“Then you know what to do.” Lavinia held up a bright square of printed red calico. “How do—”
“No,” Lady Knowe said. “The crushed beetles are your triumph for the day. I’m sorry, dear, but I must speak to the housekeeper. I promised I’d join her a half hour ago.” She stopped in the door and blew a kiss. “Where would we be without you?”
“Naked and ruined,” Lavinia said, grinning.
“Precisely!”
Chapter Nine
The Duke of Wynter’s study, again
For the past two years, Devin and a German mathematician had been exchanging correspondence centering on the number 1,729, a number expressible as the sum of two cubes. They were looking for a new expression. Given the complexity of the problem, the months that passed between delivery of letters was a boon.
He’d barely settled back down at his desk after Otis left, when the door burst open and his uncle trotted in. “Your butler tried to keep me out, but I told him that in times of crisis, the head of the family must rally to the fore.”
Binsey grimaced beyond Sir Reginald’s shoulder.
Devin rose from his desk and walked toward him. “Uncle, I want to apologize for leaving the library last night after I told you I’d wait for you there.”
“Champagne!” his uncle exclaimed, ignoring his apology. “I must say, Binsey, that I’ve never thought much of your butlering, but leaving a bottle open all night—and filthy glasses as well—is extraordinarily slipshod.”
Behind him, Binsey puffed up like an exotic frog, his face turning ruddy with indignation.
Sir Reginald didn’t bother to assess the effects of his reprimand. He picked up the bottle and examined the label. “It’s a crime to allow this to go flat.”
“It’s not flat—” Devin began.
But his uncle had upended the bottle and was sampling the champagne himself. Devin returned behind his desk and sat down. He’d discovered that family members were more likely to leave quickly if he kept a distance.
“More of that mathematical business,” his uncle commented, peering at his figuring. “I can’t imagine why you aren’t satisfied just being a duke, like every other man who has the title. Lindow complains about being up to his eyebrows in correspondence, and here you are, playing about with numbers all day long.”
Devin could have answered that in a number of ways, most of which boiled down to: He hired other people to be the duke for him.
He went to Parliament only when his secretary—who was intelligent, politically adept, and happily took notes on every single speech—insisted that his vote was crucial. Even so, he generally remained in the parliamentary library until the vote was called, allowing him to escape prosy lectures on subjects that any fool could assess in a few minutes.
He had long since hired excellent managers for his estates in Northamptonshire and Wales, giving them plenty of leeway. Consequently, his estates were thriving. Or at least he wasn’t being embezzled more than four percent, which he considered an acceptable margin.
The moment Parth Sterling opened a bank, Devin had moved all the family’s investments there, which meant he didn’t have to think about those either.
His uncle plunked the bottle of champagne back on the tray and smacked his lips. “Still nice and bubbly. Must be something to do with the design of the bottle.”
He wheeled and leveled a finger at Binsey. “Not that it excuses your negligence in leaving a bottle of the best withering away in the night air. Any respectable butler would have drunk it himself rather than allow it to go to waste.”
“We opened the champagne an hour ago to celebrate Otis’s laicization,” Devin said. He nodded at Binsey. “You may go.”
His uncle watched Binsey scurry out of the room before he turned back, folding his arms over his chest. Since Sir Reginald had the approximate shape of a champagne bottle—narrower at the top, wider through the middle—this turned him from triangular to rectangular.
“You,” he growled, giving the pronoun an ominous air.
“Indeed, it is me. Would you like me to find you a glass, Uncle, or do you prefer to continue imbibing from the bottle?”
“Don’t change the subject! I see it now. I thought that Otis had been led astray by those friends of his from Eton, but now I realize the truth!”
Devin raised an eyebrow, knowing from long experience that said truth was about to be served up on a platter, with a sauce of righteous indignation.
“You led him astray,” his uncle announced. “You turned Otis away from the church. You sopped up his best instincts with champagne and . . . and the lures of the flesh!”
