Page 10 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
Titsworth bowed now, but luckily was on the opposite sideof the room. “Your Grace, the Duchess of Peasgoode has requested an audience. Her family as well.”
Well hell,thiswas why Titsworth was acting so pompous? Thorne sprang to his feet. “Flick is here? Shite, Titsworth, ye ken the Calderbanks dinnae count when it comes to yer pomposity-meter,” he said as he yanked open the drawer beside him to pull out a handful of fivers. “They’refriends, man!”
Shoving the bills in various pockets, he stalked across the study. Thorne slapped the butler on the man’s back, causing a cloud of powder to rise into the air, and went to squeeze past him into the corridor.
At the last moment, Thorne remembered the conversation he’d been in the middle of, and turned back to Kit. “Go have fun, laddie. I’ll be busy for a few hours.”Hopefully.
The valet didn’t even look up from where he was studying the sheet music, his head bopping gently, humming under his breath.
Smiling—and holding his breath, what with the powder slowly settling everywhere—Thorne hurried into the front sitting room.
“Felicity!” he cried, throwing his arms wide.
The bespectacled redhead, who’d been bent over one of the ferns near the front window, straightened with a smile. “Thorne, you are looking well. And slightly speckled.”
He wrapped his arms around the prickly little scientist and was thrilled to feel her hugging him in return. “I do no’, I look exactly the same as I did last time I saw ye.”
“Yes, well, the last time I saw you, you were not a duke,” she corrected, straightening. “You have moved, though.”
Thorne waved to the sitting room dismissively. “Once I became my uncle’s heir, I took over the upkeep of his London house, since I kenned he wouldnae be traveling from Scotland. But I didnae move in until I was given the title.”
Even now, months later, the thought of Uncle’s death was asharp poke of regret. Thorne hadn’twantedto become Duke, had never planned on it. But now that he was, he was determined to be the best duke he could be. And, to his surprise, hemissedhis crotchety old uncle.
But now was not the time to dwell on regrets. He beamed at his friends. “How is Griffin? Has he settled into duking?”
Griffin Calderbank had been one of Blackrose’s agents, just like Thorne, and had faked his death to keep his family safe from the purge. When he’d returned to England, he’d fallen for the intriguing scientist—Felicity—who lived next door, and they’d all charmed the Duke of Peasgoode into making them his heirs.
Well, it was far more complex than that—likely enough to fill a novel!—but Thorne nodded along as Felicity spoke of the struggles of managing such a large piece of the Highlands.
“But at least we still have Duncan and Ian to help us,” she finished, speaking of the old duke and his long-time lover. “And now, since I know the children are vibrating with excitement to greet you, perhaps we should put our niceties on hold?”
Thorne, who’d sent a few winks toward the young ones spread around the room, affected surprise. “Really? Why bother? I have a dissertation on sheep in land management I could tell ye about—”
“Uncle Thorne!” interrupted Marcia, a pretty girl of about fifteen years, who was looking deeply irate. “We don’t care aboutsheep.”
“Ye do care about yer uncle, though?” he teased, holding out his arms to embrace the lassie. “Since when am I yer uncle, by the way?”
“Since she began acorrespondencewith Rourke’s niece,” Felicity offered dryly. “Gabby might be a few years younger, but I suspect those two will likely conquer the world one day.”
“It’s true,” Marcia agreed, nodding eagerly as she straightenedfrom the hug. “Flick promised while we’re in London, I can attend a meeting of the National Society for Women's Suffrage, and buy the back issues ofThe Daily Movement.Did you know that Ian’s nephew is married to the owner?”
Chuckling, Thorne nodded. Therewerequite a few connections, now that he considered it. So many, someone would have to write out an explanation before meeting any of them. “I ken Olivia will be more than pleased to give ye a tour of the printing house, and send all the back issues ye’d like to Scotland.”
“Great,” moaned the younger lad in the room. “We’re going to have to spend the next month listening to her talk about pockets and suffrage at each dinner, are we no’?”
As Marcia stuck out her tongue at her younger brother, Thorne made a show of gasping aloud. “Rupert, is that ye? I thought Bull had brought a friend! Ye’re four inches taller!”
The lad—who must be eleven now—flushed and rolled his eyes, yet wore a pleased smile as he embraced Thorne. “Not four inches, but perhaps two.”
Putting aside the teasing, Thorne placed his hands on the lad’s shoulders. “Ye’re just the man I wanted to see. Is amaestroa musician, or a conductor, or both, or neither?”
Rupert needed no explanation for the question, but launched into an answer. “Maestrois from the ItalianMaestro di Cappella—or ‘master of the chapel,’ similar to German’skapellmeister—which itself derives from the Latinmagistrum. But unlike the Latin form,maestrodoesn’t mean ‘master’ as most people assume. While it is most often used to describe a conductor of classical music, in actuality it denotes any person—presumably female or male—who shows an advanced aptitude in a creative field, beyond what is expected.”
As always, stunned silence followed one of Rupert’s dissertations. Thorne was never sure if it wasstunnedas in “amazed” or as in “hit over the head and rendered speechless.”
Finally, he cleared his throat. “So a violin player could be said to be amaestro?”
“Oh yes,” Rupert agreed. “I’ve heard several referenced as such. Joachim, Vieuxtemps, and de Sarasate, for instance.”
