“Sir, I’ve found another small problem.” Timmons had ambushed Dodson outside the College offices, right on the London street, where more privacy was to be had than under the noses of a lot of scribbling clerks.
“Life is nothing but problems,” Dodson replied as Timmons fell in step beside him. The week had been productive, though disappointing. A duke was facing the hangman, a doleful thought. Dodson consoled himself that Mr. Quinn Wentworth would go to his death with that much more regret if he knew he was also saying good-bye to a lofty title.
Though Dodson had stumbled upon one very significant problem where His Grace of Walden was concerned: Quinn Wentworth had technically become the duke three years ago and should have been tried in the House of Lords. They’d have sentenced him to death too, quite possibly, Wentworth being not of their ilk. Yet another reason to let the matter resolve itself quietly.
“About the Walden situation,” Timmons said, keeping his voice down. “I fear I must report a development.”
“You couldn’t let it go.” Tenacity in a subordinate was a wonderful quality, when preserving the interests of the Crown. Contrariness was hard to overlook. “I told you how we’ll proceed, Timmons, and the sovereign is yet enjoying the restorative pleasures of the seaside. Unless this development is another legitimate adult son in great good health, I doubt it’s relevant.”
“The development is relevant, sir. Mr. Wentworth—His Grace of Walden, rather—is a banker.”
“We do not hold that against him. He’s also a condemned felon, which is rather more problematic.”
They paused on a street corner to allow a hackney to rattle past.
“A banker,” Timmons said, “would have his affairs in order. I bethought myself to have a look at those affairs.”
“Bethinking yourself is not what the Crown pays you to do, Timmons. We had that discussion last March.” Timmons had bethought himself to see about any afterborn Elizabethan heirs in a situation where the Crown had very much wanted an estate to revert. Timmons’s bethinking had cost King George a lucrative viscountcy that had gone—God save the realm—to a Cheshire farmer.
“I do apologize for my wayward impulses, sir, but in this case—a wealthy banker, a dukedom nearing insolvency—I could not stop myself. Wentworth’s younger brother will inherit little.”
Dodson came to a halt in the middle of the street. “How is that possible?”
“Stephen Wentworth, the boy of seventeen, will inherit an enviable competence to go with the ducal honors. He can live as a comfortable gentleman of means, assuming his guardian does not squander his funds.”
Guardians were always trouble. “Who is the guardian?”
“Wentworth’s business partner, Joshua Penrose, and a second cousin who serves as the young man’s tutor.”
A fishmonger’s donkey cart went by, perfuming the air with haddock. “What does the cousin inherit?”
“Mr. Duncan Wentworth will have mementos, guardianship of the boy, and an old horse.”
“Good God. The sisters?”
Timmons glanced up and down the street. “They have handsome portions, all tied up in the funds. Each has a dower property, which becomes hers in fee simple absolute upon Wentworth’s death or her twenty-eighth birthday, whichever shall first occur. Wentworth has provided well for his family, left his partner a thriving business, and tied it all up with enough knots and bows that even Chancery won’t be able to untie it.”
This was what came of commoners amassing too much wealth. “Then where in perdition does the rest of the money go? Is the problem a mistress? An aging auntie?”
“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sir, but the bulk of the Wentworth fortune, and a great fortune it is, will go to charitable interests in Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire is nothing but sheep farms. How can there be any—”
A beer wagon came around the corner, harness jingling, the hooves of the great draft team churning thunderously against the worn cobbles. Dodson marched for the opposite walkway, Timmons at his side.
“Charitable interests in Yorkshire,” Dodson grumbled. “Of all the notions. That will not serve, Timmons.”
“I thought not.”
A disagreeable breeze wafted on the air, and a crossing sweeper darted out to collect dung from the middle of the street.
“That money cannot go to charity while our good king is left with a lot of useless debt.”
“Certainly not, sir. Shall I pack for a jaunt down to Brighton?”
“No need. I’ll handle this. What is that smell?”