Devin waited for a moment, since normally Sir Reginald’s reprimands were composed of at least five sentences, but his uncle stopped short in order to glare at him, his dark eyebrows contrasting oddly with the butter-yellow powder he’d used on his wig this morning.
“I held the St. Wilfrid’s living open for two years to give Otis the position,” Devin reminded him.
“Just when Otis began the righteous task of saving souls, you lured him astray with French potions.”
“Nonsense,” Devin said. “I had nothing to do with Otis’s decision to leave the church. He’s not suited to the job, Uncle, and we both should have acknowledged that long ago. Actually, the fact that he put off ordination four times was a sign in itself. What was his excuse last time? That he lost a toe, wasn’t it? He’s walking very well for a man minus a digit.”
His uncle scowled before he turned away to pick up the champagne bottle. “Otis faints at the sight of blood and always has,” he said, taking a hearty swallow. “The injury wasn’t as severe as he initially thought.”
Devin waited.
“Otis is perfectly suited to the church,” Sir Reginald insisted. “He was always a kind child, at an age when his older brother was pinning up butterflies and pummeling other boys. I can’t imagine a better person to baptize babies. They wouldn’t make a peep even if he drenched them with water. He’s good with dogs too. No tears, no howls . . . He’s perfect.”
“There’s more to baptism than preventing tears,” Devin said. “Where do the dogs come in?”
“There’s that day when all the animals are blessed,” his uncle said vaguely.
“I’ve no doubt that Otis could shine when it came to blessing a baby goat, but would someone truly wish to leave a baptism in his hands?”
“He had all the necessary schooling,” Sir Reginald said. But Devin could see a hint of doubt in his eyes.
“We should have given up when he kept failing that course on the New Testament,” Devin said.
“He said the story was hard to follow,” Otis’s father said defensively. “I agree with him. Very complicated, all those different points of view, not to mention morbid.”
Devin had always found it best to leave biblical exegesis to those with training—which wouldn’t include Otis, and never mind all those years at Cambridge. “If I’m not mistaken, you gave each of your children an estate. Otis doesn’t need the living.”
“You don’t understand. He’s threatening to move to Spain,” his uncle shrilled. “He told me that he plans to marry a Spanish woman. He failed Greek three years in a row, and he certainly won’t be able to learn the Spanish language. That means my boy will have one of those marriages in which the husband and wife don’t say a word to each other.”
In short, a normal marriage.
But Devin didn’t say that aloud because he was well aware that his parents’ marriage had soured his view of such partnerships. In contrast, his uncle was still mourning his wife’s death, some three years after the fact.
“I talked him into staying in London with the help of champagne,” Devin said instead.
His uncle fell back a step and thumped the bottle down, causing yellow wig powder to fly into the air. “I always told my wife that there was a reason you were chosen to be the head of this family, and there it is!”
“Because I was born to it and
had no choice?”
“No, because you always get your way,” Sir Reginald said, his round cheeks bunching as he grinned. “I’ve been watching you quietly manipulate people since you were breeched, and I can always count on you.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Devin said. “If there’s nothing else, I should return to work. You may take the bottle with you.”
“As a matter of fact, there is something else,” his uncle said. He sat down in the chair opposite Devin’s desk. “We need to discuss Miss Astley. I noticed that you didn’t dance with her.”
“I did not,” Devin agreed. “But I did meet her.”
“Why didn’t you dance with her?” his uncle asked.
“She refused.”
“She did? I wonder if she hadn’t heard that Lady Caitlin Paget had claimed you. I can’t imagine what you were doing, going into supper with the gal after you told me that she drove you into the library. Now everyone thinks you’re a match.”
Devin didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thought. “We’re not.”
“I know that,” his uncle said. “You wouldn’t have fled to the library if you’d taken to her. More to the point, what did you think of Miss Astley?”
Devin was still trying to figure out how to answer that question when his uncle shook his head. “No need to answer.” He cocked his head, giving Devin a sharp-eyed look.
