Page 80 of My One and Only Duke
Poor Mr. Dodson. “You have exquisite manners, though your patience wants work.”
Quinn took her hand, and the last of Jane’s anger skittered back to where she stored other vexations—Papa’s pigheadedness, Hades’s mating urges. What remained was worry—why had Quinn lied?—and determination.
“My patience wants major repairs,” Quinn said, “particularly since I’ve acquired a wife.”
They weren’t to discuss the letters, though Jane’s immediate problem—what to do with them—had been solved. They were Quinn’s letters, and he’d find a new place to store them.
“Odd, acquiring a husband has similarly tried my own usually placid nature. What did Dodson have to say?”
“Little of any moment, though he did mention that one of his heralds had a lively correspondence with Stephen going back several months. Not the same fellow who researched the Walden dukedom, else Dodson would have known of Stephen’s inquiries sooner.”
Jane was glad for the warm grip of Quinn’s hand in hers. “Stephen knew you were heir to a title?”
“He certainly had inklings, and his intellect is in better working order than most people’s. If anything happens to me, the title becomes his. When were you planning to tell me that he nearly blasted you to kingdom come, Jane? I thought we’d agreed to be honest with each other.”
Jane withdrew her hand. “Did you really? How disappointed you must be. Try counting to three when you’re vexed. I used to find that habit helpful when my patience was tried.”
Quinn had the grace to wince. “The letters are more than ten years old, and I keep them to prove that my attentions were not forced on the woman who wrote them.”
Ye gods, marriage to Quinn was complicated, and that explanation only replaced one worry with another.
“After ten years, you still fret that this woman could cause you trouble?”
“The statute of limitations on rape is considerably more than ten years.” He offered that observation with such a bleak, remote expression that his earlier claims about having refrained from romantic entanglements in recent years gained credibility.
“Whoever she is,” Jane said, scooting to the edge of the sofa, “she needs to forget her youthful indiscretions and leave you in peace.” This is what happens when a woman clings to her hurts and disappointments.
“Verily.” Quinn’s hand on Jane’s arm stayed her from trying to rise. “But rather than discuss my misspent youth, I’d like to hear about Stephen’s asinine behavior with a gun.”
“Ivor tattled.”
“We agreed to have honesty between us, Your Grace.”
“That we did.” Jane sat back. “Stephen exercised poor judgment, and he apologized. He felt it imperative to warn me that Wentworths aren’t safe, and must never let down their guard. I gather this woman is among those who taught you that same lesson.”
Quinn remained silent, staring at the peacocks and doves patterned into the library carpet. He was an articulate man, but the conversation had apparently taken a turn even he hadn’t anticipated.
Instinct leapt ahead of reason, and dread closed around Jane’s heart. “You think the lady who sent those letters had you arrested, tried, and sentenced to death. Who is she, and what happened that, years later, she’d still hate you enough to see you hanged?”
* * *
Nobody save Quinn and her ladyship knew the entirety of his involvement with Beatrice, Countess of Tipton. He’d kept his gob shut, and prayed to whatever god took pity on stupid young footmen that her ladyship had done likewise. Having lent money to many a titled family, Quinn could now see—at a distance of more than a decade—that he’d been embroiled in a silly affair with a neglected aristocratic wife. He’d been an idiot of sixteen, too randy for his own good, and much taken by an older woman’s overtures.
Jane was making no overtures whatsoever. She rose from the sofa and paced across the library, a worried lioness whose claws were sheathed—for now.
“I have no proof that her ladyship is behind my arrest, Jane.”
“Not your arrest, Quinn, your attempted murder and ruin, years after you’ve given any grounds for offense. Tell me the rest of it.”
“There isn’t much to tell. I was sixteen when I became a footman for the Earl of Tipton. I was big, fit, and sufficiently good-looking that a lack of polish could be covered up by handsome livery. Footmen aren’t required to speak, only to step and fetch and endure endless boredom.”
Jane tidied up a pile of books that Stephen had doubtless left on the reading table. “Was her ladyship bored?”
“Bored, lonely, neglected, and angry at her husband. At the time, all I could see was that she…”
Jane organized the books on the table by color—red leather bindings in one stack, brown in another. “She was attracted to you?”
The countess had sought to possess Quinn, to own him like a dog on a leash. “I hate discussing this.”
