Page 37 of Never a Duke
“Neddy,” Abigail began, “you cannot possibly think to venture—”
“He doesn’t think,” Constance observed. “Never has, and that is why Jane—”
Lady Rosalind stood and the Wentworths, much to Ned’s surprise, fell silent.
“You will all do as Mr. Wentworth tells you to,” she said. “He runs an entire bank and makes that look like a lark, and he knows London as you and I never will. If you do him the courtesy of attending him, he will keep you from mucking up the whole undertaking before a mystery becomes a tragedy. I asked for your help, and I am grateful to have it, but you…Excuse me. I need a moment.”
She curtsied—to Ned alone—and withdrew.
“That,” Stephen said, popping a bite of shortbread into his mouth, “is your duchess, Neddy. Lose all the lady’s maids and companions in London, but don’t lose Lady Rosalind.”
“I won’t have to lose her,” Ned snapped, “you lot will horrify her into a permanent dislike of me. Stephen, I cannot frequent the clubs as you can. Sit among the lordlings and spares and listen for who complains of a lack of blunt or who is newly flush with funds.”
“Excellent notion,” Abigail said. “Stephen listens so very well.”
No, he did not. He was a competent eavesdropper though. “Constance, I want to know every companion or lady’s maid who’s left without notice for the past six months. You have only recently arrived in Town. Send to the agencies for a companion and lady’s maid, interview them all and see what you can learn. Abigail, what have I overlooked?”
She stared off into space. “I am stating the obvious, but the missing persons are all female. If there’s a Lothario at large in the mews, then a call upon the neighborhood apothecaries is in order. It’s possible the ladies all had areasonto discreetly leave Town. I can handle those inquiries.”
“Thank you. I would not have thought to look in that direction. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll leave you to battle Stephen for the sweets remaining on the tray.”
“You’re going after Lady Rosalind?” Stephen called as Ned headed for the door.
Ned didn’t dignify that query with a reply. The butler sent him upstairs to a guest parlor, claiming the lady had needed a few minutes of privacy, but Ned looked, and Rosalind wasn’t in the guest parlor. She wasn’t in the library, in Stephen’s study, or in the family parlor either.
Where the hell could she be?
***
The parlor Rosalind barged into was done up in soothing, majestic blues, from the upholstery on the sofa and chairs to the velvet curtains, to the choice of art on the walls. Everything blended, everything brought to mind summer skies and bucolic tranquility. Potted ferns by the window added to the sense of repose, and a mild breeze wafted in from the back garden.
Rosalind very much needed that fresh air.
“How dare they?” she muttered, pacing across a carpet that featured more blue—irises and hyacinths, accented by green foliage. “Neddy fetch me a pencil.” She pivoted at the edge of the carpet. “We haven’t time for pleasantries.” Another ten paces. “Not dressed like that you won’t.” Pivot. “I’m better at disguises than you are.”
She gazed up at a ceiling painted to convey a sky of puffy clouds, swallows flitting across the firmament, doves perching upon blossoming branches at the corners.
“He’s been disguising himself as a Wentworth for years,” she said, “and the lot of them don’t even notice the effort that takes.”
DidNednotice the effort that had gone into re-creating himself in the image of a ducal familiar? Not quite family, not quite a servant, not even fully an employee.
“I take it you refer to our Ned?”
Rosalind whirled to see a tall, dark-haired man leaning against a bookshelf. “Excuse me,” she said. “I did not know the room was occupied. The butler…” Had he said the parlor was to the left or the right at the top of the stairs?
“Losing one’s way when upset is easy. Rothhaven, at your service.” He bowed with all the formality such a lofty station implied. “You are Lady Rosalind, and suffering a predictable bout of excess of Wentworths. The cure for that malady is abundant peace and quiet. Ample helpings of humor also reduce the severity of symptoms. Shall we sit?”
“I am Lady Rosalind, Your Grace, also mortified.” The duke was rumored to be reclusive, a throwback to the days when the aristocracy prided itself on its eccentricities. “I will leave you to your solitude. I did not make a dignified exit from the gathering below and must apologize to mine hostess for my rudeness.”
Rothhaven ambled over to the sofa. “I made an undignified exit from society when still a boy. Society’s loss. Come join me for a tea cake. If Stephen was among the horde you quit, you never stood a chance at any of the offered sweets.”
This man’s company was balm to Rosalind’s soul. She ought not to be alone with him, but ought nots and should nots weren’t very helpful when she was in a temper. She cared little what the Wentworths thought of her, but she cared a great deal for Ned’s good opinion.
A tea service sat on a low table before the sofa. “I don’t care for any tea, Your Grace, thank you just the same.”
“Then bear me company,” he said, patting the back of a wing chair. “I have, through diligent effort, trained my in-laws to leave me to myself, and as is typical of them, once they grasped the lesson, they became zealous in its application. My darling Constance reminds them of my need for solitude if they forget. I haven’t yet found a way to convey to her that her zeal is sometimes more than the situation warrants. Watching her siblings scurry to do her bidding is too entertaining.”
Her Grace had not struck Rosalind as in the least darling. “Your duchess is formidable.” Rothhaven was more formidable, for all his talk of peace and quiet.