“No?”
“You need more time to get to know her. She’s quiet. Shy. You don’t have an ounce of that sentiment in you, Nephew, but I can assure you that it’s a difficult thing to grapple with if you have an abundance of it.”
“Do you have an ounce of shyness?” Devin inquired.
“No, it’s not part of the family makeup,” his uncle replied. “Doesn’t come down in the blood, as it were. The Wynters are the opposite of shy: always charging into battle and generally being cut off before the age of thirty as a result. Your parents, both of them, were prime examples.”
Devin had never considered the pruning of his family tree in this light, but he had to admit there was some justification for it. His father had died after his umpteenth duel; his mother had died after eating stewed foxglove against the advice of the family doctor. She had been told that it might give her the art of prophecy.
It was kinder to think of that as a courageous impulse than pure foolishness.
“You see?” his uncle demanded, having apparently followed his train of thought. “I’ve had to rein myself in countless times, just to make certain that you and my children have one parent left.”
This was obviously not the moment to remind his uncle that he was related by marriage, not by blood, to the Wynters. Nor of Sir Reggie’s bet that he could get from London to Bath in a racing curricle. He’d been lucky to land in a hospitable hedge.
That was last year.
“What I’m saying is that you can’t judge Miss Astley on such short acquaintance,” his uncle said. “I’ve come over here to tell you that we’re holding an afternoon tea with dancing for Hazel, and I want you to come. I told you that my cousin Elnora has joined us for the Season, didn’t I? Had to have someone to chaperone Hazel.”
“Otis told me,” Devin said.
“You ignored my invitation.”
“When is the tea?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. Very small, very select. The Wildes are coming,” his uncle said. “And two other ladies, including Lady Caitlin. Ten or fifteen in all. I invited Caitlin before I knew that you were fussy about wig ornaments.”
“A question of my nerves,” Devin said, thinking with sardonic pleasure of the moment when Viola bade the vicar to pray for him.
“Poppycock,” his uncle said. “You haven’t a nerve in your whole body. I’ll have some more of that champagne.”
Devin came around the desk, poured champagne into a brandy goblet, and handed it to him.
“Have some yourself,” Uncle Reggie said generously.
“No, thank you.” Devin leaned against the desk in lieu of returning to his seat.
“You need to wear something lively to the tea,” his uncle said, casting a disparaging look at Devin’s black coat.
Years ago, Devin had come to the conclusion that his uncle’s propensity for matching his wig powder to his pantaloons, together with Otis’s penchant for brightly colored waistcoats, was best left to that side of the family. He had loathed roses on purple silk even before Miss Astley had informed him his coat was ostentatious.
“I am better suited to subdued clothing,” he said.
“Black makes a man look sallow,” his uncle said. “I suppose you could do with a light charcoal.”
“I will keep it in mind,” Devin said, accepting this sartorial dictate.
“That’s one thing to be said for Otis dropping the church,” Uncle Reggie said, his mouth compressing. “At least I won’t have to see him around the house in black. I can’t abide black.”
Devin had the feeling that his uncle’s abhorrence for the color stemmed from his wife’s death. “I won’t wear black,” he promised.
“Not to the tea party,” his uncle said. “Lively colors are the ticket.”
“How was Hazel’s first ball?” Devin had danced with his cousin the night before, but it was one of those dances with lots of to-ing and fro-ing, and no time to inquire as to her well-being.
“She thinks she’s in love,” his uncle said.
“After one night? Is it a respectable match?”
“No, and that’s one of the reasons why I’m here. I want you to do something about it.”
“What on earth can I do about it?”
“Dispatch the fellow.”
Devin had a sudden thought. “Is he a vicar?”
“A vicar?” His uncle stared at him. “I should certainly hope not! He’s an earl.”
“Of course,” Devin murmured. “It was just a thought.”
“You’re not talking about that fellow attached to the Wildes, are you?”
