Holding Jane while she dozed was exactly the ambush Quinn had feared it would be. The daft woman liked swiving him, liked touching him, liked talking with him. The touching was bad enough—Quinn well knew the danger of sweet touches—but the talking would be his doom.
For Jane not only expressed herself well, she listened.
“I’ll be back,” she said, pushing up off his chest and scampering to the privacy screen.
Quinn had not even bothered to get that damned shift off of her, hadn’t done a moment’s homage to her breasts. Maybe next time…if there was a next time.
Jane came back to the bed by way of the hearth, where she banked the fire for the night. “You never did tell me exactly what business awaited you in York.”
She resumed her place straddling him, cuddled to his chest, a fiendishly distracting interrogation posture.
“I’ll be ready to go again with no provocation whatsoever, Jane. Mind yourself accordingly.”
She drew her fingernail in a circle around his right nipple. “Go? To York?”
He flexed his hips. “No, love. Not to York.”
“Ah, well then.” She kissed him and drew the covers up over them both. “I’ll be ready to go again too. Tell me about York. You are very dear to pay a call on an old friend.”
“I stay with Mrs. D when I have to visit York. She doesn’t let on that I’m in town, and between her and her daughter, they hear most of the market gossip.” Quinn also paid for the roof over Mrs. Dougherty’s head and the food in her larder, as much out of loyalty to a former fellow combatant as to twit Lord and Lady Tipton.
“Gordie was a great one for gossip and it led to his death.”
Quinn had brought up Jane’s late husband before they’d climbed into bed, thinking to make an awkward situation easier. Clearly her mourning for Captain MacGowan included some anger.
“Gossip doesn’t fire real bullets, Jane. I understand that you loved him, but any soldier would know dueling is dangerous.”
Jane nuzzled Quinn’s neck, her nose cool against his skin. “The danger in Gordie’s case was stubborn arrogance. The older brother of a fellow officer made some comment about me, or about a new husband who chose to drink rather than enjoy his wife’s company—nobody told me the details. All I know is, Gordie brooded and paced and drank, and then he hunted through half the pubs in London, until he found the man who’d made the comment.”
The moment should have been marital—a confidence shared between a wife and her husband amid warm blankets, while the pleasure of lovemaking yet lingered. Quinn stroked Jane’s hair and silently cursed Gordie MacGowan.
“You tried to talk him out of this foolishness, I take it?”
“Quinn, I wept, I bellowed, I threatened, I begged, and all he’d say was that a slight to my honor must be avenged. He would not let it go, and now he’s dead.”
Let sleeping dogs lie. Forgive and forget. “I don’t intend to stand in front of any loaded guns on account of a few stupid words, Jane. You may rest easy on that score.” Nothing less than public disgrace would do for Quinn’s enemy. “I didn’t work myself to a shadow, ignore gossip without limit, and pinch pennies until they screamed just so some drunken lordling could put period to my existence.”
Not when married life included pleasures such as falling asleep with Jane draped over him like a contented cat.
“I married a brilliant man.”
“You married a determined man.” Also one who couldn’t think when his naked wife wiggled about like that. “Jane, have mercy.”
She peered at him, even her expression catlike in its impatience. “We are husband and wife. I have missed you. I am awash in the glow of newfound delights, and you turn up missish. I know I’m not the stuff of naughty fantasies, but the midwife said that a certain abundance of appetite in regard to—”
He put a gentle hand over her mouth. “For the love of God, Jane, hush. These delights are newfound for me as well.”
And more precious than she could possibly know.
She slowly pushed his hand away, then winnowed her fingers through his hair. “You’ll look a fright in the morning, going to bed with wet hair. What do you mean, these delights are newfound for you too? You are so far beyond handsome that words fail, and you have scandalously abundant means, according to your siblings. I am benefitting from your amatory experience, of course, but my comprehension in certain areas…What do you mean?”
Quinn cradled the back of her head, urging her to snuggle so he’d at least not have to look her in the eye. She thought him handsome. Not hulking, coarse, or common. Not pretty either.
“When a man has a certain vitality,” Quinn said, “the attention that comes his way is the same as that aimed at a prancing colt. All and sundry assume the ride will be spirited in a purely athletic sense, and that the colt is eager for the outing. If the stud is afraid of rabbits, backsore, or missing his pasture mates, that’s of no moment. He’s to charge and leap on command, while his rider shows off her new habit and her fancy mount. I learned that I did not care to be that stud colt.”
Please let her understand. Let that be explanation enough forever.
“I’m told the life of a debutante is not to be envied,” Jane said, fussing with the quilt. “Always on display, never putting a foot wrong, flattering everything in breeches without once offending propriety. I’d never have thought the same misery would befall an attractive young man, but then, my upbringing wasn’t worldly. I’m easily shocked.”
