Page 76 of My One and Only Duke
Ned pulled the shirt over his head—a clean shirt, of all the miracles. The kitchen was also cleaner, now that Ned noticed the details. The windows were clear, the copper pots shiny, the floor swept and scrubbed.
The kitchen hadn’t been dirty before, not by Ned’s standards, but now the place was worthy of a duke.
“Don’t be insulting my pizzle,” Ned said. “Isn’t like your pizzle is the size of the York Minster.”
“Ask Penny if she’d rather spend time with my pizzle or your perishing Minster. What were his dukeship fuming about?”
When had Davies become such a nosy cove? “Couldn’t understand him. He was talking thee and thou and summat and t’ this and t’ that. Never heard such talk afore in my life.”
“That’s Yorkshire, then. Don’t forget your inexpressibles, young Neddy. Shall I give your hair a trim?”
Ned looked at his feet, clean right down to a set of wrinkled toes. “Not too much, just a trim. The choirboys at the Minster—”
“I’ll trim you bald if you don’t cease bletherin’ about the damned Minster.”
“I’m trembling with fear, I am. Ned Tremblin’, they call me. The dread Viking Davies Dog-Pizzle has threatened to snatch me bald.”
Davies laughed and found a pair of scissors, then trimmed the back of Ned’s hair so it wouldn’t touch his collar. All the while, Davies continued to question and speculate and pass the time, and Ned dodged, distracted, and pretended to yawn.
Davies had never been this curious about the duke in Newgate, which left Ned with questions: For whom was Davies asking questions, and why? Until Ned had those answers, he’d not be letting on that the duke had been in a right taking over some countess who hadn’t been anywhere near where His Grace had expected her to be.
* * *
“So Pike’s in France?” Joshua asked.
“He was as of two weeks ago,” Duncan murmured, his penknife shaving a fine point on a goose quill. “Fat lot of good that does us.”
In the privacy of the partners’ conference room, Quinn let them bicker, because that’s how Joshua and Duncan went on. They never came to blows or insults, though they scrapped over the last word like dogs sniffing about a knacker’s yard.
“Knowing Pike’s alive does me plenty of good,” Quinn said. “Whoever sent him to Calais likely did so without giving him the proper travel documents. Pike can kick his heels indefinitely in the port itself, but without papers, the French will keep him buttoned up there. I can send a man to watch him, so I’ll know if he sails for home.”
“Papers cost money,” Joshua said, propping his boots on the corner of the reading table. “Papers for a man who’s doubtless traveling under an assumed name will cost more money, and take time. Then too, Pike likely has about four words of French.”
Quinn hadn’t even that many.
Duncan leapt back into the discussion, debating how long forged papers would take to prepare, how much they’d cost, whether they’d be more easily procured in London or Calais, whether they’d been acquired weeks ago, before Quinn’s arrest.
Quinn listened with half an ear, because the papers wouldn’t be procured anytime soon. Whoever had sent Pike to France wanted to know where he was in case Pike needed killing. Talkative conspirators tended to meet with accidents.
“A diplomat’s wife would know how to quietly get hold of any papers she needed,” Quinn said.
Joshua’s boots hit the carpet with a thump.
“Her again.” Duncan packed a load of contempt into two words, a veritable fit of temper for him.
“Makes sense,” Joshua said. “Lady Tipton has means, she’s carrying a grudge, she’s well connected.”
“You’re planning to go to bloody France, aren’t you, Quinn?” Duncan’s tone implied a trip to France was a felony in itself. “So you bring Pike back, get his sworn confession. He’ll say he simply asked you for a bit of blunt in an alley and then left the country. He’ll declare ignorance of your trial and conviction, because whoever set this up isn’t stupid. If somebody took the trouble to send you to Newgate, they’d take the time to coach Pike on what to say if he’s flushed from his covert.”
Quinn had reached the same conclusion before he’d left York.
“Pike isn’t the key,” he said, getting to his feet. “Pike would be a fine bargaining chip if I spoke French or had a French translator I could trust. I don’t, and I’m uncomfortable leaving Jane again while my enemy can maneuver freely.”
“Jane,” Joshua said, as if referring to a particularly thorny banking law. “She’s…well?”
Since Quinn’s return from York, his household had never known such calm and order, and his thoughts had never known such chaos. Althea played only sweet, languid airs on her harps, while Constance painted portraits of her cats. Stephen was researching the history of the dukedom with the single-mindedness that characterized his happiest pursuits.
“Jane thrives.” She also desired her husband passionately and often. The frequent lovemaking was as disconcerting to Quinn as it was delightful, but worse—far worse—was Jane’s affection, her laughter, her wifeliness. She assumed Quinn would be interested in hearing about the petty battles and victories of her day, and that he’d enjoy sharing his own frustrations and triumphs with her.
