Page 13 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“A duke,” Papa said, giving her a frown as he swirled his brandy and took another generous swallow, “could be very helpful to my cause, if we could get into his good graces.”

Irene shot him a wry look. “Not to crush your hopes for our future, Papa, but having me in the Duke of Torquil’s good graces is about as likely as flying pigs.”

“What did you say to him? Gave him your cheek, I suppose?”

“Not at all,” Irene said with dignity, but Clara ruined her attempt to prevaricate.

“Well, you did call him a lily of the field,” her sister said, causing their father to groan and pour himself another glass of brandy.

“All my good work undone, likely as not,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It won’t matter a jot if you’re a viscount’s granddaughter if you insist upon snubbing dukes. Really, Irene, must you air your opinions at every opportunity?”

“Oh, I couldn’t help it, Papa! The man was so damnably arrogant. And besides, my description of him was apt. I doubt he does any work at all.”

“Nor should he,” her father said severely. “It would be unthinkable for a gentleman, especially a duke, to work. It’s beneath him.”

“Yes, so this particular duke reminded me while looking down his nose and oozing disapproval of me and my profession.”

“You can’t blame him for that, since a woman isn’t supposed to have a profession,” her father retorted, leaning back with his glass. “You should be going to parties and juggling the attentions of young men. Not slaving away in that musty office you’ve made out of what used to be our library.”

Irene did not reply, for what was there to say? Her father had never been good with either money or the lack of it, a fact her brother Jonathan had attempted numerous times to remedy without success. A violent quarrel on that topic three years ago had resulted in the banishment of Jonathan from their house and the tearing up of every letter sent by him to their father in the aftermath. Her brother had taken off for America, his present whereabouts unknown, and their father, as if to prove his son wrong about his abilities, had begun speculating wildly with what money they had left. If Irene hadn’t intervened, they’d be destitute.

She noted how his hand shook as he refilled his glass again, and she appreciated—not for the first time—that if food was to be put on their table, and if tradesmen and servants were to be paid, she would have to be the one who provided the means. She also knew from past experience that attempting to make her parent accept the hard realities of their life now was as much a waste of breath as telling him not to drink.

“Be that as it may,” she said instead, “the duchess’s life is her own business, and if the duke doesn’t like the man she chooses to marry, the duke shall be forced to lump it.”

“Good heavens, Irene.” Her father stared at her, appalled. “You didn’t tell him that?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Papa groaned. “What will Ellesmere think if he hears about this?”

“Nothing he wasn’t thinking already, Papa.”

“Yes, but Irene,” Clara put in before their father could answer, “the duke does seem to care very much about his mother. You may find his manner arrogant, and even discourteous, but surely worry accounts for that. And it doesn’t mean you ought to behave in kind.”

Irene felt a stab of guilt. “Really, Clara,” she said with a sigh, “it is so aggravating when you decide to be my conscience.”

“Someone has to be,” her father put in. “Otherwise, God only knows what you’d take it into your head to do. Start a revolution or resume working for the vote, or some other ghastly thing.” He shuddered and took another drink.

“I fully intend to march in the streets and champion the vote for women whenever I have the chance,” Irene answered. “But at the moment, managing the newspaper takes all my time.”

“That is one point in its favor, I suppose,” Papa grumbled. “It keeps you away from politics.”

Irene made a face at him as she stood up and walked to the secretaire. “As for the rest, neither of you need accuse me of being uncaring, for I have every intention of telling the duchess of her son’s visit to me.”

Clara shot her a startled glance. “So you do know where she is?”

“I do. A letter from her arrived this morning from a London hotel. I haven’t had the chance to read it yet, but I shall do that now, then offer a reply, informing her of her son’s visit to me and his concerns about her. I shall also recommend she communicate with her family posthaste.”

“Really, Irene,” her father said, “I don’t understand you. If you have had a letter from the woman and you know where she is, why didn’t you convey that information to the duke?”

“Because Lady Truelove promises confidentiality to all her correspondents, Papa. You know that.”

It was Papa’s turn to make a face, one that made him look as if he’d just eaten a persimmon. “Don’t go quoting that abomination you’ve created in my presence.”

“It puts food on the table, Papa,” she said as gently as she could.

“There are other ways to do that.”

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