Timmons’s gaze fixed on the retreating beer wagon. “I believe you might have stepped in something, sir. Something left by a passing horse.”
Dodson darted a glance at his boots, which he prided himself on maintaining at a high shine.
Most of the time. “Well, damn. You say the family dwells in Mayfair?”
Timmons recited a direction in a very pleasant neighborhood.
“I’ll pay a call on Mr. Wentworth’s siblings, and then I’m off to Brighton.”
“Best hurry, sir. Mr. Wentworth has only a few days left.”
* * *
Until conceiving a child, Jane had felt little more than passing sympathy for the unfortunates whom Papa harangued at such holy length. She’d been too preoccupied with her own tribulations. Besides, if the prisoners hadn’t sinned to the point of breaking man’s laws, they wouldn’t have been a captive audience for any preacher with a nose strong enough to tolerate the Newgate common.
Impending motherhood had caused Jane to re-examine her conclusions. Had the prisoners sinned or had they been unlucky one too many times, such that sin was the price of survival? Were they victims of circumstance and bad luck, or of criminals yet running free?
She sank into the chair Mr. Wentworth considerately held for her. “You ask me who the father of this child is. The father is no longer relevant. He will never be relevant again.”
Mr. Wentworth’s glower would have sent a lesser woman fleeing from the room—the cell—but vertigo was another of the charming indications of Jane’s condition. She no longer fainted outright, mostly because she took seriously the first glimmerings of unsteadiness or fading vision.
“The father,” Mr. Wentworth said, “was relevant for the five minutes required to get you with child. He forfeits any claim to irrelevance for the duration of the child’s minority, at least.”
Mr. Wentworth’s words were carried on a Yorkshire winter wind of conviction.
“He was relevant for the five minutes necessary to speak our vows as well,” Jane said, “but he entangled himself in a matter of honor and did not emerge victorious.”
“Dead?”
“Quite, and these matters are not discussed.” Ironic, that in the eyes of the law, Gordie had been murdered. The killer had gone back to his club, sat down to a breakfast of beefsteak, and probably had a sound nap thereafter.
Mr. Wentworth, by contrast, had a date with the gallows.
“My condolences.” He put a hand on Jane’s wrist as she reached for her tankard. “No more lemonade for you. You should be eating as much red meat as you can.”
He was right. The lemonade had not agreed with her. His touch should have felt presumptuous—he was a condemned killer—but he meant to protect Jane from further misery, and his fingers whispering over the back of her hand were gentle.
“We have beef on Sundays, usually. Or ham,” she said. “Fish or game other days, in the most modest portions.”
“Not enough. Why did you introduce yourself as Miss Jane Winston?”
Why had he remembered such a triviality? “Because for all but one of my twenty-five years, that’s who I was. My spouse and I eloped. He was of Scottish extraction, and galloping up to Gretna Green was a great lark to him.” Everything had been a great lark to Gordie MacGowan, and that had made Jane uneasy. The thought of spending the rest of her life as Papa’s sole support and companion had driven her past reason.
Mama had known how to soften the worst of Papa’s zealous excesses, and if Mama had lived, Papa would not have become so…difficult. Gordie had regarded the reverend as a harmless old sermonizer with good intentions, which had boded well for the role of son-in-law.
“By representing yourself as unmarried,” Mr. Wentworth said, “you consign your child to unrelenting criticism from the moment of birth.”
Jane’s stomach was calming, though this discussion had her temper heating. “My father refuses to recognize my union, Mr. Wentworth, because I ran off without his blessing. He introduces me as Miss Jane Winston. I can either make him look daft, and carry my marriage lines with me everywhere, or focus on more significant issues, such as how I will provide for my offspring.”
Nobody else would provide. Papa ministered to a flock without means, and almost all of the luxuries Mama had brought to the marriage had been sold or pawned. Mama’s wedding ring hung on a ribbon around Jane’s neck, lest Papa recall that even that specific bequest to Jane could be sold.
