Page 6 of The Duke of Aces
Isadora’s hand balled into a fist as Mr. Wembly smiled at her competition across the desk. “Well, Your Grace, collectively, we would prefer that the premises be utilized for…for more civilized pursuits.”
Eyes narrowed, His Grace leaned forward, bracing his weight with one hand upon his knee. “Is that the case, Mr. Wembly? Or mayhap is it simply that your partners and you do not wish to invest in the repairs which both Astley and Cartman would demand of you.”
Isadora couldn’t help but turn her gaze to the man seated next to her. During the two weeks residing at Avondale, not once had the duke revealed this shrewd business acumen that he clearly possessed. His Grace had played the role of disinterested host and idle gentleman perfectly.
For what purpose did he wish to let out Wembly Hall?
In an attempt to settle her mind, Isadora returned her gaze to Mr. Wembly, whose cheeks were flushed, revealing they had indeed caught him lying.
“Please present the best offer you wish for us to consider.” Mr. Wembly pushed a piece of blank parchment forward in front of Isadora and then another in front of the duke. “I understand you are both eager to have the matter settled. I shall consult my business partners this eve and will inform you of our decision on the morrow.”
Tomorrow? And endure another day of uncertainty. No.She wanted the matter settled. Isadora focused her eyes on the man across from her. Mr. Wembly’s forehead had a sheen of sweat, no doubt from the weight of His Grace’s stare.
She shifted to perch upon the edge of her chair and leaned forward. “Mr. Wembly, might I remind you that my organization has had a long-established relationship with you, certainly…”
“Lady Isadora, I mean no offense, but without the personal backing of Lord Sutherland, I have concerns.”
Gah. Men.The fathers, husbands, and brothers of many a lady controlled their funds. As with every standard, there were exceptions. Isadora knew of ladies who had managed to amass their own fortunes under pseudonyms. Pseudonyms like the ones Minerva had established for Isadora and their younger sister Diana. Skilled at calculating odds, she herself had amassed a rather tidy sum over the last two Seasons. One of the most highly attended events of the Season was the Wicked Ladies Gaming Night.
Isadora dropped her gaze to the blank parchment in front of her. Should she risk her entire savings to secure Wembly Hall? Minerva had specifically instructed her to only access the funds in an emergency. She was a full-grown woman at the age of twenty. It was time for her to make her own decisions. Volleying between wishing the sheet of parchment would burst into flames and seizing it, Isadora finally found her voice. “Very well, Mr. Wembly, I shall pen my offer in private and have it delivered to you by nightfall.”
The Duke of Avondale unwound his long frame. “I shall do the same.” Towering over Isadora, he proceeded to wing out his arm for her. “Please. Allow me the honor of escorting you home.”
The gentlemanly gesture brought a frown to her brow. Normally, she would have to actively refrain from recoiling at the thought of touching another. Yet, her hand settled upon his sleeve as if it was the most natural action for her. An overwhelming sense of kinship invaded Isadora as he guided her toward Mr. Wembley’s door.
She glanced up at the man that her body seemed to be instinctively in tune with. The corner of the duke’s lips twitched. “The odds of being discovered with me are low compared to the probability of you finding a hack in time before you are outed.”
His comment spurred the spark of irritation she needed to refocus. He was unfortunately correct again. Without the Season being in full swing, hailing down a hack at the crack of dawn had been rather difficult. The challenge of avoiding detection now that it was daylight would be even riskier. Isadora noted His Grace had modified his stride to match hers as if he was in no rush to be rid of her. She raised her gaze to him and inhaled sharply as his intense dark brown eyes bore into her as if he was trying to read her mind.
She removed her hand from his arm as he allowed her to step through the doorway unassisted. The sudden lack of warmth had her clasping her hand tightly under her cloak to prevent her from reaching out to touch him once more. She needed space between them, a moment to settle her rioting emotions that she was certain she was incapable of ever feeling before. She progressed through the main room, leaving Mr. Wembly and the duke behind.
Annie fell into step next to her. “What the devil happened? Ye’ve got color in yer cheeks.” Her maid’s gaze flicked to the duke.
“His Grace has offered to escort us back to Malbury townhouse.” She and her siblings never referred to the dwelling they were forced to reside in with their father as home. No, a home was filled with love and joy, neither of which existed at the townhouse. The constant chill that existed between her mama and father ensured that.
“How kind of His Grace,” Annie said.
Mayhap accepting the duke’s offer was the safest route, or was it? Caught traveling with the duke might raise questions.
Annie fell behind as the Duke of Avondale caught up to her in the center of the room. Isadora turned slightly to face the duke. “I accept your offer on one condition.”
“And that is?”
In the short few moments away from the men, Isadora had managed to devise a plan. She shifted to include Mr. Wembly, who had joined them. “You shall make a sizable one-time donation to an organization of Lady Charlotte’s choice.”
“A charity of my sister’s choice, is it? Pray share with me, what sum shall I be donating?”
She glanced at Mr. Wembly, who was broadly smiling like a cat who had cornered a mouse. “One hundred and fifty quid.”
The duke’s nostrils flared as he stared down at her. “Ridiculous. Absolutely not.”
“Very well. I shall take my chances and secure a hack to transport me home.” Isadora relied on her suspicion that the duke was much like her own older brother, Lord Kent. Benedict would never knowingly let a lady enter a public conveyance. She turned on her heels to take a step toward the front entrance.
Before her boot hit the wood floor, His Grace blurted, “Damn wicked woman. Stop. I shall make a single donation of eighty quid and not a penny more.”
Isadora wanted to giggle at the duke’s reference to her being wicked. He certainly made her want to be wicked, to test the man’s self-control that was purported to be as strong as steel.
“I’m certain Lady Charlotte shall choose a most deserving cause.” She winked at Mr. Wembly, goading His Grace.
