Page 92 of My One and Only Duke
Yes. “Quinn’s home in the middle of the day.”
Constance took a sip of ale and drew her sleeve across her lips to wipe the foam away. “They are newly married. Allowances must be made.”
Perhaps that explained why the portrait on the easel was Persephone and Hades, cuddled up on a hearth rug. The tomcat looked pleased with himself, while the she-cat licked the top of his head. Hades was half a lick away from having his ear gnawed off, did he but know it. Persephone, like her owner, did not suffer fools.
“They are newly married,” Althea said, “but it’s peculiar to see Quinn smiling with his mouth. He smiles with his eyes on occasion, such as when Stephen bests Duncan on some philosophical point, but Quinn smiles at Jane. At the dinner table, in front of everybody.”
“Jane smiles too,” Constance said, studying her ale, “at Quinn.”
Worse, they smiled with each other, like, like a besotted couple sharing sweet secrets and private jokes.
Most peculiar. “Jane won’t be smiling at him when she finds out he’s hiding invitations from her, among other things.”
The invitations had started as a trickle, after Jane had crossed paths with some other duchess at a glovemaker’s. Althea had never seen more gracious curtsying, while the proprietress had hovered and cooed like a matchmaker eavesdropping on a proposal.
Several days later, a pair of calling cards had appeared in the perpetually empty crystal bowl in the foyer—a marchioness and a countess, whom Debrett’s revealed to be related to the other duchess. Every day a few more cards and invitations showed up, only to be snatched away before Jane caught sight of them.
“Quinn means well,” Constance said, withdrawing the paintbrushes from her hair. “He’s being an idiot. A stint in Newgate will be a minor scandal compared to snubbing half the peerage.”
“Better to be an idiot than have all of polite society looking on as you introduce your wife to the woman who tried to see you hanged. Do you trust Duncan, Con?”
Constance should have scoffed at Althea’s question, should have snorted with laughter as only Constance could on the semi-annual occasions when she was amused.
Instead she set her brushes on the easel tray and took a considering sip of ale. “I trust Duncan. Do you trust Stephen?”
Uncomfortable question, but one Althea had pondered. “The Stephen who fired a gun in Jane’s direction?”
“That Stephen, the same one who knew the Walden title was in search of an heir.”
Althea had the damnedest urge to ring for a tea tray. Ale made one burp, and the taste was pedestrian. Unrefined.
“I do trust Stephen,” she said, “but mostly because anybody trying to get away with Quinn’s murder wouldn’t announce their violent intentions by threatening Quinn’s wife. Stephen is a pestilence of a brother, but he’s far from stupid.”
Constance put her feet up on a hassock, revealing slender ankles and bare feet. “I hate this, doubting family. Family is all we’ve had for so long. Jane is not to blame for Quinn’s troubles, but I resent her nonetheless.”
That was a considerable admission for Constance. “Do you resent Jane, or the fact that Jane arrived with a child on the way?”
“Both, of course, but there’s something I haven’t found a way to pass along to Jane, and catching Quinn alone has become nearly impossible.”
By design, of course, because Jane wasn’t stupid either. “Spill it, Con.”
“Do you recall the day Jane met Her Grace of Moreland at the glovemaker’s?”
“The occasion has doubtless been memorialized in dozens of genteel drawing rooms.”
“Did you notice who was coming up the walkway, footman and maid trailing, as we were leaving?”
On second thought, ale was a fine drink. In sufficient quantities, it dulled the day’s sharp edges and fortified against the sudden arrival of bad news.
“I was too busy pretending I knew what I was supposed to do,” Althea said. “I must have curtsied six times.”
“Five,” Constance said, “but I wasn’t too busy to notice the Countess of Tipton making her way to the very establishment we’d just vacated.”
“Coincidence?” Althea asked, finishing her ale.
“We’re Wentworths. What’s the likelihood that Quinn’s nemesis would cross paths with Jane on one of her few excursions without him?”
“No likelihood at all.”
