Page 77 of My One and Only Duke
Which…he did.
“Any more visits from the reverend?” Joshua asked.
Duncan swept the trimmings from the quill pen into his palm and tossed them into the dustbin in the corner.
Perhaps he hadn’t been the one to mention Winston’s visit to Joshua. Quinn wasn’t sure how much actual spying Joshua did on the Wentworth household, how much casual gossip found its way to his ear, and how much Joshua’s possible interest in Althea accounted for his knowledge.
“No sign of the reverend since my departure for York,” Quinn said, “thank the divine powers. If you gentlemen have nothing more to discuss, I’ll be off.”
“You announce that Pike’s presence has been verified in Calais,” Duncan said, folding his penknife closed. “You confirm that he’s written to his family in York. You knew him when he was a gardener on the Tipton estate, and you are all but certain that the Countess of Tipton has authored your demise. What aren’t you telling us?”
“I’ve told you everything I know, except that the countess is no longer biding in the north. The earl is in Town on parliamentary matters, and her ladyship is buying out half the shops in Mayfair.”
Joshua muttered something having to do with the back end of a sheep. “How could we not know she’s here in London?”
“Because,” Duncan said, his knife disappearing into a pocket, “the Wentworths are not received, and thus all of Mayfair could be on fire and it would be of no moment to them.”
“You are a Wentworth,” Quinn replied, though in all likelihood he and Duncan shared no blood.
“One of five who refuses to read the society pages. What else do we know about the earl and his lady, and why they’re in Town this year of all years?”
“Six Wentworths,” Quinn said, “unless Jane has taken to reading the papers. I know precious damned little about Lady Tipton’s habits in Town, but I have an appointment with somebody who should be better informed than I am.”
“Would you like some company when you pay this call?” Duncan asked.
“I have nothing pressing this afternoon,” Joshua added.
If Quinn took one of them, he’d have to take both. “Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll pay this visit on my own. Perhaps we should ascertain where Lord Tipton keeps his London accounts.”
By making it a competition, Quinn was sure to have the information that much sooner.
“Good question,” Joshua said, heading for the door. “Shouldn’t be too hard to come up with an answer. I bid you both good day.” He departed on a soft click of the door latch, leaving a not entirely comfortable silence.
“Tipton banks at Dorset and Becker,” Duncan said, “the same as most of the northern aristocracy does. Penrose and I spent the last two weeks poring over the estate books from the Walden seat. Even I, who don’t care for ledger books, can read a tale of fraud and embezzlement there. When will you take an interest in your dukedom?”
The publican in the Walden village coaching inn had cheerfully confirmed in twenty minutes of gossip what Duncan and Joshua had taken two weeks to deduce: The previous duke’s steward had been a bold, greedy, shrewd thief, and the entire district had known it.
“I took a look at the ducal seat while I was in the north,” Quinn said, “but I wasn’t inclined to linger in the neighborhood. If you knew where Tipton banked, why not speak up?”
“Because finding a moment alone with you has become impossible. You’re either closeted with Jane, riding out with Stephen, haring off to York, or impersonating a doting brother where Althea and Constance are concerned.”
Duncan, who never raised his voice, never lost his composure, was…complaining. Possibly even pouting, because of Jane’s scheme to keep Quinn safe.
“If I attempted to dote on my sisters, they would fillet me, and Jane is my wife and in a delicate condition. Stephen is my brother and at a dangerous age.”
Duncan took inordinate care pulling on his gloves. “Speaking of Stephen…”
“If he’s got a maid with child, I’ll deal with it.” Though how was Quinn to beat the stuffing out of a brother confined to a Bath chair?
“Did Jane tell you he nearly blew her head off?”
Cold washed through Quinn, the sort of bone-deep cold he’d felt as a boy when his father’s voice acquired a whimsical sneer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ask Ivor. Jane wasn’t in any danger, but Stephen showed very poor judgment. She was upset.”
“I am upset.”
