Page 91 of A Scandalous Kind of Duke

Indeed, he had the rest of his life.

* * *

Back at the house,they learned the party had been enlivened by the arrival of Susannah’s cousin with a trio of his friends. The pack of young gentlemen were now making merry in the drawing room with the ladies.

Not quite together, however: The groups had segregated, as groups of English were wont to do, with the ladies at one end and the gentlemen at the other.

Leo headed past the ladies toward the lively quartet of young men, grateful for the letters a footman had handed him, which gave him a reason not to talk. He leaned against the mantelpiece to read them. One letter was from the archbishop’s secretary: The special license for Thomas Macey was ready for Leo to collect.

The other letter was franked from Leo’s household and addressed in his half-brother’s hand.

What an astounding notion: St. Blaise actually knew where the writing desk was. Perhaps he had stumbled upon it while stealing an ink pot.

The letter was a mere note, short, cryptic, and surprisingly legible:

Polly—Have you seen this? She won’t receive me. T.

“This” turned out to be a clipping fromThe Times. How impressive: St. Blaise had exerted the effort to cut something out of a newspaper. More impressive: St. Blaise had actually read a newspaper.

Dear Sir—the item began, as all letters to the editor ofThe Timesbegan. Leo glanced at the bottom. This letter writer was William Prescott.

Dear Sir—

It has come to my attention that a woman in London, styling herself as an artist, has engaged in the immoral behavior of drawing figures, male and female, in a state of undress.

Leo gripped the clipping in both hands. He fell back against the mantel. Its edge dug into his back. He took a deep breath. He scanned Prescott’s letter.

No respectable woman would ever… Miss J— B—… My lady wife cruelly misled… Only certain genres of art are suitable… Moral indecency…

He had ruined her.

With this letter to the editor ofThe Times, William bloody Prescott must have ruined Juno. Her career in London would be over, for who would accept a woman who drew figures in a state of undress?

Leo scrunched the cutting into a ball. Straightened it out. Folded it in half. In half again. Put it back into St. Blaise’s letter. Folded the page over it.

This letter needed burning, but no fire was lit in the hearth. He slid the page into his pocket. Withdrew his trembling hands.

It was none of his concern.

Juno made her own choices. She knew the risks. It was not his concern.

“Any interesting correspondence, Dammerton?”

Susannah had entered the drawing room, having refreshed herself. For a moment, Leo was confused as to where he was.

“Ah.” He glanced down at the other letter and forced his memory to work. “An appointment with the archbishop,” he said. He had not told her he was acquiring a special license for her brother. “He has requested my advice.”

Her eyes widened.

“On matters decorative, not ecclesiastical, I assure you.” He tried to inject some levity into his tone, but only sounded like a buffoon, and like a buffoon he added, “Cloths and clocks and so forth.”

“How lovely.”

She was already moving, to sit with the ladies.

Leo leaned back against the mantelpiece.

It wasn’t his concern. Whatever Prescott had done, whatever Juno had suffered, it was not his concern. Honor came first. He owed his loyalty to Susannah, not to Juno.

---