Also misplaced trust. “Once a cheat, always a cheat.”
Frannie rose, the baby in her arms. “Who said that?”
“Oddly enough, my father, and he was right.”
“Will you close the club?”
“Of course not.”
Delphie hopped into the room, a gray, floppy-eared rabbit clutched in her hand. She wiggled her nose at Jonathan, then hopped up onto the sofa. In his mind’s eye, he pictured another little girl, one with Theo’s blue eyes and Theo’s brown hair.
“I have dependents,” Jonathan said. “People have placed their trust in me, and I cannot fail them. The club’s problems are mine to solve, and when I’m through, Moira Jones will be lucky to get a job scrubbing floors at a drovers’ inn.”
Frannie held the baby over her head, which inspired much waving of tiny fists and grinning.
“Be careful, Jonathan. Get a solid hold of the situation before you charge in and act the duke. Moira has allies on the staff now, and there’s no telling what other trapdoors she’s put in place. You really might be better off selling the whole thing to her.”
Frannie meant well, and thus Jonathan ignored the river of anger her suggestion sent coursing through him. “I will never sell The Coventry, but it’s time I managed the place like a responsible owner and not like Moira’s dupe.”
“You’ll sack her?”
“Not immediately, but yes. She will be sacked, and I won’t ever again allow another that much authority over my club.”
“Best of luck,” Frannie said, nudging the duck from the center of the carpet with her toe.
From the sofa, Delphie waved her rabbit. “Tally ho!”
Jonathan collected his damp coat and bowed. “Tally ho. I’m off to catch a fox.”
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
Thursday took an eternity to arrive, and Diana apparently sensed that Theo’s anxiety about inspecting the ducal residence was mounting. How grand a household would it be, and would the staff receive Theo graciously or with subtle disdain?
“I want to go with you,” Diana said, bending over her slate. “Mr. Tresham is not from our family, so you should not be private with him.”
“We won’t be private. At least a half-dozen servants will be on hand.” Theo paced past the schoolroom window, the best vantage point from which to spy a coach pulling up out front. “Besides, I am a widow, and I don’t require a chaperone.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Diana used a cloth to rub at her slate, while she kicked at the rung of her chair with one foot. “Married ladies have husbands, but young ladies and widows do not. If a young lady needs a chaperone, then a widow should as well.”
“That’s not how it works, Diana. What are you drawing?”
“A dog. Will Mr. Tresham bring Comus to call?”
“Likely not.”
Diana looked up, her expression presaging a spate of grouchy rhymes. “I like Comus. I do not like Mr. Tresham.”
Jonathan’s matched grays trotted around the corner and drew to a jingling halt before the house.
“To dislike somebody who has given you no cause is unkind, Diana. You should be more concerned about whether Mr. Tresham has a good opinion of you.”
Diana rubbed vigorously at her slate, making the school room smell of chalk. “Why should I worry about his good opinion of me?”
Theo wanted Jonathan with her when she informed Seraphina and Diana of the upcoming nuptials.
She also wanted to shake Diana. “Mr. Tresham’s good opinion matters, because he is becoming a dear friend. I hope to see a great deal of him in the near future.”
Down below, Jonathan emerged from his coach, looking splendid in morning attire.
“Will you marry him?”
Yes. “I might.”
“Why?”
Diana takes after me. That realization came with equal parts relief and chagrin. The girl was stubborn, observant, and inquisitive, and those were not traits she’d inherited from her father.
Theo moved away from the window, lest she be caught gawking. “I might marry Mr. Tresham because I have been lonely since your papa died, and Mr. Tresham’s company suits me.” Two understatements so vast as to approach dissembling.
“Do you like him better than you liked my papa?”
What to say? “Your papa was my first love. He will always hold a special place in my heart.” A sad, angry special place. “Besides, your papa gave me you, and I have no greater treasure on earth.”
“I don’t want Mr. Tresham to die.”
