Page 29 of A Stroke of Luck
The lad stared at him in disbelief. “I may?”
“Of course you may. Indeed, you may make use of any volume in the library. If there is one you cannot reach, ring for one of the footmen and he shall give you a hand.”
After voicing his profuse thanks, Perry slanted a shy glance upward. “I—I don’t suppose you might want to read it together, so that you might help me …” Suddenly aware of the temerity of the request, his cheeks colored and he rushed on. “Of course, a duke must be awfully busy, and besides, you have read it before, and?—”
“A classic is like an old friend, lad. It is always a pleasure to renew acquaintances. I should be very pleased to help you work out the nuances of Aristophanes.”
In truth, the duke was more than pleased. By virtue of his lofty title, he had been cozened, flattered, and complimented by all manner of people, most looking for some advantage in aligning themselves with the powerful Prestwick name. But to have a lad ask in such honest appeal for his help and guidance touched him to the very core.
Covering his emotion with a gruff cough, Prestwick took a peek at his pocketwatch. “After breakfast, I have several things to attend to with my secretary, but we could meet here at, say, eleven.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Unless you are otherwise engaged?”
“No, sir,” came the solemn answer. “I have no other plans for the day.”
“Good. Then we shall see if we can catch up withThe Frogs.”
The duke found himself whistling a rousing aria from Handel’s Water Musik as he made for the door, even though he had a sneaking suspicion that the eldest Greeley was going to prove a good deal more slippery to handle.
Eight
“No.”
“Must you always be so deucedly stubborn, Miss Greeley?”
“And must you always be so deucedly arrogant, Your Grace?” she countered.
Prestwick forked up the last bit of his omelet before replying. She had, at least, not launched any of the still-warm croissants in his direction, though the one on her plate had been reduced to a pile of buttery crumbs. “I was merely trying to be of help. However, if you wish to flounder along on your own, at the risk of falling easy prey to whatever sharks may be prowling the waters, that is your choice.” He broke off a chunk of the flaky pastry and slathered on a helping of strawberry jam. “Though it would be an extremely stupid one.”
She speared a piece of broiled kidney, looking as though she wished it was his own vital organ impaled upon her knife. “Why?” she demanded, after dicing the morsel into a fine hash.
“Why is it stupid?”
“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “Why are you offering to help?”
“Because, whether you believe it or not, underneath the fancy tailoring that you deride, I am not completely bare of honor. I wish to ensure that Uncle Aubrey’s estate goes to the rightful heir.”
“Even if that is not your cousin?” Her tone was as sharp as one of Monsieur Henri’s cleavers.
“Yes, Miss Greeley.” He was having trouble keeping the edge off his own voice. “Even if it means that Harold’s suit is denied.”
“Prestwick!” Lady Farrington sailed into the room with all the force of a four-deck ship of the line, the flapping of her skirts creating a breeze that sent ripples across the tablecloth. “What is the meaning of this? Why is that odious man of yours asking to see Aubrey’s papers?”
The duke put down the remainder of his croissant, finding that he was fast losing his patience, along with his appetite. “Because I asked him to, Aunt Hermione. I am having him review all of the documents pertaining to this matter before Uncle Aubrey’s lawyers arrive.”
“Hmmph!” After loading up with a bountiful selection from the silver chafing dishes—including the last three croissants, noted the duke with a baleful grimace—she sat down and shook out her napkin with a loud snap. “A waste of time. The facts are clear as a church bell. You will see that it is all just a formality, once the matter of succession is settled once and for all.”
“Then there can be no objection to Symonds taking a look.”
Finding herself outmaneuvered, his great aunt fell silent, contenting herself with shooting a disgruntled glare at Zara as she dug into her poached eggs.
Prestwick noted out of the corner of his eye that the Admiral of the Amazons showed no sign of being intimidated by a much larger adversary. “Do consider my suggestion, Miss Greeley, and let me know what you decide,” he murmured as he rearranged his silverware.
Lady Farrington’s hearing proved as keen as her appetite. The fork hovered in mid air and her gaze took on the sharpness of a knife blade. “What suggestion?”
“Why, that his secretary undertake to make some inquiries into the Greeley claim,” answered Harold as he slid into his chair and motioned for a fresh pot of tea to be brought out. “An excellent idea, Twick,” he said with a knowing smirk. “Bringing your influence to bear on the matter should help resolve things up in a trice, eh?”
His grandmother relaxed enough to resume her attack on a slab of beefsteak.
Harold’s attention then turned to Zara. “Miss Greeley, I have never seen quite that shade of color before.” He raised his quizzing glass and leaned in a bit closer. “Tell me, what do you call it—vagabond brown?”
