Page 17 of How to Ruin a Duke
“It’s the greatest guessing game society’s played in a long while.Every other customer in my shop is speculating about who the author might be.The butler in Emory’s household?That poor woman the duke all but jilted last year?Everybody has a theory.”
Edith looked thoughtful, cradling her teacup in slender hands.“I begin to wonder myself, Ro.Emory always seemed dignified to me.I know men can behave quite differently when ladies aren’t around, but Emory…” She trailed off and stared into the teacup, as if fortunes might be read in the dregs.
“I thought you didn’t care for him,” Rowena said delicately.Edith had never said so directly, but her silences could be telling.
“I respected him, and his current situation would try the patience of a saint.I do not envy the author of this book when Emory discovers his or her identity.There’s ruin, and then there’sruin.”
Rowena suspected that Edith understood real ruin as well as she did.Real ruin was unforgivable disgrace, unpayable debt, unpardonable shame.How to Ruin a Dukewas titillation, three hundred pages of gossip over which it was safe to giggle and whisper.
When the world saw real ruin, it looked away.Real ruin was to be feared as if it were contagious.
But when someone who cared began to suspect real ruin, that person came for a visit.Or offered a scone.Or read from a coveted book.
Or, Rowena thought, they helped a struggling business create a new plan to succeed.
And in return, if someone cared, they offered whatever that person asked—whether it was twenty pounds or the touch of a hand.Or more, much more.
And so Rowena turned the subject from the fraughtHow to Ruin a Duketo one she knew would interest and distract her friend.“Let me tell you about Simon Thorn,” she told Edith.“And all our plans for this shop.”
Simon enteredFairweather’s with his hands full of papers and cakes, only to find Rowena entertaining a caller.This was clearly not a customer, for the visiting young woman had been permitted behind the velvet curtain, and she even sat on the worktable where Simon had perched on the first day of his acquaintance with Rowena.
“Hullo,” he said by way of greeting.“Who’d like a cake?”
Rowena introduced Simon to her friend, Lady Edith Charbonneau, and admitted that they’d just devoured a plate of scones.“But what kind of cakes have you brought?No one is ever sorry to receive cakes.”
“I thought the same.These are cream cakes.”He placed the packet next to the blond woman, Lady Edith, who looked extremely interested and began to open the paper wrapping.“I’ve brought your signs for the front window too.”
He’d had to borrow a quill and ink and buy blank cards from a print shop, but Rowena didn’t need to know any of that.Nor was she to think of the trouble he’d gone to.She was only to look impressed when she saw the result—well, the sixth result, as he was out of practice with his fine and flowing clerk’s script—of his first advertising card for the window of Fairweather’s.
Rowena responded just as he’d hoped: with a lift of a brow, a quick flashing smile.“It’s beautiful.What an elegant hand you write.”She returned the card to him, brushing his fingers with hers as she held his gaze.
He felt as gawky and pleased as a boy, her touch firing his nerves.For too long, probably, he stood like a statue, only staring at Rowena.She was clad today in a rust-colored gown that made her look like a burnished musical instrument, and his mind flooded with all sorts of dreadful, hopeful puns about wanting to play her.
A throat cleared, snapping them from their mutual reverie.When Simon turned toward the source of the sound, it was to see Lady Edith sporting a knowing smile.“Excellent cakes,” she said.“Thank you, Mr.Thorn.Will you show me this mesmerizing sign you’ve brought?”
He did so.As Edith scrutinized the scripted card, she said, “My brother, Foster, saw you at the Mallery Lane Theater, I think?You were slipping cartes de visite into all the violin players’ cases.”
“Oh, no,” replied Simon.“Not the violins.Allthe string players.Well, most of them.I should have asked, Rowena, can you work on harps too?”
Rowena looked offended.“Of course I can work on harps.And lutes, and mandolins, and guitars.If it has strings, I can repair it.”
“Kites?”he asked.“Tasseled rugs?”
Edith covered a smile, then handed back the card.
“I’m insulted by your doubt.”Rowena adopted a tone of haughtiness over laughter.
“I can make a kite sing.Or I could, if I ever tried it.”
“Good woman.I admire your confidence.And Lady Edith, should your brother attend Covent Garden tonight, he will find me haranguing the orchestra there.I’ve also enlisted my fellow horn player from Vauxhall, Botts, to send all the fiddles this way if they need work done.”
Edith turned to her friend.“All repairs, Ro?You’re not building any instruments?”
“I’m not even doing as many repairs as I’d like,” Rowena replied.“Everyone seems to have bought a pianoforte in the last year, and they all went out of tune after winter cold and spring rain.”
“I’ve taken three new bookings in the past hour,” Edith told Simon.“I’ve been playing clerk while she works.”
“Three new bookings at the higher rate?”When Edith nodded, Simon whistled.“Well done.That’s the most lucrative task.But, Rowena, you don’t look pleased.”
