Page 19 of Never a Duke
“While you are making inquiries, I cannot simply sit at home sketching my cat. What can I be doing, Mr. Wentworth?” Rosalind smoothed her fingers over the embroidery of his handkerchief, surprised to see that the needlework was not a coat of arms or even a monogram, but rather, flowers.
Profuse, colorful, exquisitely precise flowers.
“You can make a few discreet inquiries of your own,” he said. “Two lady’s maids going missing might be a coincidence, or it might be the start of a pattern. Has anybody else mentioned a pretty, female domestic quitting without notice? Have you heard complaints about reliable help being harder to find?”
“Complaining about domestics is nearly as commonplace as remarking the weather,” Rosalind replied, thinking back. “But then, Iattendsocial gatherings, I don’t particularlyparticipatein them.”
Mr. Wentworth gave her an odd smile. “You’re participating in this one.”
“Papa insists.” Rosalind spread the handkerchief on her lap, marveling at the intricacy of the stitchwork. “He hopes that if he dangles me before enough bachelors, one of them will take me off his hands. Papa intimated at supper last night that Baron DeGrange is looking for another wife.”
“Anotherwife?”
“DeGrange has buried two, and so far, has no sons to show for his marital endeavors.”
“Are you tempted?”
She shook her head. “And Papa is only positing DeGrange as a hypothetical. Tonight he’ll allow as how some silk merchant or pork nabob is looking to make an advantageous match for his firstborn son, and is willing to pay handsomely for the right bride.”
“And do you owe it to your father to sell yourself to the pork nabob’s piglet? With menfolk like yours, it’s no wonder you expect to pay for every courtesy.”
The disdain in Mr. Wentworth’s tone was exquisitely veiled, also wonderfully gratifying. “George isn’t so bad.”
“Such a ringing endorsement.”
The coach horn blasted again, closer still, and Rosalind, for the first time in memory, was tempted to laugh at a social gathering. Bad of her, when she had so often been the person laughed at, but Miss Tait never laughed like that in the retiring room, only in venues full of eligible bachelors.
“Hedgehog,” Rosalind said. “I should never have said such a thing, but now all I can picture is a poor, wretched hedgehog.”
Mr. Wentworth smiled back at her, the warmth in his eyes as brilliant and benevolent as spring sunshine. He really was quite handsome, and Rosalind really must stop looking at his mouth. She had tipped an inch closer to that gently curving, fascinating mouth—the mouth that did not argue with her and did pronounce her menfolk wanting—when she was interrupted.
“My gracious,” drawled an amused male voice, “if it isn’t my dear sister secreted behind the greenery with an unsuspecting fellow.” Lindhurst sidled around the sundial, Miss Tait hanging on his arm, “Roz, do introduce us to your friend. I don’t believe I recognize him.”
***
Ned did not decide to whom the bank loaned money, but he did interview some of the parties seeking to borrow. Quinn, as the bank owner and resident duke, could not be troubled to conduct all of those interrogations, for impecunious peers were thick on the ground. Besides, His Grace insisted that Ned, as the closest thing to the bank’s manager, be familiar with the lending process at least in theory.
Heirs and younger sons in want of coin were so numerous as to be the butt of humor among the clerks and tellers.
Baron Spender of Expectations and Inheritances.
The Earl of Misplaced Vowels.
The Honorable Mr. Abit Short and his younger brother Always Short.
Lindhurst might well have forgotten last autumn’s tête-à-tête in Ned’s office, but Ned easily recalled the interview. His job as a bank officer was to flatter and coax from the applicants as much information regarding finances as possible, thank them for the discussion, and assure them the committee would have a decision in due course.
The bank had been unable to extend credit to Lord Lindhurst, alas, and in his case, they hadn’t even suggested that he put his request to another institution.
Lindhurst’s titled father was in good health, while the viscount’s finances were at their last prayers. And yet, here was Lindhurst, looking for all the world like the schoolyard bully preparing to enjoy himself at the expense of the new boy.
Ned considered lifting the viscount’s pocket watch and then “finding” it at the bottom of the nearest birdbath. Lindhurst was owed some comeuppance for laughing at Rosalind all those years ago, wasn’t he? But no. A respected banker—a Wentworth—ought to be above such a petty exercise.
“Miss Tait, Lindhurst,” Rosalind said, popping to her feet and dipping a curtsy. “May I make known to you Mr. Edward Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth, I believe you know Miss Tait, and I’m pleased to acquaint you with my brother, Viscount Lindhurst.”
Ned offered a bow. “Miss Tait, my lord. Good day. Beautiful weather for early in the Season, isn’t it?” And was it on Miss Tait’s account that Lady Rosalind’s voice had taken on a subtle, lilting quality, or was Lord Lindhurst to blame?
“Too sunny by half,” Lindhurst said, “and here’s Roz without her parasol. What could you be thinking, sister dear?”
