Page 45 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

He shrugged as if that particular obligation was inevitable. “It is often necessary. I am the duke.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” she said with mock solemnity. “Or coronet, in this case.”

His answering look was wry. “You’re misquoting Shakespeare,” he told her. “On purpose, I expect.”

“Well, yes,” she agreed with a grin. “It suits you better that way.”

“Because you want to tease me, you mean? That’s not very nice, especially since I’ve just offered to do you a favor.”

“Sorry,” she said, not the least bit repentant. “But you sounded so preternaturally solemn, I couldn’t help teasing you.”

“I do take my position seriously, I confess. And solving problems is a great part of what I do. Of all people, you ought to understand that, since solving problems is also what Lady Truelove does, is it not?”

She considered. “Not really. Ultimately, Lady Truelove’s advice makes little difference. I know you don’t see it that way, given the effect your mother’s course has had upon your family, but it’s true, I promise you. Most people don’t write to Lady Truelove because they want advice.”

“What do they want, then?”

“Reassurance. By the time they take the step of writing to an advice column, they know—even if they don’t realize it themselves—what they are going to do. All they really want is to be told the course they’ve already chosen is the right one.”

He looked as if he might be tempted to debate that point, but before he could do so, a shout was heard, followed by laughter and the sound of running feet along the corridor.

A moment later, two boys of about seven or eight years entered the room. As they came to a skidding halt side by side near Torquil’s chair, Irene thought for a moment she was seeing double, so alike were they in their matching dark blue knickers and jackets, with their identical mops of ginger hair and nearly identical smatterings of freckles. Once she blinked, however, Irene was able to discern one distinct difference between them. One of the boys had a covered picnic basket in his hands and the other was clutching the mangled, bright blue remains of what might once have been a kite.

“Uncle Henry, thank goodness you’re up,” the boy with the kite said. “We’ve had a spot of bother and need your help.”

“Hmm.” Torquil glanced over them. “Yes, so I see. But is your need so urgent that it requires interrupting my breakfast and that of my guests? You don’t seem to be bleeding. You don’t seem to be ill. And what requires all this running and shouting? Are you being chased by wild dogs, that you behave this way?”

They wriggled. “No, sir,” they mumbled together.

More hurried footsteps were heard, and a footman entered. “I am so sorry, Your Grace,” he said, panting as he came to a halt behind the boys. “I’ll have them out of here. It’s just . . . I couldn’t quite . . . catch . . .” He paused, obviously trying to regain his breath.

“It’s all right, Samuel. I’m sure you’ve had a difficult time with them, for they seem determined to break rules today, behaving like heathens instead of gentlemen and with no consideration of the others who live here.”

This withering speech caused both boys to hang their heads, and Irene quite felt sorry for them.

“I am sorry they disturbed your breakfast, Your Grace,” Samuel apologized again, still breathing hard. “Sorry, Miss Deverill. They wanted to fly kites, so I packed up a breakfast for them and we went across to the park. Owen’s kite crashed into a tree and got broken, and while I was trying to mend it, Colin’s kite got . . . ahem . . . lost . . .” He paused again, looking pained. “So we came back, but before I could catch my breath, they decided they needed to see you, and came racing up here before I could catch them. Again, I am so sorry they disturbed you.”

“Please, do not distress yourself, Samuel,” Torquil said. “This is not your fault in any way. It is mine. By tomorrow, they will have a new nanny, and you will no longer be required to go chasing them hither and yon, I promise you. You may go.”

The footman straightened with a nod, but instead of departing, he hesitated, opening his mouth as if he wanted to say more. He glanced at the boys, however, and seemed to change his mind, for he closed his mouth again, gave another nod, and departed.

“Miss Deverill,” Torquil said, gesturing to the boys standing on the other side of the table from her, “may I introduce my nephews, two of the finest scapegraces in London? Colin, Owen, this is Miss Deverill.”

“How do you do?” they mumbled, not looking at her, clearly knowing they were in trouble.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she answered, trying not to smile.

“Well, gentlemen,” Torquil said, tossing down his napkin, “you’ve had a very exciting morning.” He rose and moved to stand before the two apprehensive boys, hands on his hips. “You’ve lost a kite, broken another, run Samuel ragged, shouted and run through the house, and disturbed Miss Deverill’s breakfast and mine. What have you to say for yourselves?”

They hung their heads, silent and chastened. Irene, who knew very well what it was like to be caught in his sights, looked at the twins with sympathy.

He turned to the boy holding the basket. “Colin, what happened to your kite?”

“It got caught in a tree. I went up and tried to get it—”

The boy stopped abruptly and bit his lip, his blue eyes widening with the unmistakable realization that he’d just said something unwise.

“You climbed a tree?” Even in profile, Torquil’s disapproving face seemed rather daunting, but then, a slight curve tipped the corner of his mouth upward, making Irene aware that he wasn’t quite as disapproving as he wished to appear. “Did we not make a rule about this last summer when Owen broke his arm? No climbing trees until you’re how old?”

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