Page 5 of Never a Duke
“Your secret is safe with me.” He chose a book at random from the shelves. “Bankers learn more secrets than I ever aspired to know. We keep them close or soon go out of business.”
He made a handsome picture, leafing through the book. Rosalind would like to sketch him thus, not that his appearance mattered one whit. “What sort of secrets?”
He turned a page. “Who has set up a discreet trust fund for a mere godchild. Who is one Season away from ruin. Who has abruptly changed solicitors, such as might happen when the first firm is unwilling to suborn a bit of perjury or sharp practice.”
Polite society kept Ned Wentworth at a slight distance, and Rosalind had always attributed that lack of welcome to his past. He was rumored to have met His Grace of Walden during the duke’s little misunderstanding with the authorities, the little misunderstanding that had landed His Grace on a Newgate scaffold with a noose about his neck. The duke had been plain Mr. Quinton Wentworth at the time, and appallingly wealthy.
His Grace was even wealthier now, but still Ned Wentworth’s past did not recommend him to the matchmakers. Neither, apparently, did his present.
“No wonder they are all afraid of you,” Rosalind said. “You could ruin the lot of them.”
He turned another page. “You are not afraid of me.”
They were wandering far afield from the topic of Arbuckle’s disappearance, and Rosalind had more information to convey. And yet, toconversewith Mr. Wentworth was interesting. Rosalind was usually reduced to argument, lecture, small talk, or exhortation with men. That she gave as good as she got in each category only seemed to make the situation worse.
“Why would I be afraid of you?” Rosalind asked. “You are a gentleman and you have agreed to help me.”
He closed the book. “Your oldest brother is habitually in dun territory, Lady Rosalind, and your younger brother is barely managing on a generous allowance, very likely because he’s trying to keep the firstborn son and heir out of the sponging house. I thought you should know this before I undertake a search for Miss Arbuckle.”
The words made sense, but they were rendered in such polite, unassuming tones that Rosalind needed a moment to find the meaning in them.
“Do you expect me topayyou?” Rosalind had money, because wasting coin on fripperies was beyond her, and Papa had little clue what it cost to clothe a lady, much less to run his own household.
“Of course not.” Mr. Wentworth shoved the book back onto the shelf. “If your family is short of coin, then the sooner I put your mind at ease regarding remuneration for my efforts, the less likely you are to fret.”
Fret? Whatever was he getting at? “You are being too delicate for my feeble female brain, Mr. Wentworth. Plain speech would be appreciated.”
He selected another book, as casually as if he truly were browsing the biographies. “You promised in your note that if I heeded your summons, you would make it worth my while. A simple request for aid would have sufficed, my lady. You need not coerce me with coin.”
Ah, well then. His pride was offended. Having two brothers, Rosalind should have recognized the symptoms.
“I beg your pardon for not being more clear. I meant to trade favors, Mr. Wentworth. You have agreed to search for Arbuckle, and thus I will share with you the fact that Clotilda Cadwallader is considering allowing you to court her. She’s said to be worth ten thousand a year.”
The book snapped closed. “She’swhat?”
“Said to be worth—”
He shook his head. “I know to the penny what she’s worth, and it’s not ten thousand a year. What else can you tell me?”
“She might allow you to pay her your addresses.” Rosalind offered this news with all good cheer, though Clotilda was a ninnyhammer. Men seemed to prefer ninnyhammers, alas. “You’d have to change your name to Cadwallader, but she says you aren’t bad looking, you’re solvent, and you would not be overly bothersome about filling the nursery.” More delicate than that, Rosalind could not be.
“Because I have no title, and need neither heir nor spare, and what married couple would ever seek one another’s intimate company for any reason other than duty?”
Mr. Wentworth’s tone presaged not affront, but rather, amusement—and bitterness.
“I know little of what motivates people to marry, and as for intimate company…” Too late Rosalind realized that she’d sailed into a verbal ambush of her own making.
“Yes, my lady?” The amusement had reached Mr. Wentworth’s eyes. He was silently laughing at her, which merited a good Storming Off in High Dudgeon, except that his gaze held only a friendly sense of fun and nothing of mockery.
He wasteasingher. Rosalind’s brothers had teased her, before a mere sister had slipped beneath their notice. Arbuckle had occasionally teased her. But when Ned Wentworth teased, his watchful, noticing gaze warmed to a startling degree. A smile lurked in the subtle curve of his mouth, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.
I must sketch him thus, must catch that near-smile.“We will now change the subject,” Rosalind said, “because the alternative is to admit that I’ve mortified myself.”
“Must we change the subject just as the topic is becoming interesting?”
“You are twitting me.” Or perhaps he was flirting with her? Not likely, but Rosalind had so little experience with flirtation she could forgive herself for wondering.
“On the basis of vastinexperience, you were preparing to lecture me about your complete indifference to marital joy. Of course I was teasing you. And as for the Cadwallader creature…You will please inform her that I want a very large family.”
