Page 71 of Never a Duke
Walden took up a second pen and began paring it into serviceability. “Ned came back from the dead to rescue me, though at the time, I fancied I was rescuing him. He was starving himself. The guards explained it to me later. Some prisoners, when faced with the prospect of transportation or the gallows, take matters into their own hands. They choose the only option left to them, on their own terms. Ned was feeding the damned birds with his daily portion of bread or handing it on to the other children.”
Walden’s knife had gone still. “Ned was nothing but skin and bones,” he went on, “and two bright, intelligent eyes that had seen far too much and all of it bad. Jane says I was to be Ned’s final act of charity.”
As marrying Jane had been Walden’s final act of charity? “Either you took years of rescuing, or Ned had occasion to rethink his plans.”
“Both, I suspect. Ned sensed I’d been set up, and thus had enemies willing to send me to an ignominious death. This offended his sense of fair play, and so…”
Walden set the second pen back in the tray and took up the third.
“And so…?”
“And so Rosalind Kinwood was right to ask Ned to tilt at windmills on behalf of lady’s maids and companions. Her ladyship saw clearly what I had lost sight of. I gave Ned the life I wanted for myself from a young age—respectability, means, a position of influence, and a future full of profitable ventures. Ned has endured these impositions as graciously as he can, but he is still that fierce, righteous, wilyfellow who took a future duke under his wing and never asked for anything in return.”
Something about this fable wasn’t quite running on all fours with the facts. “Ned was a housebreaker, pickpocket, sneak thief, shoplifter, safecracker.…He was everything unsavory about London’s underbelly.” And how Stephen had envied him those adventures.
Walden shook his head. “Ned was a child surviving injustice, which is why he has taken such good care of us—because we were children who endured injustice. He never committed crimes of violence, never chose any but the affluent for his marks. Somehow, Lady Rosalind has deduced what I am only now realizing: Ned needs taking care of too. Not somebody to provide him a post, put him in fine tailoring, or teach him not to drop his haitches, but tocarefor him.”
Abigail had alluded to the same notion, that Ned was in some regard still in prison, albeit surrounded by tellers, badgers, and clerks.
“I thought we did rather care for our Neddy.” In some ways, Ned had been more of a brother to Stephen than Walden himself. “How should our regard be more in evidence?”
Walden swept the parings from the blotter into his palm and dropped them into the waste bin. “We start by sending him on more picnics with Lady Rosalind. She sees Ned clearly, and Ned is willing to allow her that privilege. I do hope the Earl of Woodruff doesn’t try to make things difficult for all concerned.”
Stephen had been reading the file on the Cadwallader situation, including that little bit about a possible match with Woodruff’s prancing heir.
“Woodruff is an obnoxious, self-important, old windbag who hasn’t a feather to fly with, and Ned does not suffer fools. This might end badly.”
“Precisely.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Mr. Edward Wentworth,” the butler said, bowing and withdrawing. He cast Ned a glance that suggested this call was not well advised, but foolish young men would rush in, and what was a mere butler to do about such goings-on?
Lord Woodruff sat at a desk that likely traced its provenance back to the Conqueror’s desk, as Woodruff doubtless traced his lineage back at least that far.
Three acts of rudeness ensued—additional rudeness, because as a guest, Ned ought to have been received in a public room rather than an office.
First, Woodruff remained seated after a caller had been announced.
Second, Woodruff scratched away at some correspondence without looking up.
Third, he did not invite Ned to take a seat.
Fourth, fifth, ad infinitum, he was engaging in the petty displays of the pathetic bully. Ned remained politely by the door, while visually inventorying the earl’s study. This was his lordship’s sanctum sanctorum, the seat of his financial empire.
Ancestors who looked to be suffering a case of the wind frowned down from framed portraits, piles of correspondence and newspapers were stacked on the sideboard. The writing implements—wax jack, pounce pot, pen tray—were all silver, and the carpet Axminster.
And yet, the carpet needed a good beating, suggesting to the former housebreaker in Ned that the earl did not want footmen or maids in the room even briefly. The windows were far from pristine, which made no sense when the room’s primary purpose was reading and writing. The candles on the mantel were beeswax, but the sooty stains on the wall behind them suggested those candles were for show.
Tallow candles were smokier than beeswax and would also account for the lingering stink Ned detected in the air.
Woodruff was either a penny pincher who could not trust the discretion of his domestics, or he was pockets to let. The lacy excess of his cravat, the riotous embroidery on his waistcoat, and the abundance of rings on his pale hands suggested the latter case prevailed.
As a boy, Ned had stood watch as a lookout, unmoving for hours in the shadows of foul-smelling alleys. His patience could outlast Moses holding up his arms to ensure victory over the Amalekites. He used the time to study Woodruff, who bore little resemblance to Rosalind.
The earl was fair, his hair having gone flaxen rather than gray. His locks were thinning around a widow’s peak, and he favored an old-fashioned queue tied back with a silk ribbon. He had probably been a handsome young man, but fondness for the grape had taken a toll on his complexion. He was lean, and yet his countenance was jowly, and he had pouches beneath his eyes.
Ned could see a slight resemblance to Lord Lindhurst about the chin and jaw, but Lindhurst still had some charm. Woodruff, by contrast, was as cold as Puritan charity. Not an attractive man, but doubtless still confident of his own masculine perfection.
