Page 9 of Never a Duke
“Your brothers would bother the help?” Mr. Wentworth asked. “Would they bother the help and then send a maid packing when she conceived?”
“You do not shrink from difficult topics, do you, Mr. Wentworth?”
“Would they?”
Rosalind sidled around him, which resulted in her skirts whispering against his breeches, her shoulder brushing his chest. The contact was fleeting, but…
But nothing, Rosalind sternly reprimanded herself. The topic at hand was Arbuckle, not Ned Wentworth’s masculine splendor.
“George likes books and political debates,” she said, “and would have gladly taken holy orders. Papa wouldn’t allow it, not until we get Lindhurst married off.”
“Viscount Lindhurst is the heir,” Mr. Wentworth said, this time following Rosalind more slowly. “He takes liberties with the domestics?”
The English language had too many ways to trivialize male philandering, and Mr. Wentworth apparently knew them all. “I’ve heard the housekeeper grumbling to Cook, but Lindhurst would not impose on my lady’s maids. Even if he had, neither woman would leave her worldly possessions behind when she quit the household.”
Mr. Wentworth gazed off across the room, which was deserted but for him and Rosalind. “You don’t know that. Two pretty young maids going missing in the space of a few weeks is unusual, my lady. If your lady’s maids got with child, Lindhurst’s responsibility as a gentleman is to see to the support of his offspring. That’s much easier to do if the mothers are willing to return quietly to their villages and dwell in rural penury.”
Why had Rosalind not seen this possibility for herself? “I fear Lindhurst cannot afford to see to anybody’s support. Word of his finances has reached your ears, which suggests his problems are chronic.”
Mr. Wentworth’s generally reserved expression acquired a cool edge. If Rosalind were seeking a loan from him, that glint in his eye would presage very strict terms indeed.
“Men who are profligate with their funds often cannot exercise restraint in other regards. Lindhurst might well have mis-stepped and taken extreme measures to hide his perfidy.”
Rosalind moved to a different row of books. “If Lindhurst has ruined my maids, I will kill him.”
“No,” Mr. Wentworth said, sauntering after her, “you will not.”
“A woman in service risks her position if she refuses the overtures of a scion of the house,” Rosalind said, “and she risks everything if she accommodates him. Lindhurst can be charming, though, and I suppose love can make fools of even sensible young women.”
Philosophers said that, most of whom happened to be men.
“Lindhurst wasn’t offering your maids love,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I will ask a few discreet questions and explore his potential culpability.”
Mrs. Barnstable’s voice drifted down the steps, a recitation of her preferred recipe for a tisane to settle the nerves.
“If Lindhurst is not to blame,” Rosalind asked, “what is the next step?”
“I’m working my way through the sponging houses. I’ll have inquiries made on the docks, and I’ve put the word out among my badgers. They notice much that otherwise goes unremarked.”
“Badgers?”
“Flower girls, crossing sweepers, links boys, bank messengers, children at large, streetwalkers. They are the eyes and ears of London, and for a bit of coin, they will take a matter under advisement. I have consulted with a few of them, and they will compare notes with each other, but you must not get your hopes up.”
Did Ned Wentworth have hopes? Rosalind’s own hopes were limited to enduring the Season without becoming the butt of too much gossip, and hoping that Lindhurst would for pity’s sake marry well. Maybe Clotilda Cadwallader would have him.
Mrs. Barnstable’s quackery at the top of the steps was drawing to a close with admonitions to take care, mind the damp, and God bless.
“My hopes are not up,” Rosalind said, “but when can we discuss further developments, Mr. Wentworth?”
“Shall I take you driving in the park on Monday?”
“That will serve.” Though Rosalind hadn’t driven out with a young man since…had it been two years or three? “Do you truly know those sorts of people, Mr. Wentworth? The links boys and flower girls?”The streetwalkers?Not even the London gossips alluded to him having connections such as that.
His smile was a little mischievous and a little sad. “Until Monday, shall we say one of the clock? And as for your question, my lady, Iamthose sorts of people.” He bowed over her hand and strode away, just as Mrs. Barnstable began a dignified descent of the steps.
***
“I should be able to pay back the rest next quarter day.” Evander, Viscount Lindhurst, smiled at George in his vanity mirror as if payment long overdue and short by half was a great benevolence between brothers.
