Page 105 of Never a Duke
“Papa!” George was on his feet, no cool smile to be seen. “What do you mean, no concern of yours?”
“Why don’t we all have a spot of tea,” Lindhurst murmured, “and just calm down?”
“He’ll see me hanged!” George retorted. “See me packed off to Newgate like a footman purloining the silver.”
Ivor seemed to gain three inches in addition to his already considerable height and another four stone of menace.
“If a footman steals a fork,” Ned said, “you’re happy to see him hanged. You stole lives, Kinwood. You stole peace of mind and liberty from women who never offered you a moment’s disrespect. You turned them into goods on offer, and worse, tossed their good names—the only treasure they had—into the river.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” George wailed. “I only charmed them a bit, and they were willing to be charmed. I had nothing to do with snatching Rosalind. Papa, tell these people the truth before it’s too late.”
Woodruff shot his cuffs. “Best mind what you say, George. Rosalind has already admitted she’ll testify against her own family. I would hate to be called upon to do likewise.”
George sat forward. His mouth worked. He ran a hand through his hair. “Papa, how can you do this to me?”
Rosalind eased away from Ned, but kept hold of his hand. “Now you know exactly how I’ve felt for years. Betrayed, belittled, and bewildered, but unlike you, I was innocent of any crime save being my mother’s daughter.”
“I only did as I was told,” George said, turning a mulish stare on his father. “Papa, you either find a way to intervene on my behalf, or I will tell the authorities everything I know.”
“Tell them anyway,” Ned said, “and Rosalind might prevail on Their Graces to see you transported rather than hanged. And when that transport ship catches the tide, and fourteen years of penal servitude stare you in the face, you might know the magnitude of the harm you so casually planned for innocent women.”
Rosalind linked her arm with Ned’s. “All so you could afford a little more lace on your cravats. Not well done of you, George, and more fool you, you let Woodruff set you up to take all the blame.”
“But he’s my father!”
Lindhurst passed George a flask. “Mine too. Don’t fret, George. At least you aren’t engaged to Clotilda Cadwallader. I’ll write to you, and fourteen years will pass before you know it.”
George began to cry.
“Ned,” Rosalind said, “let’s be on our way. I don’t believe I’ll be coming back here ever again.”
Ned bowed his farewell to the duke and duchess, and then he and Rosalind were out in the pretty midday sunshine, strolling arm in arm all the way home.
Epilogue
“Lady Dinkle is expecting,” Rosalind said, wanting to hug the letter to her heart. Amelia Barnstable had been an ally all through George’s trial and sentencing. Lord Dinkle, after proving that he could moderate his consumption of port, had been permitted to pay Mrs. Barnstable his addresses, and Mrs. Barnstable had become Lady Dinkle six months after Rosalind had married Ned.
“I will send a note around to Dinky offering congratulations and commiseration,” Ned said, knotting off a bright green thread. “He has a difficult few months ahead if Walden’s experience is any indication.”
Ned’s embroidery had become yet still more brilliant since he’d become a husband. He worked at small tapestries full of butterflies, flowers, napping cats, and colorful birds. They decorated the house, and two hung in the bank, one in Walden’s office, one in Lord Stephen’s. Arthur had asked to be shown a few stitches, as had several of the other children.
“Lady Dinkle faces more than a difficult few months, Ned. Her Grace says the lying-in is only the beginning.”
Ned wrapped his current work in progress around his embroidery hoop and tucked it into his workbasket. “Will you attend Lady Lindhurst if she asks?”
Rosalind looked about her family parlor, a smallish space where she and Ned spent most of their evenings. They socialized little—George’s disgrace was still fresh news—and loved much. George had taken all the blame for his father’s scheme, hoping Lindhurst might benefit from having only a black sheep brother rather than a black sheep brother and a scoundrel for a father.
George was on his way to New South Wales, the disgraced younger son about whom the family would not speak in public.
Ned had seen George off with some funds and a trunk of decent clothing. Bob had offered what advice and introductory letters he could, but George would face at least several years of hard work under harsh conditions.
If there was a silver lining, it was that the Earl of Woodruff’s children, by mutual agreement, no longer associated with him. Lindhurst was attempting to manage on Clotilda’s settlements and his own portion from his mother’s estate, and Aunt Ida had offered him and Clotilda a home on her property in Derbyshire.
Woodruff had departed from Town for the family seat the day after George’s arrest, and had not been heard from since. Polite society had apparently decided that banishment was to be his fate, and Rosalind found that judgment fitting. Fourteen years or so of exile should suffice, if Woodruff’s drinking didn’t do him in sooner.
“Are you up for a journey to Derbyshire?” she asked.
“I will cheerfully escort you there, but don’t go unless you genuinely want to.”
