Page 53 of How to Ruin a Duke
She held the door for him, and then he was back out in the afternoon sunshine, enduring what looked like a pitying gaze from the hound by the fountain.
“Facts in contradiction, dog.They vex me.”
A thick tail thumped once, then the beast sighed and went back to napping.Thaddeus tarried in the neighborhood for a few moments, taking stock of Lady Edith’s situation and considering possibilities.
For the three minutes he’d been in her house, he’d remained politely in her foyer, if the cramped space near her front door could be called that.A parlor had sat off to the left of the foyer, a worn loveseat, mismatched reading chair, and a desk the sum total of the furnishings therein.The carpet, a faded circle barely six feet across, might have been woven in the days of Good King Hal, and the andirons hadn’t been blackened within living memory.
The desk though, had been tidy and ready for use.The blotter had boasted a stack of foolscap, a standish, a bottle of sand, and spare ink as well as a wooden pen tray.Perhaps Lady Edith did have literary aspirations…
Or perhaps her brother, the gentleman of letters without portfolio, had turned the recollections of a duchess’s companion into a popular satire regarding her former employer.That theory fit the facts, or most of them, and wanted further study.
Once upon a time,Foster would have occupied the loveseat like a proper young gentleman, eager to slip any commonplace into a polite conversation.When he’d come into Edith’s life as a shy four-year-old, she—who’d reached the age of fourteen without any siblings—had been enthralled with him.He had been so little, dear, and earnest.
Also lost.A small boy without a father was easily lost, which Papa, to his credit, had tried to rectify.His manner with Foster had been avuncular and affectionate, if somewhat offhand.Then Papa had died without making any provision for his fourteen-year-old step-son, and Foster’s earnestness had faded into moodiness and impulsivity.
Now, he lounged on the loveseat, half-reclining, one leg slung over the armrest, morning sun revealing the adult he had become when Edith had been too busy humoring a cranky duchess.
“Breaking bread with a duke,” he mused, one stockinged foot swinging.“Any chance of getting your old post back?”
“I would not accept my old post if Emory begged me on bended knee.”Though the only time Emory would go down on one knee would be to propose to his duchess.He’d observe all the protocol—flowers, cordial notes, the carriage parade—which only made the tales told about him inHow to Ruin a Dukemore difficult to believe.
“You might have no choice but to apply for your old post,” Foster said, “though I could come by some coin by the end of the week.Not a lot, but some, and it could turn into steady work.”
His eyes were closed.He’d been out quite late, as was his habit, leaving Edith home alone and fretting.
“You won’t tell me the nature of your employment?”
He smiled without opening his eyes.“Not yet.You’ll be appalled.Tell me more about Emory’s predicament.”
Edith drove her needle through the toe of Foster’s second pair of white stockings.Darning his stockings had become an almost daily chore, and yet, what sort of work would he find if he couldn’t leave the house attired as a gentleman?
“You want to gloat at His Grace’s misfortune.He isn’t distressed for himself, Foster, he’s distressed for his family.”
“I’m distressed for my family.Those plum tarts were divine, Edie.We shouldn’t be depending on a duke’s charity to keep us in plum tarts.”
“I’ll pawn my earbobs.”
Foster scrubbed his hands over his face and sat up.“You shall not part with your mother’s earbobs.You’ve accepted Emory’s charity and that’s bad enough.”
“Not charity.”His Grace had been quite firm on that point.“Appreciation for my insights.The duke prevented a fortune hunter from compromising Miss Antigone Banner and Miss Antigone did not appreciate her cousin’s meddling.His Grace had forgotten that.I also pointed out that the duchess might be trying to inspire her son to take a bride, and now that I think on it, the duke also has several boy cousins at university who might consider publishing that book a lark.”
“Where are my boots?”
Edith knotted off her thread.“Wherever you left them.I suspect within three yards of your bed.”Foster’s entire bedroom was barely three yards square.
“Did you mention those boy cousins to the duke?”
“I did not.Emory is loath to think ill of his family.”That was not quite true.The duke was loath to admit his family’s faults.Not quite the same thing.
“The whole book doesn’t make sense to me,” Foster said, rising.“You described Emory to me in detail on many occasions.His religious fervor for reform, his disdain for the frequently inebriated, his exasperation with Lord Jeremiah, and yet, the fellow inHow to Ruin a Dukeis a sot who makes foolish wagers and takes even more foolish risks.”
An eighteen-year-old might be impulsive and broody, but loyalty to his gender had not yet afflicted him with the blinders he’d acquire later in adulthood.
“You put your finger on a troubling point.”Edith snipped the thread right at the knot and rolled the stocking into a cylinder.“The Emory I know never sang other than to move his lips in church to a lot of dusty old hymns.The ruined duke accepted a bet to singGod Save the Kingat midnight outside Almack’s.”
Foster tugged at his shirt cuffs, which were an inch shorter than fashion required.“And he won the wager.Did Emory imply that the incidents recounted in the book never happened?”
Edith thought back over yesterday’s conversation.She’d been so peevish at the time, so out of sorts and mortified, she’d mostly been intent on getting free of Emory’s company.
