Page 41 of The Odd Riddle of the Lost Duchess
Noah knew there was a card he could play to force Leverton to assent to the marriage by petitioning the Regent. He knew that if the Prince approved of the match, Leverton would have had to go along with, but he refrained. He didn’t want to strong arm the Duke before finding a way to marry Emmeline honorably.
A light tap on the door dragged his mind to the present, and he spun to see his butler approach. “Yes, Cole?”
“Good morning, Your Grace. The Duchess and Dowager Duchess are requesting you to join them for luncheon.” The butler said, a dark-haired man with a decidedly-long frame.
Noah’s left eyebrow lifted, “That’s surprising, as normally they would take that time for themselves to discuss and disparage me. But since they have offered that the subject of their discussions is present, I’ll be lenient–you can prepare a seat for me.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler bowed and left the room.
Turning back to his thoughts, Noah considered his circumstances. He had left the peace negotiations in Leverton’s hands, and everyone in thetonknew it. A declaration of peace was hard to come by, and if anything, it was Leverton’s reputation in social peril–not his.
Settling the snifter on the table, he lightly scratched his jaw, noted a need for a closer shave, before tugging his waistcoat down, and left the room.
Lately, Noah had felt irritation with his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, as she kept pushing ladies at him that she found ‘suitable’ for him to marry. Ladies that ranged from a flighty sixteen-year-old German princess who didn’t speak a word of English, to middle-age widows whose interests were cups of tea and chocolates from France.
It was the grace of God that kept him from using strong language on his elder, but if she kept pushing him, he did not know how long he could contain himself.
He arrived at an open doorway of the dining room where both ladies–his mother and grandmother–were already seated. The table was covered in fine white cotton and lace, and held teapots and matching delicate cups and saucers.
“Good afternoon, Mother, Grandmother,” Noah said calmly. “I must confess that I am surprised you have chosen to include me in my own criticisms.”
“Nonsense,” his mother replied, even though her cheeks were slightly flushed, “We do not criticize you.”
Taking a chair, Noah pinned his grandmother, who was looking even more gaunt in her dark-blue dress. “Is that so, Grandmother?”
The older woman’s eyes didn’t flinch from his, “We only discuss your future, boy, and it would do you good to respect us for it.”
Noah’s smile was tight. “As it would be if you finally begin to realize that I am not a boy anymore.”
“I am three times your age, Noah,” the Dowager Duchess snapped. “I can and will call you a boy if I want to. Respect your elders.”
Swallowing his irritation, Noah ignored the older woman and faced his mother, “May I inquire why I have been summoned?”
“Ah yes,” the Duchess nodded. “There is an informal meeting at the house of Duke Kent-upon-Bar in London for all thirteen Dukes in two days’ time, and you must attend.”
“Is it for a life or death situation? If not, I will not be in the presence of men who owe their position to royal philandering or political chicanery,” Noah refused stately.
“Oh, but it is,” the Duchess replied, just as dignified. “The duchies are discussing a new trade agreement that will solidify the containment of our money and resources and limit purchasing from France, Ireland and the Colonies. You must attend, Noah.”
An old habit had Noah sticking his tongue in his cheek before he realized it and removed it. “All eleven peers, Leverton included, I suppose.”
“Unfortunately,” the Duchess attempted to lament. “But this is a meeting you cannot abstain from.”
“Speaking of the cursed Grant family,” the Dowager Duchess bombarded, “what is this I hear of you and that Grant chit?”
Instantly, Noah’s ire was lit, “If you are referring to Lady Emmeline, she is not a chit, Grandmother. A chit is a child or a young and insignificant girl who presumes she is a lady.”
The Dowager Duchess glared, “That, in definition, is the female Grant. I will not have you making any dalliance with her, boy! She is the grandchild or the man who robbed me of my husband. She is no good for a gentleman like you–just like your foolish liaison with that opera singer.”
Noah’s lips thinned, “So now you have accepted that I am a man, and not the boy you’ve previously stated, Madam. What a sudden and miraculous change.”
“That is not my point!” the Dowager Duchess replied, “Grant killed my husband. Evil runs in their veins, son. She will be no better.”
Noah had enough, and his temper snapped. “Grandmother, I know this is hard for you to finally accept but Grandfather died of a heart attack. The mortician had told you so, over fifteen times, but you still accuse the Grants of something that did not happen. Grandfather fell off his horse because his heart failed him, not some ridiculous theory that he was pushed. Every man in the hunting party reiterated the same account of his death. When are you going to accept it? ‘Till judgment day? When the master of death comes for you and drags your unforgiving soul to the depths? Will you finally make peace then, or will you die a shrew?”
“Noah!” His mother gasped in horror at her son’s impertinence.
The Dowager Duchess had gone white with shock at the hard words her grandson had said, and her fingers were bloodless as she clutched her napkin.