Oh, dear God. The logic of childhood was simple and dire. “We all die, Diana, but Mr. Tresham is in great good health. I think he’ll be with us for a long time, and he won’t die simply because I marry him.”
Diana put her slate on the ledge beneath the chalkboard. “Are you sure, Mama? Papa married you, and you had me, and then Papa died. He wasn’t old. Seraphina said he wasn’t old at all.”
Theo knelt before her daughter. “Your papa was sick, Diana. He’d been unwell for a long time, and nothing anybody could have done would have kept him with us.”
Diana looked so solemn, so unsure. Gone was the child with the attention of a butterfly, in her place was the beginning of a girl too serious for her own good.
“My father lived until I was of age,” said a masculine voice from the doorway. “I still mourned his passing, still felt as if he was taken too soon.”
Theo curtseyed. “Mr. Tresham.”
He bowed, twice. “Ladies.”
Diana curtseyed very credibly, which made Theo smile, though Jonathan looked tired and somber to her.
“Will you marry my mama?” Diana asked. “You have to promise you won’t die if you marry her. She would cry and cry if you died, and Seraphina would go into a decline, and Cousin Viscount might send us to the north.”
Jonathan sat upon Diana’s desk. “The north is actually quite beautiful. Perhaps we can all travel to the Lakes some summer, and you’ll see for yourself. Maybe you’d prefer a jaunt over to Paris, though the Channel crossing can be a challenge.”
Still, Diana’s regard was searching. “You’ve been to Paris?”
“I lived there for years. Nobody will ever replace your father, Diana. He was your papa, and you will always love him, but I hope you can love other people too.”
“I could love Comus.”
“That’s a start. He’s very sweet.”
“Rhymes with bleat, treat, and neat,” Theo said.
“Rhymes with meet, wheat, and complete.” Diana twirled, her skirts billowing, her braids flying up.
“And balance sheet,” Jonathan added. “Mrs. Haviland, are you ready for our outing?”
“And greet,” Diana said, bending into a curtsey. “Also conceit.”
“I am,” Theo said, though in Diana’s foolishness, she saw a hint of grace. “Diana, please have your sums finished before supper.”
“You’ll be gone until supper?”
If I’m lucky. “Perhaps. Mr. Tresham, shall we be on our way?”
He offered his arm, Theo took it, and they made a decorous progress down to the coach, Diana calling rhymes after them. The horses had not been given leave to walk on before Jonathan’s mouth covered Theo’s, and she’d wrapped her arms about him. His kiss tasted of humor and desire, but also a little bit of grief.
* * *
The past week had been among the most difficult of Jonathan’s adult life. By night, he’d spent hours at the club, watching from his hidden locations, looking for a pattern, a formula, a detail out of place.
When that endeavor had proven fruitless, he’d taken to wandering the tables, though he hadn’t gone so far as to play a hand in his own establishment. Sycamore Dorning was frequently in evidence, and Jonathan had ruled him out as a spotter or a cheat.
By day, Jonathan combed the club’s ledgers and wage books for irregularities when he wasn’t dealing with his other business ventures. Frannie’s vigilance had doubtless prevented much harm,
though Moira had clearly colluded with the trades to inflate invoices or generate bills for goods never delivered.
All the while, she’d smiled at the guests, flirted with those at the tables, and reminded Jonathan that a duke ought not to involve himself in illegal activities.
To which he’d replied, “I’m not a duke.” Yet.
Nor was he yet Theo’s husband, but the prospect filled him with such a sense of rightness that showing her around the ducal residence was a treat, a reward for the past days’ labors.
“I’ve missed you,” Theo said, as Jonathan’s coach rolled past stately Mayfair homes.
“I’ve missed you too.” An understatement, given the kiss they’d shared for the duration of the past two streets. “We should have the special license any day, but Quimbey and his duchess won’t be back to Town until next week.”
“We’ll wait. Lord Penweather might want to attend.”
Jonathan looped an arm around Theo’s shoulders. “I wrote to him. No reply yet. If you don’t want him at the ceremony, say the word, and he’ll rusticate among the sheep until my duchess summons him.”
