Page 92 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

Emma shook her head. “Stay your hands for a while,” she said, smiling at the looks of affront that formed on their faces at once. “We do not yet know what he might do, and I do not want to put you in danger.”

Annabelle scoffed. “Oh please.” She rolled her eyes. “What can that dandy of a man do? I doubt his member even works correctly anymore at that age?—”

“Annabelle!” Joanna exclaimed, even as Emma hid her laugh behind her hand.

“What?” Annabelle shrugged, a mischievous smile curving her lips. “It’s true!”

“You are incorrigible, I tell you!”

CHAPTER27

“One might reasonably conclude, given the undisturbed layer of dust on your decanter, that the Duke of Westmere has taken monastic vows in my absence.”

Victor did not turn from the window at the sound of Nathaniel’s voice, though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant acknowledgment.

The gray expanse of London spread before him, its summer foliage muted beneath a persistent drizzle that had rendered the fashionable streets below nearly deserted.

Three weeks had passed since his departure from Westmere Hall. Three weeks of self-imposed isolation in his rarely-used townhouse, where the staff moved with the cautious deference reserved for individuals with unpredictable temperaments.

“The quality of London spirits hardly merits the effort of pouring,” Victor replied, his gaze still fixed on the rain-slicked cobblestones.

At his feet, Argus lay with his massive head resting on his paws, the hound’s usual vigilance replaced by a dejection that mirrored his master’s.

“Though you are, as ever, welcome to sample the collection and prove me wrong.”

Nathaniel stepped further into the study with the easy confidence of long acquaintance.

“A generous offer, particularly from a man famed for his reluctance to part with superior brandy.” He moved to the sideboard and examined the selection with theatrical deliberation. “Though I confess some concern that your staff appears to have misplaced your shaving equipment. Unless, of course, you intend to audition for the role of a particularly dour hermit in some theatrical production?”

Victor’s hand rose unconsciously to his jaw, where several days’ growth lent him an even more forbidding air than usual. “I was unaware that my grooming habits fell within your jurisdiction, Knightley.”

“Oh, they do not,” Nathaniel assured him, selecting a crystal decanter and examining its contents with approval. “My jurisdiction, as the self-appointed guardian of your limited social graces, extends only to preventing your complete dissolution into misanthropy. Herculean labor, I might add, for which history shall undoubtedly revere me.”

He poured two generous measures of amber liquid, carrying one to Victor with an expectant air that brooked no refusal. Victor accepted the glass with reluctant grace, turning finally to face his friend.

“Your concern is noted, if unnecessary,” he said. “I am merely attending to long-neglected business matters.”

Nathaniel’s eyebrow rose in elegant skepticism as he glanced at the conspicuously empty desk. “Indeed? How fascinating that these urgent business matters require neither correspondence nor documentation of any kind. Truly, you have elevated estate management to an art form.”

Argus let out a growl, though whether in defense of his master or agreement with Nathaniel remained unclear.

Victor’s hand dropped to the hound’s head, his fingers absently stroking the silken ears in a gesture that seemed to comfort both man and beast.

“He misses the boy,” he observed quietly, the admission escaping before he could reconsider it.

His friend’s expression softened, the habitual mask of amused detachment slipping momentarily. “Only the hound?”

The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Victor drained his glass rather than answer, the burn of fine brandy a welcome distraction from the more persistent ache that had taken up residence beneath his breastbone.

“I received the most intriguing correspondence from Miss Joanna Dennison yesterday,” Nathaniel continued, settling himself into a leather armchair with the air of a man preparing for an extended campaign. “She expresses profound disappointment in your abrupt departure from the countryside. Apparently, the Athena Society’s discussions have grown tedious because of their founder’s lackluster attendance since your departure.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “She exaggerates.”

“She also mentioned,” Nathaniel pressed on, swirling the brandy in his glass with studied nonchalance, “that young Tristan Bickford inquired after you at Sunday services. Something about a promised demonstration of proper fly-fishing technique?”

The mention of Tristan’s name coaxed another plaintive whine from Argus, who raised his head to gaze imploringly at his master.

“There’s a tutor perfectly capable of instructing the boy in fishing,” Victor said, his voice carefully modulated to betray no emotion. “As I’m certain Lady Cuthbert has arranged.”

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