Page 38 of My Deceitful Duchess
There was the childish temptation—a remnant leftover from his youth—to retrieve his soup spoon and use it to fling a scoop of new peas straight across the table at Charles. They had never quite got on, he and Charles, for all that they were only two years apart. Perhapsbecausethey had only been two years apart. Their shared childhood had been a study in war; each of them learning how and when to strike, how best to needle the other into an unseemly display of irritation. But then, Charles—like Father—was a severe man, with a serious, uncompromising demeanor that well befit the man who would one day take over Father’s position at the bank.
Sebastian didn’t think Father had quite yet forgiven him for his complete lack of interest in the business, as if he had been personally affronted by Sebastian’s aptitude for it but unwillingness to engage in it. A waste of a talented mind, he’d called it—as if the very act of beingproficientat something precipitated an enjoyment of that thing.
Sebastian felt his talents, such as they were, could be put to far better use elsewhere; an idea with which both Father and Charles has strenuously disagreed.
“You have a dog?” Mum inquired. “What breed?”
He took a sort of perverse pleasure in responding. “Haven’t the faintest,” he said. “He’s just a mongrel. A scrappy, wiry little beast that I found rooting through some rubbish in an alley.”
“And you took this animal into yourhome?” Father’s face fell into lines of disapproval. “And named it for yourbrother?”
“He prefers Charlie, actually,” Sebastian said, and watched Charles’ jaw clench. The stack of newspaper clippings had grown into a decent pile, and he swept those unnecessary back into the hatbox. “Incidentally, I have also recently met a woman.” A serving of lamb accompanied with a liberal dollop of mint jelly had somehow appeared upon his plate.
Father choked, and dragged his napkin to his mouth. “A woman?Whatwoman?”
“What your father meant to ask, I’m certain,” Mum said, “is whether we might be familiar with her family.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think so,” Sebastian said absently, thumbing through the articles. “I doubt she has much of one to speak of.” At least, so far asheknew. “She has the management of a ladies’ club—Ambrosia. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“Madame Laurent?” Charles said incredulously, his knife scraping across his plate. “You areinvolvedwith Madame Laurent?”
“Is there any reason I ought not to be?” Sebastian asked, head bent over the newspaper clippings he’d assembled. A frown pulled at his mouth even as he heard himself say, “She is a widow of some years, just as free to marry as any other.” Thiscouldn’tbe right. But here it was nonetheless, inked on paper, indelible. Wait—there ought to be a sketch in there somewhere. He thrust his hand back into the hatbox, searching for the differing texture of the paper that the sketch had been done on; smoother, finer quality than that which had been used for the newspapers.
“And…you are considering marriage?” Mum asked, over a sip of wine.
There—he peeled it away from the edge of the hatbox, where it had been tucked, and unfolded it once more. “I had been,” he muttered, though the sinking feeling in his stomach dragged at his lungs as well, rendering speech difficult. “Ihadbeen.”
The sketch was over a decade old, and the girl in it would have changed much in that time. She had not yet reached twenty, her face still curved with the sweetness of youth. But his eyes were sharp enough to note the similarities, his mind quick enough to consider what the girl in the sketch might look like aged an additional twelve years.Jenny.
ButnotJenny—Geneviève.
Hehadbeen considering marriage. Right up until he’d discovered the woman he had had the poor judgment to fall in love with was none other than Geneviève Amberley, the murderous Duchess of Venbrough.
Chapter Seventeen
“Another, please,” Jenny said as she handed over her coin to the owner of the bakery. Sebastian would no doubt chide her for it, but she thought that Charlie had grown rather accustomed to receiving a profiterole of his own. He’d been growing rather plump lately—but he had been so very thin when they had found him, his ribs showing even through the wiry bristle of his fur.
He had learned not to snap for his food, because it was not the rarity it once hand been. Instead he waited patiently, his head cocked at that inquisitive angle so reflective of Sebastian’s, until she offered him a morsel on the flat of her hand. Like the little gentleman he was becoming, he had learned to take whatever she had offered to him delicately between his teeth.
They were late this morning, Sebastian and Charlie. Generally they met her in the street even before she had made it to the bakery, and Charlie yipped at her through the door as she made her purchase, eager for his morning treat and the accompanying head scratches that she lavished upon him.
The sky was lightening by the minute, and she waited just outside the bakery, watching bright streaks of pink climb over the rooftops. A picturesque dawn—for London, anyway. There was still a chill to the air, a dampness that she had come to associate with the city, but spring was coming into bloom once more. The brittle brown branches of trees had grown new budding leaves, and soon the grey to which she had become accustomed would turn to green once more.
It would have been a perfectly lovely morning, had Sebastian not been so verylateto arrive. She picked at the flaky crust of her profiterole and sighed to herself. Like as not she’d fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow at this rate. Such late nights—or mornings, rather—just lately had taken their toll, and she found herself nearly always tired.
“Your Grace.”
As if winter had made a surprise resurgence, Jenny felt herself freeze over at the words. It was an effort not to react, to let the words slip over her unmarked. As if they could notpossiblyhave been intended for her.
A man had come up on her right side—unassuming, modestly dressed. The sort of man who would have blended straight into a crowd, his dark hair and eyes unremarkable, his clothing well-tailored but plain. She gave a brief nod, the sort of small acknowledgment that one gave to a stranger—pleasant, but distant—and then let her eyes slip away from him, hoping that he would simply move along. That he would assume he had made some sort of mistake and leave her in peace.
“Your Grace, I must ask that you come with me immediately,” he said, and she knew that she had not fooled him at all.
Her breath staggered in her throat. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “You are mistaken.”
“I don’t believe I am.” There was no softness in it, just a certain severe finality. “I have every reason to believe that you are in fact Geneviève Amberley, Duchess of Venbrough.”
Oh, it had been so long since she had heard that name. So long since she had been that person. She had known, she supposed, that there had been only so long she could hide from it. That every day she had had of freedom had been a blessing. But she hadhoped, in that way of irrepressible dreamers, that perhaps the past would simply pass her by.Forever.
