Page 26 of Never a Duke
“He is a member of the Wentworth family,” Rosalind retorted. “How much more illustrious can antecedents be? Their Graces are not only titled, but also well situated, and Walden is said to have the ear of the Crown.”
Rosalind was sketching, while Mrs. Barnstable worked at her embroidery. Both activities struck Rosalind as utterly pointless when each passing day could mean that Arbuckle and Campbell were in greater peril.
“I grant you,” Mrs. Barnstable said, “he is attached to the Wentworth household and traveling under the Wentworth name, but the rumors about him are most troubling.”
“What rumors?”
Mrs. Barnstable held her hoop up to the light of the morning room’s east-facing window. “Unsavory rumors.”
“I am not fourteen and ignorant of the world, Mrs. B.”
Mrs. Barnstable resumed stitching, the sun making a golden halo of her blond hair. She was not yet thirty-five and surely qualified as an attractive widow. Rosalind liked her companion’s penchant for books and her strong practical streak.
Also her firm grasp of the difference between a companion and a nanny.
“My lady, you are motivated to champion unfortunate causes, and Mr. Wentworth might fall into that category. Where does his wealth come from, for example?”
“He is a banker. Bankers, by definition, possess money.”
“Heworksat a bank,” Mrs. Barnstable corrected gently. “He is not a Wentworth by birth, or not by legitimate birth. Half the time when his name is mentioned he’s referred to as Walden’s by-blow, the other half the speculations run in even worse directions.”
Rosalind took a moment to shade in her subject’s eyebrows. They were dark, finely arched, and gave him a knowing air.
“How many FitzClarences are there?” Rosalind mused. “The heir to the throne can have ten by-blows, and they are lionized everywhere, but His Grace of Walden cannot have one?” Though Ned had said his father was a tailor. Had he meant his foster father? A stepfather?
“The FitzClarences are not said to have enjoyed the king’s hospitality at Newgate. One does not hear jests about the FitzClarences graduating from picking pockets in Piccadilly to picking pockets in the City. I say these things not because I mean the young man any harm, but because somebody must keep your best interests in mind.”
Rosalind’s pencil stilled. “What are my best interests, Mrs. B?” Lately that question, or a version of it, had been plaguing her. Lately since asking Ned Wentworth for help. “Am I to age into desperation, such that I finally accept a proposal from the likes of Lord DeGrange just to escape my father’s household? Do I wait until I’m so close to my last prayers that when I write letters to the newspapers about the cruelty of badger baiting I become the object of jests?”
“No more letters,” Mrs. Barnstable murmured. “Please, no more letters. The editors publish them for the sensation they create, not because anybody intends to pass laws for the defense of hapless badgers. Besides, Lord DeGrange is in every way an estimableparti.”
“If he’s so estimable, then you elope with him.”
Mrs. Barnstable smiled, making herself look younger and altogether less staid. “If Lord DeGrange proposed, I would consider his suit. He has aged well.”
But he had aged somewhat longer than Rosalind preferred in a prospective spouse. Then too, his conversation was limited to last year’s adventures in the hunt field or this year’s crop of foals. When he was in a truly lively frame of mind, he’d recount various cricket matches from his boyhood years at public school.
Worst of all, Lord DeGrange wasn’t Ned Wentworth. He could not put Amanda Tait in her place with a bland word. He would never take on the challenge of finding a missing lady’s maid, and he would never wonder why a woman had kissed him—and why would she?—much less ask her to explain her reasons.
“Until Papa calms down enough to stop heaving aging barons and unctuous cits at me, I won’t be writing any more letters.”
“Your father is concerned for you, my lady, as I am concerned for you. You drove out with Mr. Wentworth on Monday and permitted him to escort you again just yesterday. That will start talk.”
“He has agreed to escort me again on Monday evening,” Rosalind said. “George and Lindy should be overjoyed to be spared that duty. Moreover, Lindy appeared at yesterday’s Venetian breakfast too, but never offered to escort me. Not well done of him.”
Mrs. Barnstable’s needle stilled. “My lady, please exercise caution. Gossip is unkind to women who violate convention.”
And there sat Amelia Barnstable, a woman who personified conventionality, and society hardly esteemed her for her choices.
“Mr. Wentworth is neither silly nor vain nor self-absorbed,” Rosalind said. “His manners are faultless, and he is received everywhere.” Then too, his kisses wereamazing.
“He is received, but not accepted. Please consider crying off on Monday night, my lady. Better still, tell Mr. Wentworth you will attend with one of your brothers and will not need his escort. If Mr. Wentworth is half the paragon you paint him to be, he’ll understand he’s been given his congé.”
Logic, Rosalind’s besetting sin, prodded her to leave off pondering Ned Wentworth’s kisses long enough to consider Mrs. Barnstable’s words.
“You are not making sense,” Rosalind said, folding down a blank page over the unfinished sketch of Mr. Wentworth. “He is in demand as a dancing partner and escort. I’ve heard any number of matchmakers speculating about his wealth, and both Amanda Tait and Clotilda Cadwallader have admitted they would entertain his addresses. He is beyond eligible, and yet you disparage him.”
“My lady, I applaud your independent spirit. You know I do, and I understand better than you think the allure of forbidden fruit, but Ned Wentworth isn’t merely common, he’squestionable. I urge you to greatest caution. Married to him, you too would be received but not accepted, and when a conversation paused at somebody’s soiree, you would always wonder: Were they gossiping about your husband?”