Quinn was shocked. For all the lures that had been cast at him, all the desperate innuendo tossed his way at the bank, nobody had ever called him attractive. His damp hair had resulted in a chill about his shoulders. Jane’s maneuvering with the quilt had restored warmth, while her words…
“I’ve kept to myself,” he said. “Left the ladies alone. For years. Life is simpler that way.”
“Your perspective is understandable, and on behalf of my gender, I apologize for all the times you were importuned without invitation. Nonetheless, you and I are married. Leave every other lady alone but neglect me at your peril.”
Her apology washed over Quinn like an extra blanket on a chilly night, comfort he hadn’t known he’d been missing, also a surprise. While the warmth was lovely, a part of him had to clutch that blanket by a corner, lest it be stolen from him should his vigilance lapse.
“Close your eyes,” Jane said, kissing Quinn’s cheek. “You’ve earned your rest, and God knows I’ll waken you with my nocturnal travels soon enough.”
“Yes, Jane.”
She drifted off, a sweet weight on his heart, though Quinn could not fall asleep for a long, long time.
* * *
“He were a ghost,” Ned said, taking the towel from Davies. “I was to wait up for him, so I sat by the back door, like he told me, and I watched him turn into darkness.”
“You fell asleep,” Davies replied, snatching the towel back and scrubbing it over Ned’s wet hair.
“I did not fall asleep, you donkey’s bunghole. Mrs. D gave me coffee, because it keeps a fellow awake better than tea. That’s how a proper footman stays on the job all day. Bitter stuff and made me have to piss something awful, so I was awake. One moment himself were on the garden path behind Mrs. D’s cottage, plain as moonlight, the next he were gone. Came back the same way. Didn’t wake up the sow at the foot of the garden or the cat sleeping on the wall.”
“So you didn’t follow him,” Davies said, scooping a bucket of dirty water from the tub and sluicing it down the scullery drain. “That was smart.”
“Not my town, not my turf.” Besides, His Grace had promised Ned he’d be shipped off to France for disobeying orders. Of course, the duke had also threatened to sell Ned to the Vikings, toss him into the sea, and leave him behind.
Had a colorful imagination, did His Grace. Miss Jane might like to know the terrors a small boy endured while racketing about with her man.
Ned wrapped himself in the toweling—an acre of soft, dry, lavender-scented fabric—and sat by the fire. Bathing wasn’t all bad, not when the kitchen was warm, the water was warmer, and dinner had been tended to first.
Davies scooped more water from the tub. “You’re to sleep late tomorrow. Miss Jane’s orders.”
“She’ll want a report.”
Davies dumped the bucket and watched the water drain away. “You have to decide, Ned, whether you’re his man or hers. She has Susan and Penny, but you’re the duke’s tiger. Bear tales carefully.”
Good advice. “Are you Penny’s man yet?”
“For fifteen minutes last Tuesday, she was nearly my woman. What else happened in York?”
“The Minster was huge,” Ned said, getting comfortable on the warm stones of the kitchen hearth. “Bigger than St. Paul’s, bigger than—”
“You told us all about the bloody Minster. What happened?”
Davies had done what he could for Ned in Newgate, which meant they were mates. Then too, Davies had never seen the Minster, never seen a hill with more sheep on it than Covent Garden had people on a sunny market day, never traveled the Great North Road. He’d hidden his disappointment, but being left behind clearly hadn’t sat well with him.
“We went out to some big house in the country, maybe ten miles from York. A palace, like if you took a whole square from Mayfair and made one house out of it. Himself drove right by the gates, but he noticed that house, not in a good way. Noticed it by ignoring it to death. Went to the village, had a pint, and we come back a different way, past another great house, which he also ignored. I stayed with the horses in the village, because I’m his tiger.”
“You stayed with the horses because you’re a nosy bugger, and himself didn’t want you eavesdropping.”
As if that mattered? “I might ’ave heard a word here and there.”
Davies dumped yet another bucket. “And?”
“He were right turbulent about something. Didn’t raise his voice, but he were fuming.”
Davies rummaged through a basket of clean laundry and pitched clothes at Ned. “Get dressed, or the maids will be consoling you on the size of yer wee pizzle.”
Ned pulled the shirt over his head—a clean shirt, of all the miracles. The kitchen was also cleaner, now that Ned noticed the details. The windows were clear, the copper pots shiny, the floor swept and scrubbed.
The kitchen hadn’t been dirty before, not by Ned’s standards, but now the place was worthy of a duke.
