Page 6 of Appetites & Vices (The Truitts 1)

He stammered a vague response, which was met with a loud sniff.

“Blast, Jay, that wasn’t an answer. Didn’t they teach you diction in those fancy schools?”

He coughed back a laugh. One had to give her points for refusing idle chatter or even pleasantries. She had a bit of a singular mind, like some sort of ratter. A shapely, blonde ratter. She only looked like a poodle.

What was so special about Hugo Middleton anyway? How anyone could think that pussy-footed, tongue-tied lackey was worth so much trouble was beyond him.

A Harvard degree was one matter, but the man wasn’t even special to look at. Thin and pale, like an invalid, with brows that inched too close together. His taste in clothing was dour. He never drank, never told jokes and danced like he’d sat on a railway spike—after being clobbered on the head with the object.

If Ursula hadn’t been a Jew, Hugo’d be so far beneath her it’d be laughable, chair tossing or no chair tossing. Encouraging her designs towards the man was almost like taking advantage of her.

Jay sucked in a breath. “I think you underestimate the pressure that Hugo is under.”

“But why?” She mewled the question, through her nose. Like an oboe. Played off-key.

Just when she piqued his sympathy too. Jay gripped the silk fabric of the seat. Maybe there was no “almost” about her hopelessness. A man would have to be drunk or dead or a complete fool to find whining attractive. Especially with Ursula’s level of verve. And vocal tone.

Perhaps he should walk to Philadelphia to rescue his ears. And nerves.

He eyed her animals. The cat snored and the monkey was distracted by the rolling hills out the window. What were their ridiculous names again? Artemis—Arte and Hecate? Ludicrous. At least she hadn’t brought the damned bird. That thing had almost clawed his head.

And the dog had watered his shoe. Thank goodness most of his extensive wardrobe was unscathed. For now. He shuddered.

At the moment though, the situation was almost safe. Too bad she wore a travelling cloak. The flesh to fabric ratio was out of proportion.

Also, there was the matter of Rose, the maid. Though silent, the glint in her eye conveyed she’d be of no assistance, at least not to him.

* * *

He drummed his fingers on his knee. What was the proper tack with his faux fiancée?

“The Middletons need connections you can’t give them, more than they need money.” He made his voice patient, emulating his mother, not his father.

/> “Those social constructions aren’t as important anymore. I mean, President Jackson was an abomination, but no one could say he didn’t transcend. Men voted for him, and he was an uneducated incompetent. I’m better than that. I’d never get rid of the Bank of the United States. Also, isn’t what Hugo wants enough to make them relent? My father’d never do that to me.”

“Your father is—” Jay pursed his lips, searching for the right word. His mind wandered a little when she said the word “bank.” If only there was a way to suggest words to ban in social situations without losing an appendage to a primate.

And how to explain her father? The man was...unusual. Ursula detailed the entire scheme to him and yet Nunes agreed—agreed to permit his daughter to either marry Hugo Middleton or make a fool of herself trying.

Certain things have to be learned, even by the cleverest.

Whatever Nunes meant by that. Some sort of game was afoot, though what its parameters were was anyone’s guess.

The whole meeting with the man had been odd. A private chat with a young lady’s father was never Jay’s ideal activity. Judah Nunes had sat like a king on his throne, sipping brandy from a golden glass without offering Jay a drop.

And staying with the family in Philadelphia, engaged but not married? The man just offered the arrangement—excellent for the plot, but completely improper. No parents he knew would permit such a configuration. Was it some sort of Jewish norm?

Jay frowned as he caught a whiff of his shoe. His faux father-in-law’s smirk as the butler toweled him off flashed in his mind. The elastic-gusset Chelsea boots were his favorite. He might be beyond redemption, but his innocent wardrobe shouldn’t have to pay his penance.

Fine. If this is what Ursula’s father thought appropriate, far be it from him to tell the man otherwise. Nunes could fight the gossip himself.

Jay turned back to Ursula. Why was he being so delicate? She could handle the truth.

She tightened her folded arms and tapped her toe—at him, at his careful, considerate silence.

He resisted an impolite gesture. She was still a lady, after all. Sort of.

“Your relationship with your father is unique. He serves you, not the other way around. I’m sure there’s some reason why, but that’s not the way it’s usually done, especially not with sons, firstborn sons, sons with responsibilities to their families.”

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