Page 39 of The Truth About Dukes
Though Rothhaven spoke mildly, Quinn sensed a reproach in the words, or perhaps teasing?
“One doesn’t want to be indelicate, Rothhaven, but can youfunction?”
Quinn did not trust cats, though his sisters favored them. He preferred dogs, and his duchess’s canine—a great black beast with lots of teeth and a properly intimidating growl—made a nice addition to an outing in the park.
Cats, though…They slunk about, silent and hungry, pouncing from dark corners when they weren’t leaving hair—or worse—on every upholstered surface.
Althea’s cat licked Rothhaven’s hand and then leapt into his lap.
“Get down,” Quinn said, using the voice that made bank clerks wish they’d joined the overseas diplomatic corps.
The cat squinted at Quinn and put two paws on Rothhaven’s chest, touching its nose to the duke’s.
“Cats and siblings,” Rothhaven said. “Both intractably independent. To answer your question, I am capable of those acts which generally result in procreation. That said, if Constance marries me, I will doubtless embarrass her in public from time to time. In the churchyard, in the middle of the high street, or over dinner with guests, I will produce a spectacular fit with little or no warning. Then I will be dull-witted for a time, even sleepy. Nothing prevents the seizures, but intemperance, exhaustion, tobacco, and strong drink seem to aggravate them.”
Quinn was torn between sympathy for the person bearing the affliction and frustration that his sister would marry herself to such a one. Rothhaven was deserving of every happiness, but both he and his wife would be the butt of whispers and curious glances.
“So you avoid the churchyard,” Quinn said, “the high street, and dinner guests. Do you expect Constance to join you in this self-imposed exile?”
The cat batted at Rothhaven’s chin. That rudeness was rewarded with a gentle scratching behind the beast’s ears.
“Walden, if you think avoiding church, the village green, and rural dinner parties is exile, your imagination is wanting. Exile is not seeing your only brother for more than ten years, never receiving a letter from family in all that time. Exile is being told at the age of eighteen that you will never again see your sibling or the only home you’ve known, and that this deprivation isfor your own good.
“Exile is being denied access to the out-of-doors, never feeling the fresh Yorkshire wind on your face, never hearing a human voice raised in song lest it over-excite yourdelicate nerves. Try a few years of that, no privacy, no freedom, no manly exertions to work off your temper or your dismals, and then we will discuss what constitutes exile.”
That recitation was made all the more alarming for the half-amused tone in which it was delivered.
“Constance does not have epilepsy,” Quinn said, resisting the compulsion to toss the damned cat out the door. “She deserves to entertain callers, attend services with her neighbors, and frequent the busiest streets in Mayfair if she pleases to.”
“Marriage to me precludes none of that.” Said patiently, as if the veriest dolt should understand the liberties a married woman enjoyed. “As your sister, however, the lady was made to endure each of those penances, will she, nill she. Her ladyship has told me about the child. What have you done to aid her to find her daughter?”
Quinn was so absorbed watching the cat lick its paw, all the while perched on Rothhaven’s shoulder, that the question nearly eluded his notice.
“Find her daughter? The point of the exercise, Rothhaven, was to ensure that the child never became a source of worry or embarrassment. Matters were dealt with appropriately, and Constance resumed the normal life of a young woman anticipating a bright future.” That much, at least, Quinn had been able to do for his sister.
Rothhaven took up his teacup, sipped placidly, put the cup down, as if every proper duke took tea with a cat sitting on his shoulder.
“Constance has been using her pin money for years to hire investigators. Becauseyouinsisted she dredge up her past for my benefit, I assumed you knew this. Am I mistaken?”
When had Quinn lost control of this conversation?
“You are mistaken.” While Quinn was reeling. This Duke of Fits and Faints, this interloper who claimed to have met Constance years ago, was privy to a secret Constance had kept to herself foryears?
“She’s hired investigators? Without telling me? Why wouldn’t she tell me? Why not seek my aid? I’m a bloody duke, for God’s sake.”
“A bloody duke—now—and a bloody banker then. Would the idle and titled of the realm have entrusted their fortunes to you if it became known you couldn’t even keep your sister safe? The blighter dallied with her for weeks while you were away in service to mammon. Then too, what if you’d said no? You refuse to lend coin to some of the most powerful families in the land when they are facing utter ruin, and your reputation for dealing exclusively in logic rather than sentiment precedes you. Had you known of Constance’s search and disagreed with its objectives, you could have thwarted her easily. Your forbidding nature aside, I suspect the whole business came down to Constance not wanting her past to reflect poorly on you or her other siblings.”
Quinn didn’t bother taking offense at Rothhaven’s observation, for Quinnhadfailed to keep Constance safe.
“You are saying that Constance has been trying to protect me with her discretion? Trying to spare me from gossip?”
“From gossip, and—siblings are ever so well intended at the worst times—guilt, would be my guess.”
Rothhaven sat there swilling his tea, as placid as a dowager at her tatting, while Quinn wanted to…What he wanted was to turn the clock back fifteen years and be a better brother to his siblings.
“What Your Grace seems to be experiencing now,” Rothhaven said, “is very likely how a staring spell feels to me. The words make sense, the sentences all have meaning, but the internal fulcrum that meshes the gears of thought and action refuses to turn. One sits, mind agape, as it were, and gropes about for even a thought. Drink your tea. It’s a lovely blend.”
Quinn needed to kick something—perhaps his own backside—and bellow profanities until he was calm enough to put this situation before his duchess.