“Don’t be insulting my pizzle,” Ned said. “Isn’t like your pizzle is the size of the York Minster.”
“Ask Penny if she’d rather spend time with my pizzle or your perishing Minster. What were his dukeship fuming about?”
When had Davies become such a nosy cove? “Couldn’t understand him. He was talking thee and thou and summat and t’ this and t’ that. Never heard such talk afore in my life.”
“That’s Yorkshire, then. Don’t forget your inexpressibles, young Neddy. Shall I give your hair a trim?”
Ned looked at his feet, clean right down to a set of wrinkled toes. “Not too much, just a trim. The choirboys at the Minster—”
“I’ll trim you bald if you don’t cease bletherin’ about the damned Minster.”
“I’m trembling with fear, I am. Ned Tremblin’, they call me. The dread Viking Davies Dog-Pizzle has threatened to snatch me bald.”
Davies laughed and found a pair of scissors, then trimmed the back of Ned’s hair so it wouldn’t touch his collar. All the while, Davies continued to question and speculate and pass the time, and Ned dodged, distracted, and pretended to yawn.
Davies had never been this curious about the duke in Newgate, which left Ned with questions: For whom was Davies asking questions, and why? Until Ned had those answers, he’d not be letting on that the duke had been in a right taking over some countess who hadn’t been anywhere near where His Grace had expected her to be.
* * *
“So Pike’s in France?” Joshua asked.
“He was as of two weeks ago,” Duncan murmured, his penknife shaving a fine point on a goose quill. “Fat lot of good that does us.”
In the privacy of the partners’ conference room, Quinn let them bicker, because that’s how Joshua and Duncan went on. They never came to blows or insults, though they scrapped over the last word like dogs sniffing about a knacker’s yard.
“Knowing Pike’s alive does me plenty of good,” Quinn said. “Whoever sent him to Calais likely did so without giving him the proper travel documents. Pike can kick his heels indefinitely in the port itself, but without papers, the French will keep him buttoned up there. I can send a man to watch him, so I’ll know if he sails for home.”
“Papers cost money,” Joshua said, propping his boots on the corner of the reading table. “Papers for a man who’s doubtless traveling under an assumed name will cost more money, and take time. Then too, Pike likely has about four words of French.”
Quinn hadn’t even that many.
Duncan leapt back into the discussion, debating how long forged papers would take to prepare, how much they’d cost, whether they’d be more easily procured in London or Calais, whether they’d been acquired weeks ago, before Quinn’s arrest.
Quinn listened with half an ear, because the papers wouldn’t be procured anytime soon. Whoever had sent Pike to France wanted to know where he was in case Pike needed killing. Talkative conspirators tended to meet with accidents.
“A diplomat’s wife would know how to quietly get hold of any papers she needed,” Quinn said.
Joshua’s boots hit the carpet with a thump.
“Her again.” Duncan packed a load of contempt into two words, a veritable fit of temper for him.
“Makes sense,” Joshua said. “Lady Tipton has means, she’s carrying a grudge, she’s well connected.”
“You’re planning to go to bloody France, aren’t you, Quinn?” Duncan’s tone implied a trip to France was a felony in itself. “So you bring Pike back, get his sworn confession. He’ll say he simply asked you for a bit of blunt in an alley and then left the country. He’ll declare ignorance of your trial and conviction, because whoever set this up isn’t stupid. If somebody took the trouble to send you to Newgate, they’d take the time to coach Pike on what to say if he’s flushed from his covert.”
Quinn had reached the same conclusion before he’d left York.
“Pike isn’t the key,” he said, getting to his feet. “Pike would be a fine bargaining chip if I spoke French or had a French translator I could trust. I don’t, and I’m uncomfortable leaving Jane again while my enemy can maneuver freely.”
“Jane,” Joshua said, as if referring to a particularly thorny banking law. “She’s…well?”
Since Quinn’s return from York, his household had never known such calm and order, and his thoughts had never known such chaos. Althea played only sweet, languid airs on her harps, while Constance painted portraits of her cats. Stephen was researching the history of the dukedom with the single-mindedness that characterized his happiest pursuits.
“Jane thrives.” She also desired her husband passionately and often. The frequent lovemaking was as disconcerting to Quinn as it was delightful, but worse—far worse—was Jane’s affection, her laughter, her wifeliness. She assumed Quinn would be interested in hearing about the petty battles and victories of her day, and that he’d enjoy sharing his own frustrations and triumphs with her.
Which…he did.
“Any more visits from the reverend?” Joshua asked.
Duncan swept the trimmings from the quill pen into his palm and tossed them into the dustbin in the corner.
