Page 23 of His Unwanted Duchess

“I can assure you, John,” she said somberly, “ithasoccurred to me.”

John fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot.

“I wish I were older,” he blurted out. “If I were older, I could earn money myself or perhaps marry a rich woman. Then we’d all be saved.”

She chuckled. “You want to marry a rich woman?”

“I’m sure I could manage it,” he shot back defensively.

Beatrice took a step closer, wrapping her arms around her younger brother. “It’s alright, John. This isn’t your mess to unravel, I promise. Everything will be just fine, believe me. Things work out in the end, don’t they?”

“You said the same thing about Jane,” John said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “You said that women give birth all the time, and Jane was strong. You said she would be fine.”

Beatrice stiffened, painful emotion welling up inside her. She wanted to scream, cry, laugh hysterically, throw herself on the stone flags in the hallway and flail around like a child in the grip of a pointless tantrum.

He’s right, though. That is exactly what you said.

She withdrew, and John avoided her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said that. But if I were older, I would marry a rich woman and save us all. After all, Jane married a rich man to save us. If I’d been the older one, I would never have died in childbirth, and you and Jane could have been free to do as you like.”

Beatrice breathed in deeply through her nose, a slow, calming breath. She could sob as much as she liked once she was safe in her room, but for now, she had to keep her composure.

“You can’t possibly say that this is your fault for not being born first,” she said brusquely, forcing a smile. “I don’t think Jane would want to see us so maudlin, do you? Come on, let’s see that smile. A proper one.”

John managed a watery smile.

“There we go. Now, John, I can’t give you the details, but I can assure you that I have a rather excellent plan for getting us all out of this scrape. Soon enough, our reputations will be restored—or rather, as restored as they are going to be—and our finances will improve remarkably. I’ll have enough money for your education, and enough to pay off Papa’s debts.”

John eyed her disbelievingly. “Really? But how…”

Beatrice held up a finger. “Ah-ah-ah. All will be revealed. In the meantime, I do have a task for you. I’m going to write two letters,and I want you to hand-deliver them for me. It’s very important that each letter reaches its destinationbeforetonight. And I don’t want you to tell Papa, do you understand? Or Mama. Or anyone, for that matter.”

John swallowed, clearly interested despite himself. “Well, alright. What’s in the letters?”

“None of your business,” Beatrice responded, tapping a finger on the tip of his nose.

“At the very least, tell me where the letters are going.”

She paused, half turned towards the staircase again.

“One letter is going to Anna,” she responded. “And the other… I want you to take the other to the Duke of Blackwood.”

Hurrying upstairs, Beatrice glanced over her shoulder to make sure that she was not being followed. She wouldn’t put it past John to come charging after her, loudly demanding answers. He was not, but the sound of her parents’ argument drifted up to her.

Her parents would not be on speaking terms for a few days after this, she guessed.

This issue would not be resolved anytime soon. In fact, time would only make things worse. For now, the ton was excitedly talking about the Marquess himself, along with his sins, but the gossips would soon tire of that and would turn their attention to the family that was so keen to unite with him.

Beatrice was not foolish enough to believe that she would emerge unscathed. Her reputation was in tatters, even if it seemed whole at the moment.

Shutting herself in her bedroom—which was icy cold, since they had decided not to bother with fires in the upper rooms of the house because of the cost of firewood—Beatrice darted to her writing dress. Her throat was still tight with emotion, tears bubbling just below the surface, but she knew that if she shed tears right now, she would spend the rest of the evening sprawled on her bed, sobbing.

There simply wasn’t time for such nonsense. She could always cry later.

Pulling out a piece of paper, she began to scribble.

Dearest Anna,

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