled in his belly. “I’m well aware of what I owe my wife.”
He owed her the truth regarding his past and his plans, likely the only debt he’d never repay. He rose to retrieve more bacon from the sideboard for his guest.
Winston aimed the butter knife at Quinn. “I am here as Jane’s father, to ensure those responsibilities are generously met. You, by contrast, took advantage of a grieving young woman’s disordered thinking, the better to enjoy her favors when your circumstances were dire. You all but made a harlot of my daughter, man’s capacity for selfish pleasures being undaunted even by the prospect—”
“Shut yer filthy mouth, old man.”
Winston set down the knife. “You reveal your true colors, Mr. Wentworth.”
“When you sit at my table, you will refer to me and to your daughter as Your Grace. If you ever again use the word ‘harlot’ in the same house where my duchess dwells, I will do you the courtesy of teaching you to fly out of windows, like the winged angels whom you will never meet. You come here pretending to ask after Jane, but it’s her coin that interests you. How much do you need?”
“How dare you?” Winston retorted. “Accusing me, Jane’s father and only living relative, of having no more—”
Quinn snatched the carving knife from the ham platter and hurled the blade such that it embedded itself into the table two inches from Winston’s elbow.
“How much?”
Winston’s gaze went from Quinn’s face to the hilt vibrating subtly amid the lace runners, crystal, and silver. The bombast went out of the reverend, replaced with fear and what might have been bewilderment. He’d scurry off to his holy callings, then gather his courage and his favorite self-deceptions, and be back spouting his pious venom.
“I wanted to redeem a cedar chest from the pawnshop,” Winston said. “Belonged to my wife. I thought one day, Jane might…that is…”
The chest was in the housekeeper’s parlor, awaiting a thorough cleaning. Quinn hoped to locate a hand mirror, two shawls, a jewelry box, and pearl earbobs as well.
“Last chance,” Quinn said. “How much?”
“Five pounds.”
“You need that five pounds because you are in arrears on your rent,” Quinn said, setting the plate of bacon before his father-in-law. “You haven’t paid the coal man since the first of the year, and your credit at the chophouse is gone. Instead of honest work carrying hod or tutoring the sons of merchants, you make a pestilence of yourself among the most unfortunate creatures ever to be incarcerated. You cling to your respectability like a terrier with a rat. Be glad I value that respectability for Jane’s sake.”
A soft click warned Quinn to leave unspoken the remaining half dozen dire admonitions he had for the reverend.
“Good morning.” Jane stood in the doorway, looking pale and severe. “Papa, good of you to call. Your Grace, I trust I’m not interrupting.”
Quinn had hoped to slip away before Jane rose, or, failing that, hoped to take a pleasant leave of her. Ah, well. So much for hoping, as usual.
“I’ll be on my way soon.”
She didn’t so much as look at him, but she’d troubled over her appearance this morning. For Jane, this meant a slightly more intricate braid in her coiffure, and a lace shawl rather than the wool she normally favored.
And about her eyes, a surprising touch of self-consciousness.
Quinn held her chair and bent to brush a kiss to her cheek. “You’re looking well this morning.”
“Thank you.”
Across the table, Winston ploughed through the remainder of his eggs. He might have made a grab for the rest of the toast but Quinn set the rack before Jane’s plate, along with the butter and the honeypot. From the sideboard he retrieved a cellar of ground cinnamon mixed with sugar, for this was how Jane liked her toast.
“Tea, madam?”
“Please.”