Theo had the most delightful ability to snuggle in a moving coach. “I won’t be that sort of duchess. Cousin Fabianus is old-fashioned and never sought the title. He’s… difficult, but not dishonorable. Tell me about the staff.”
“Speak to them loudly and slowly. They smile a lot. I’m not sure half of them can hear at all.”
To Jonathan’s confoundment, what staff was on hand demonstrated miraculously acute hearing in Theo’s presence. She asked questions, she listened, she solicited suggestions, and she showed no sign of needing to drag Jonathan into a linen closet to have her way with him.
He, by contrast, was in a state simply from being near her. She aggravated his condition by taking his arm, leaning close, wearing that infernal jasmine scent, and coaxing a smile from Lear, the tall, white-haired African butler who’d served the household since the previous duke’s time.
“I cannot recall seeing Lear smile in all the years I’ve known him,” Jonathan said. “You have made a spectacular first impression.”
They were taking tea—damned, wretched, useless tea—in the library, a room with enough windows to be considered public, though it faced the garden. With Theo on the premises, Jonathan noticed the haphazardly shelved books and the dingy fringe of the carpet near the hearth.
He’d not seen those before. Was this how Theo had felt when Jonathan had intruded into her formal parlor? Self-conscious and slightly dismayed?
“This is a beautiful house,” Theo said, pouring out, “though it needs some love and care. The present duchess is doubtless attending to what tasks she can, or she will when she returns. You prefer your tea plain as I recall.”
“Theo, right now, I don’t care for tea at all. I don’t want a perishing biscuit, and if you offer me an orange, I will pitch it through the nearest window.”
She set down the steaming cup of China black. “You will?” No smile, no naughty innuendo.
She put Jonathan in mind of Diana, trying to sort out shifting loyalties and changing circumstances. Careful, watchful, unsure. Perhaps the grand residence had daunted her, or perhaps the condition of that residence had failed to impress her.
Jonathan rose and took Theo by the wrist. “I will throw myself through the nearest window if I can’t have you in my arms, if I can’t kiss you for more than a decorous four streets in a closed carriage.”
He found the latch hidden on the underside of the biographical collection shelf and led Theo through a door disguised as just another bookshelf full of aging tomes. The little study was flooded with afternoon light, and the most private place in the entire town house.
“There’s another door,” he said, “at the top of the spiral steps. The latches are right beneath the sconces if you ever find yourself in here without me.”
Theo stepped into his arms, and all the troubles at The Coventry, all the debts piling up on Quimbey’s ledgers, fell away. Jonathan wanted to devour her, to fortify himself with the pleasure she could give him, but Theo was apparently of a mind to torment him.
She teased and hinted and implied, until gradually, Jonathan’s passion eased from roiling to simmering.
“You’re right,” he said, shifting back half a step so Theo could undo his falls. “Better to savor, to take our time.” Though they could do both—a heedless gallop followed by a leisurely trot.
Followed by another gallop.
“I have missed you,” Theo said again. “Missed you mightily.”
She stroked his rampant cock with a slow, cool hand, and Jonathan nearly spent like a randy stud colt.
“If you tell me that today is the day you demand to see me without all my clothing, I will survive the ordeal, but might I survive it fifteen minutes from now, Theo?”
Her smile was knowing and naughty. A lover’s smile. “Perhaps twenty.”
They were the most delightful, torturous twenty minutes of Jonathan’s life. Frustration and pleasure clawed for the lead in a race to satisfaction that Jonathan was determined Theo would win.
She’d chosen the sofa for this interlude, chosen to have Jonathan on his back, leaving her free to plunder his charms and his wits with her hands, her mouth, her breasts—and, oh, ye cavorting Cupids—her sex.
This was what he’d needed, a bout of lusty, loving pleasure, an intimate interlude to chase the troubles away and bring the joys closer.
“You have utterly slain me,” Jonathan said, stroking her hair. On the ceiling, somebody had painted a scene of fluffy clouds and golden doves, as if they’d known that this secluded chamber would earn top honors as a trysting place.
