Page 10 of My Deceitful Duchess
“—But I have turned what was already a not-insignificant bequest from my grandfather into a fortune through prudent investments. I have little interest in the business of banking, but I do admit that having a respectably healthy bank account gives me the freedom to pursue other interests.”
“And what interests are those, Mr. Knight?”
“Scholarly studies. Investigations, after a fashion.” He flicked his gaze toward her. “You.” Was that a blush pinking her cheeks? He turned his attention to the dawn spreading over the sky, but there wasn’t nearly enough red in it to have cast a glow over her face, and so he assumed she must, in fact, be blushing.
She cleared her throat. “I am not aninterest, Mr. Knight.” But he thought it had pleased her—just a little. Just enough to beflatteredrather than offended.
“You are an interest of mine,” he said. “I’m confident. More so than I was yesterday, even.”
A little cant of her head, tilted up at him like her might expect of a cautious little bird. “Confident of what?”
“That eventually you will agree to an affair.”
Another laugh, cheerful, bright—if ever a laugh could be said to besunny, this was one. “Mr. Knight, I am not in the habit of arranging trysts with gentlemen at this hour of the morning in so public a place.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t be a tryst,” he said. “My intellectual curiosity is not so easily sated that a single assignation could cure me of it, and that is what atrystimplies, while anaffair—” He gave a vague gesture, somewhat sheepish in the face of the strange, inquisitive look she slanted toward him. “Affair. Noun; French origin. An intense physical relationship of limited duration.”
“Intense,” she murmured, picking a bit of the crust from the top of her profiterole. It was the sort of action he often engaged in when he needed something to do with his fidgety fingers—though he generally limited himself to his pocket watch, or perhaps a coin, had he one to hand.
“It would be intense,” he said. “For me, at least. Less certain for you, as I cannot hazard a guess as either the frequency or quality of your past liaisons—or the competence of your late husband.” By the way her brows drew down into a queer little frown, he guessed that her husband had not, then, been either particularly skilled or particularly considerate. “Jenny?”
“Hm?”
“Iamcompetent.” It seemed an important thing for her to know. “Moreover, I learn swiftly. It is not arrogance to tell you that I excel in most studies in which I have taken an interest; it is honesty. I have no reason to expect any different of matters carnal.”
They had stopped at last before Ambrosia, and Jenny flicked a glance toward the door sheltered beneath its alcove, but made no move to step toward it. “That does relieve my mind,” she said, in that dry voice which he supposed meant to convey with it some manner of humor. “Is that what makes you so confident that I will accept your offer, then?”
“No,” he said. “I am aware that men frequently tell women things they think they might wish to hear, and that an intelligent woman—which I suspect you are—would be wise to take them only with a grain of salt. In fact, my reasoning is far more mundane.”
“Oh?”
Sebastian slipped his watch from his pocket and showed it to her, presenting the face for her perusal. “Eight minutes,” he said. “Five the first day. Six the second. Today—eight.”
She blinked, those lovely blue eyes wide.
“You slowed your steps,” he said. “Perhaps you didn’t notice—but you did. You gave me an additional two minutes this morning. I wonder how many I might expect tomorrow?”
∞∞∞
The fascinating dance of Ambrosia’s busiest hours had begun again, and Jenny did her duty with the sort of aplomb that would be expected of a woman in her role. There was an art to it, a delicacy in dealing with the ladies of theTonthat she had long perfected. She performed circuits through the maze of the building, and the staff joined her, one at a time, like dance partners weaving through the intricate motions—staying at her side only long enough to have their queries answered, and then peeling off once again.
Dinner had been served over an hour ago, and a fine showing it had been. The dining room sat some seventy ladies, but the demand for it had grown in the weeks since their public opening, until it had become necessary for those who wished to dine within it to put their names to a list in advance of the meal, that a place might be reserved for them.
Of course, dinner might still be taken outside of the dining room—and frequently was, to those ladies who preferred cards or dice, or who enjoyed spending their time in the reading room, perusing Ambrosia’s fine selection of books. But largely, the ladies enjoyed the production—the pageantry—that Ambrosia made of the dinner service.
Elizabeth swept in on the turn from the stairs toward the card room. “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said, as she always did. “But Becky says we’ll need at least three new decks this evening. Lady Crandall has come to play.”
Lady Crandall had the obnoxious habit of bending her cards; a little nervous habit that was a dead tell for any of her opponents whether or not she held anything of value in her hand. Unfortunately, it also creased the backs of the cards to the point that there was little use for them thereafter. “Of course,” Jenny said. “Have the used decks burned once the play has concluded. You may collect fresh decks from the office as soon as Lady Crandall has departed for the evening.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” And Elizabeth swept away once again as Jenny passed the dice room. The clatter of dice within was muffled by the baize cloth which lined the tables, turning what would have been a sharp sound into a soothing, rolling cadence. A cheer rose from within, and she knew that someone had won a great wager—but it was nothing; Ambrosia’s profits would still far outweigh whatever had been lost.
A spin to the right brought her near the smoking room, and also brought Margaret to her side. “Ma’am, the comfits are running dangerously low,” she said, and coughed discreetly into her fist. “Mrs. Miller has taken a liking to the cinnamon.”
This did not surprise; it was well-known that cinnamon was a particular favorite of Mrs. Miller, and after a visit to the smoking room, the scent of the comfits she had consumed to relieve the smell of the smoke could bowl a body over at twenty paces. “I will send Rebecca for more comfits tomorrow morning,” she said. “In the meantime, should Mrs. Miller deplete the remainder of the cinnamon, offer her licorice instead—they are her next favorite.”
Another problem handled, Margaret, too, swept away. The next turn brought Jenny to the reading room, which was nestled toward the back of the building—quiet and serene.
This time it was Lady Milhouse who approached of her own accord rather than sending a member of the staff to do so. “I wonder if I might trouble you, Madame Laurent, for the next volume.” She held out a thin book, and Jenny glanced down at the book for the title.
