Page 73 of Never a Duke
“But, Ned…” Rosalind sent a fulminating glance in Lindhurst’s direction, though his lordship did not show any inclination to afford his sister privacy.
“I wish you good day,” Ned said, then much more softly, “for now.”
Rosalind grasped that hint, as Ned had known she would. “Very well, good day for now.”
The urge to take her by the hand and drag her away from this temple to paternal conceit was nearly overwhelming. Ned offered a bow and left, snatching his hat from the butler and stalking out into the sunny afternoon.
“Tossed ye out on yer ear?” Artie asked, scrambling from the bench, where he’d been holding the reins, back onto his perch.
“As good as tossed me out. Woodruff needs money, I have money. Woodruff needs to see Rosalind married to somebody with connections, I have ducal connections. Woodruff doesn’t love his daughter, I do.”
“There’s yer mistake,” Artie said. “He has you by the balls, and he knows it. We going to sit here all day or are you headin’ back to the bank?”
Ned did not want to go to the perishing bedamned bank. “How well do you know the waterfront, Artie?”
“I know enough to stay clear of it. Lads like me can disappear out to sea all too easily, and I’ve a fondness for the Old Smoke and dry land.”
“As do I, but I need to find a certain house. Mind the way we travel, because I might ask you to get the horse back to the bank without me.”
Artie looked up and down the street. “Me and Hamlet will manage, but you ought not to be poking around the wharves on your own, guv. Not looking like that.”
“I’ll poke carefully.” During the whole tangled, tedious journey along the Strand and on toward the City, Ned pondered what exactly had happened in the Earl of Woodruff’s musty, stuffy study. Did Woodruff know his own son had sought funds from the bank?
Was that what the summary eviction had been about? The earl had gone from an aristocrat’s everyday arrogance to hurling threats at both Ned and Rosalind. Something had inspired Woodruff to overshoot the mark of the imperious papa and slip into the posture of a bleating bully.
Something, but what? And how was Ned to deal with it?
***
“I say, Roz.” Lindy ambled forth from the library. “If you are that hard pressed to find escorts, I could have a word with some of the fellows. You need not humor Wentworth to such an obvious extent.”
The clatter of wheels on the cobbles told Rosalind that Ned had departed…for now. Those two words fortified her resolve. Ned had retreated in the face of enemy fire, but he had not abandoned her.
Yet.
“Mr. Wentworth is delightful company,” Rosalind said, “and in every way an eligible bachelor. You need not inspire your friends to charity on my behalf.”
Lindy peered at her. If he took out his quizzing glass, Rosalind would smite him with it.
“No need to turn up shrewish,” he said. “To have the regard of another party is flattering, isn’t it? For your sake, I wish the party could be a little more the thing, though. A lot more the thing. Banking is worse than being in trade outright in the opinion of some.”
“Lindy, would you please hush?”
Rosalind had spoken gently, but so unusual was her requestthat Lindhurst looked intrigued rather than affronted.
“Shall I take you for an ice?” he asked, looking as if the notion merited intense study. “Clotilda says an ice can cure all ill humors. The day promises to be fair, and I believe an ice would restore your mood wonderfully.” He beamed at her, clearly pleased with his great inspiration. “I know Papa isn’t always diplomatic with you, Roz, but he is getting on. You can be quite thick-headed, and allowances must be made. I am your brother, though, and I will take you for an ice.”
Capital fellow that I have decided to be, for once.
“Clotilda?” Rosalind asked. Lindy had changed from riding attire to morning dress, though the dark red carnation he’d worn in the park again graced his lapel. The red carnation symbolized love and affection. ForClotilda?
“Miss Cadwallader,” Lindy said, directing a fatuous gaze to the vicinity of the crown molding. “Anything you could do to encourage her regard for me would be appreciated. She’s a capital girl, Roz, from a much-respected old family. She’s also—if I might be blunt—worth ten thousand a year.”
No, she was not, according to Ned. “Lindy, I’m sure Miss Cadwallader is everything lovely, and if she has won your heart, then she is to be envied above all other women, but I have reason to know that her situation isn’t quite—”
The door across from the parlor opened.
“Rosalind.” Papa stood in the doorway to his office, wrath rolling off him in silent waves. “I hope I did not hear you conversing with a man who presumed to call on me in private?”