Perhaps he hadn’t been the one to mention Winston’s visit to Joshua. Quinn wasn’t sure how much actual spying Joshua did on the Wentworth household, how much casual gossip found its way to his ear, and how much Joshua’s possible interest in Althea accounted for his knowledge.
“No sign of the reverend since my departure for York,” Quinn said, “thank the divine powers. If you gentlemen have nothing more to discuss, I’ll be off.”
“You announce that Pike’s presence has been verified in Calais,” Duncan said, folding his penknife closed. “You confirm that he’s written to his family in York. You knew him when he was a gardener on the Tipton estate, and you are all but certain that the Countess of Tipton has authored your demise. What aren’t you telling us?”
“I’ve told you everything I know, except that the countess is no longer biding in the north. The earl is in Town on parliamentary matters, and her ladyship is buying out half the shops in Mayfair.”
Joshua muttered something having to do with the back end of a sheep. “How could we not know she’s here in London?”
“Because,” Duncan said, his knife disappearing into a pocket, “the Wentworths are not received, and thus all of Mayfair could be on fire and it would be of no moment to them.”
“You are a Wentworth,” Quinn replied, though in all likelihood he and Duncan shared no blood.
“One of five who refuses to read the society pages. What else do we know about the earl and his lady, and why they’re in Town this year of all years?”
“Six Wentworths,” Quinn said, “unless Jane has taken to reading the papers. I know precious damned little about Lady Tipton’s habits in Town, but I have an appointment with somebody who should be better informed than I am.”
“Would you like some company when you pay this call?” Duncan asked.
“I have nothing pressing this afternoon,” Joshua added.
If Quinn took one of them, he’d have to take both. “Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll pay this visit on my own. Perhaps we should ascertain where Lord Tipton keeps his London accounts.”
By making it a competition, Quinn was sure to have the information that much sooner.
“Good question,” Joshua said, heading for the door. “Shouldn’t be too hard to come up with an answer. I bid you both good day.” He departed on a soft click of the door latch, leaving a not entirely comfortable silence.
“Tipton banks at Dorset and Becker,” Duncan said, “the same as most of the northern aristocracy does. Penrose and I spent the last two weeks poring over the estate books from the Walden seat. Even I, who don’t care for ledger books, can read a tale of fraud and embezzlement there. When will you take an interest in your dukedom?”
The publican in the Walden village coaching inn had cheerfully confirmed in twenty minutes of gossip what Duncan and Joshua had taken two weeks to deduce: The previous duke’s steward had been a bold, greedy, shrewd thief, and the entire district had known it.
“I took a look at the ducal seat while I was in the north,” Quinn said, “but I wasn’t inclined to linger in the neighborhood. If you knew where Tipton banked, why not speak up?”
“Because finding a moment alone with you has become impossible. You’re either closeted with Jane, riding out with Stephen, haring off to York, or impersonating a doting brother where Althea and Constance are concerned.”
Duncan, who never raised his voice, never lost his composure, was…complaining. Possibly even pouting, because of Jane’s scheme to keep Quinn safe.
“If I attempted to dote on my sisters, they would fillet me, and Jane is my wife and in a delicate condition. Stephen is my brother and at a dangerous age.”
Duncan took inordinate care pulling on his gloves. “Speaking of Stephen…”
“If he’s got a maid with child, I’ll deal with it.” Though how was Quinn to beat the stuffing out of a brother confined to a Bath chair?
“Did Jane tell you he nearly blew her head off?”
Cold washed through Quinn, the sort of bone-deep cold he’d felt as a boy when his father’s voice acquired a whimsical sneer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ask Ivor. Jane wasn’t in any danger, but Stephen showed very poor judgment. She was upset.”
“I am upset.”
“Glad to hear it,” Duncan said, tapping his hat onto his head. “You should be. I’m away to Berkshire tomorrow.”
“You’re jaunting off to the shires now?”
Duncan turned a look on Quinn reminiscent of Jane marshalling her self-restraint. “I’m off to inspect the most neglected of the estates you’ve inherited. I shouldn’t be gone outside of a fortnight, and from our discussion before you jaunted off to see the Minster, I thought you expected this of me.”
Quinn wrestled with a sense of being abandoned, of events spiraling out of control, but Duncan was only seeing to a task Quinn himself had delegated.
“Safe journey,” Quinn said, and…Let me know what you find? Of course Duncan would prepare a report. What else needed to be said? Duncan waited, a look of patient forbearance in his eyes.
“Thank you,” Quinn said. “Don’t leave without saying good-bye—I might have some specific tasks for you to tend to on your travels—and for all that you do, thank you.”
Duncan’s brows rose, a gratifying reaction, however slight. “You’re welcome.”