Theo sat up, her breasts rosy. She’d worn two chemises today rather than stays, and a dress that unbuttoned down the front of the bodice. A lock of hair cascaded over one shoulder to the lace frothing across the openings of her chemises.
Desire stirred, which should not have been possible.
“If you’re slain, then I am as well,” she said, stuffing a hairpin in her mouth. “A little slaying makes the day ever so much more enjoyable.” She tucked up the errant lock with a dispatch that amused Jonathan, considering her breasts were on display and he was still inside her.
She shoved the hairpin into her coiffure and patted her chignon.
So brisk after such a thorough loving, so Theodosia. The thought wandered into Jonathan’s mind that she might have already conceived his heir, and desire shifted to something vulnerable and precious.
“We will both be much slain following our nuptials,” Jonathan said. “A wedding journey this summer to the Lakes isn’t out of the question.”
Theo lifted herself away from him, an indelicate moment. He hadn’t thought to get out his handkerchief, but she withdrew one from her reticule, turned her back, and tended to herself.
Lying about like a happy satyr would not do. Satisfaction made Jonathan drowsy and content, but the line of Theo’s back, the dispatch with which she’d risen, and the way she twitched down her skirts created a niggling unease.
She remained by the window, looking graceful and composed, arms crossed while Jonathan put himself to rights. Was she giving him privacy? Already back to thinking of linens and larders?
“Shall we finish our tea?” she asked, gaze upon the garden.
“Must we? I’d rather have you to myself for a few more minutes. The challenge of gentlemanly deportment in your company taxes me sorely.”
Theo smiled and took the place beside him on the sofa. “I like taxing you sorely. I’m a bit taxed myself when you look so grave and handsome. You will make a very convincing duke, not that I wish your uncle a premature reward.”
This nearly qualified as chatter. Jonathan reviewed the encounter, which had begun with greeting Theo and Diana in the schoolroom and noticing a resemblance about their features he hadn’t seen before. They had the same eyes, the same way of smoothing their hands over their skirts.
“
I hope I will not become duke for some time,” he said. “I’d like to enjoy being your husband before less appealing duties befall me.”
She smoothed her skirts again, which struck Jonathan as a tell. Gamblers gave away their motivations and plans with small, idiosyncratic gestures or turns of speech. Lipscomb read his cards, then arranged them, then cleared his throat if his hand was poor. If the hand was good, he’d sit up and smile.
Theo had something on her mind. Something other than Jonathan’s winning smiles and lovemaking.
“Being a duke should have some appeal,” she said. “Though I understand Quimbey will bequeath you problems as well as privileges. Are those problems the reason you’ve not been much in evidence socially?”
Such a casual question, though her gaze reminded him again of Diana, intent on unearthing sensible answers to thorny questions.
“I’ve been busy,” Jonathan said, resisting the urge to wrap an arm about Theo’s shoulders. “The dukedom is a tangled mess, and I suspect when Quimbey returns, he’ll attempt to stop me from straightening it out. He’ll be ashamed, he’ll not want me meddling, and he’ll fume and fuss and put wrong all I’m trying to put right.”
This was true, and part of the reason Jonathan’s days had become long and his fingers ink-stained. He was also reviewing finances for three other organizations, a task he took in his capacity as a director or governor.
“Do your responsibilities to the dukedom also prevent you from attending balls, suppers, and musicales?” Theo was off again, returning to the window. “I still have your list, Jonathan. You’ve given up any pretense of maintaining your social obligations. I ask myself, what could possibly detain you in the evening? What could keep you so busy, you haven’t time to share a waltz with me, or take in a string quartet that does full justice to Herr Beethoven?”
Theo stopped short of asking the real question: Why aren’t you courting me?
Guilt welled, because Jonathan himself had declared that Theo deserved to be courted. He’d seen how the attentions of a ducal heir raised a woman in Society’s esteem, how a single dance merited notice.
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