Page 87 of My One and Only Duke
Stephen wheeled himself down the corridor, nearly running into Quinn outside the family parlor.
“Have you seen Jane?”
“She’s in your sitting room, not feeling quite the thing. She asked me to keep her father company.”
Quinn scowled at the door to the family parlor. “He’s back?”
“His daughter lives here. Some fathers do this, I’m told. Look in on their offspring, not that we’d know.”
Quinn aimed his scowl at Stephen. “Don’t turn your back on him. He’s every inch the respectable parson, but he cites scripture for his own purpose and hasn’t done an honest day’s work in years.”
No greater transgression existed in the gospel according to Saint Quinn, which left a brother in a wheeled chair feeling ever so decorative.
“If you have a moment, I’ve a few things to talk over with you, Quinn. The reverend can stuff himself with tea cakes in solitude.”
“No, he cannot. We’ll talk when next we hack out in the park. I need to see to Jane.” He stomped off down the corridor more purposefully than Moses had crossed the Red Sea. Perhaps he’d noticed the traveling coach sitting in its bay, perhaps Jane would mention Duncan’s odd behavior.
And perhaps she wouldn’t. “Quinn!”
He turned outside his door, expression impatient. “Not now, Stephen.”
“Let’s ride out tomorrow.”
“If the weather’s fair.” Then he slipped through the doorway and left Stephen to the thankless task of entertaining company.
“I want them to treat me as if I’m normal,” he said to nobody in particular. Not exactly the truth. Stephen wanted to be normal. A slight, manly limp would be acceptable, but not the ungainly lurching that meant he’d never turn a lady down the room. “Dealing with inconvenient callers is normal.”
On that cheering thought, he let himself into the family parlor. The reverend set down the little gold snuff box, a guilty expression suggesting that the Eighth Commandment had been in jeopardy, or perhaps the Tenth.
Quinn hadn’t the patience for the old twattle-basket. If life in a Bath chair taught a fellow one thing, it was patience. Tomorrow, Stephen would share his observations regarding Duncan with Quinn. Now, he’d defend the family’s monogrammed snuff boxes, and wonder where the hell Duncan had got off to, and why he’d lied to Quinn.
Chapter Twenty-two
Jane had apparently sent forth a decree, and Quinn had acquired a battalion of nannies where previously only a devoted duchess and a few watchful siblings had been. Going to and from the bank, the running footmen kept pace with the phaeton, and Ned clung to his post as tiger.
If Quinn stepped outside the bank to pass the time with the flower girls, Ned appeared four yards away. If Quinn took a notion to stop by his one and only club to eavesdrop on gossip at midday, Joshua took the same notion. At the pawnshops, Ned waited outside, nose pressed to the window like a neglected puppy.
A week went by, while Quinn’s patience ebbed like the funds in the royal exchequer. Lady Tipton was biding not four streets away from where Quinn’s family dwelled, and something had to be done. Tracking Pike down in France might prove impossible. Then too, Quinn was being followed, and not by one of his own footmen.
“This is not the way to the park,” Stephen said as Quinn turned his horse out of the alley. “I wait days for you to find the time to ride out with me, comport myself like the soul of fraternal patience, and you forget where the park is.”
“And yet,” Quinn replied, “if anybody inquires, you will tell them we enjoyed a lovely hack on a pretty morning.” The streets were already busy despite the early hour, and today wasn’t Monday. Nonetheless, Quinn grew queasy as he guided his horse toward the City.
“You put me off for a week,” Stephen said, “then drag me across London when I’m looking forward to the bucolic splendor of Hyde Park? I can’t exactly confide my woes to you in the middle of the street, Quinn.”
“The rain put you off for a week.” Quinn’s need to ensure Jane’s day started pleasantly had also played a role. If he brought her plain toast and ginger tea before she got out of bed, her belly was less rebellious.
Following the toast and tea, on two memorable occasions, Quinn had climbed back under the covers and Jane had started his day very pleasantly indeed.
“The rain put me off for two days,” Stephen said. “Are we going to bloody bedamned Newgate?”
“Yes.”
“Does it ever occur to you to ask other people what they want, Quinn?”
He’d asked Jane. She liked to be on top. “You’re free to gallop off to the park, but because nobody has asked me if I’d like a little privacy, I suspect you’ll stick to my side like a rash.”
“A devoted rash. Why are we visiting the scene of your execution?”