“Yes. Mr. Marlowe was the curate at St. Wilfrid’s for two years, and now is vicar in one of the Duke of Lindow’s livings.”
His uncle snorted. “Last week Lady Knowe held an afternoon tea, not with dancing, merely for the young ladies who are coming out this Season. I went along with Hazel, and that fellow attended. The giggling sounded like the north wind coming down a chimney. He has all sorts of ideas, not the sort that I approve of either. Talking about orphanages and getting young ladies excited about going to church. It isn’t proper.”
Devin nodded. Mr. Marlowe’s profile was a powerful lure. But Mr. Marlowe, the protector of small children, blue eyes glowing? All that virtue might rival a title, even that of a duke, the highest in the land.
“I think Marlowe would be a good vicar for St. Wilfrid’s,” he said to his uncle.
Uncle Reggie squinted at him. “You’re up to something.”
He looked back without responding.
His uncle guffawed. “When I haven’t seen you in a while, I always forget that you move us around as if we were chess pieces. The pretty vicar will go to St. Wilfrid’s to replace Otis, presumably?”
“It’s a logical move to make certain that my parishioners aren’t left in the lurch. There was a chance Otis would change his mind over the last few months since he first announced his reluctance to continue as a vicar, but no.”
“I suppose I have to accept it,” Sir Reginald groaned. “I was proud of the fact that this family had produced a man of God.”
Except they hadn’t.
But Devin kept that thought to himself.
“The Duke of Lindow obviously has a spare vicar,” Devin said instead, “since he dragged this one up to London. Moreover, the man has already spent two years in the parish of St. Wilfrid’s. Mr. Marlowe is an obvious choice to replace Otis.”
“You do make it sound quite logical,” his uncle said.
“St. Wilfrid’s will be very good for his career. It’s not every young man who’s offered a living by a duke.�
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“That’s true. I’m sure his fiancée will approve.”
“Fiancée?”
“Miss Pettigrew. She attended Lady Knowe’s tea. Can’t say I care for her much.” His uncle hoisted himself to his feet, leaving a patch of yellow powder on the back of the tall chair.
“You might invite Mr. Marlowe to your tea,” Devin suggested.
“I’d rather not,” his uncle said. “I can’t abide all the foolish giggling without a good burgundy in hand.”
“And Miss Pettigrew,” Devin added.
“Want to meet the fiancée, do you? You’re playing a deep game, Nephew.”
“It will give me a chance to sound out Marlowe on the subject of St. Wilfrid’s.”
“I might invite them to dinner if you insist, but not tomorrow. Don’t be late,” his uncle ordered. “No running off to the library either. Even you can endure two hours of conversation and a dance or two. I’ve hired a quartet.”
Normally the idea would have filled Devin with horror. Today it—didn’t.
“I will attend,” he said.
“I still think you’re up to something.” Sir Reginald peered at him.
“Very likely,” Devin agreed. “Do you think that perhaps you need spectacles, Uncle? You seem to be squinting.”
“I see perfectly well,” his uncle reported. “One simply has to take a closer look at you than at most men. It’s not that I can’t trust you, but I don’t always understand you.” He gave a crack of laughter. “Not that I’m complaining. The family estates were trickling down the drain, paying off your father’s more absurd peccadilloes, and now we’re thriving.”
“Hmm,” Devin said. He knew quite well the amounts that the estate had to pay out, on a continuing basis, to widows and children orphaned as a result of his father’s violent temper.
“I’ll make my way to the butler’s pantry and see how Binsey is doing with preparations for Hazel’s ball.”
Devin walked with his uncle to the door. “Didn’t you just speak to him about it yesterday?”
“Binsey and I don’t always see eye to eye,” Uncle Reggie said, in a magnificent understatement. “I have to rehearse our plans on a daily basis to make certain that he doesn’t undermine me. It’s not easy turning a house this size into a fairy garden, but that is what Hazel wants.”
Say Yes to the Duke EPB Page 9