“So instead of calling your father the liar he is, you let him shame you, shame your child, and deny yourself a widow’s freedoms. Why?”
Jane rose and leaned across the table. “Because I need to eat, because I need a roof over my head. Because as long as Papa thinks I’m ashamed, he won’t cast me out for being too proud. Because I am exhausted and soon to acquire the dimensions of a farm wagon. How long do you think I’d last on the street, Mr. Wentworth?”
Of all things, he smelled lovely up close. Pregnancy had given Jane a mercilessly acute sense of smell, and Mr. Wentworth’s scent eased the last of her nausea. Most of the fragrance was spices—ginger, cinnamon, clove—finished with subtle floral notes.
An expensive, proprietary blend that had the power to do what nothing else had for the past four months: calm Jane’s stomach.
“What of your widow’s portion?” Mr. Wentworth asked. “Surely your husband left you something?”
Jane resumed her seat rather than be caught sniffing her host. “My husband signed an agreement leaving me a small competence to be paid by his uncle, who has both means and standing. I suspect marriage to me was supposed to curry Uncle Dermott’s favor. I am a minister’s daughter, and Dermott is a devout Presbyterian.”
Devout when it came to clutching his coins. “Uncle Dermott’s London man of business explained to me,” Jane went on, “that the circumstances of Gordie’s death required utmost discretion, lest the other participant in the duel be needlessly troubled. The story has been put about that Gordie went off to India, but he perished of a fever less than two weeks into the journey. Once I’ve served my year of mourning, I’ll see a bit of coin.” Possibly.
“Unless you’ve succumbed to a difficult birthing, jail fever, or consumption. With such parsimonious in-laws to hurry you to your own demise, why not remarry?”
Mr. Wentworth’s inquisition was a curious relief. He was applying logic to a situation that had long since reduced Jane to a progression of fears—would Mama’s ring be worth enough to pay a midwife?—and unpleasant symptoms.
“Who would willingly take on responsibility for a fallen woman and her illegitimate offspring?” This was the real burden Papa’s intransigence effected. He labeled Jane not a respectable widow, but a jade. His willingness to overlook her “lapse” made him appear all the holier.
Jane had realized only recently that self-interest and self-abnegation could dwell side by side in her father’s mind.
“You are beautiful,” Mr. Wentworth said, in the same tones he would have remarked pleasing architecture on a Christopher Wren chapel. “Why not use a few wiles and charm the willing?”
“I tried that. My wiles were unequal to the challenge.”
The smile came again, the conspirator’s fleeting admission of humanness. He patted Jane’s hand, the gesture purely friendly.
“Faulty wiles are to your credit.”
Silence descended, broken only by the rumbling of the cat, who had curled up on the bed, where he had a fine view of the windowsill.
Jane’s situation hadn’t changed. She was still carrying a child, still entirely dependent on her father, and still facing an ordeal that claimed the lives of too many women. But she’d confessed her situation to the most unlikely confidant imaginable—a convicted killer—and felt calmer as a result.
“Faulty wiles will not keep a baby warm and fed, Mr. Wentworth. I was an idiot to think a man willing to elope with a penniless spinster could behave responsibly, but my husband boasted endless Scottish charm, and I was starved for joy.”
“Did he at least provide that?”
Jane had lacked the fortitude to put such a question to herself. “No. What should have been a great lark became a forced march, then a misery. We anticipated the wedding vows, though, and Gordie hadn’t the courage to abandon me on the Great North Road. He was drunk for the entire return journey.”
Likely he’d been drunk for most of the trip to Scotland as well. Jane hadn’t kept company with enough inebriated men to know high spirits from bottle courage.
“I am not drunk. I am condemned,” Mr. Wentworth said. “You might consider that a better bargain, because I will not leave you or the child to the backward charity of your lying father.” He picked up the cat, who curled against his chest and regarded Jane with the same regal self-possession shown by the man. “We’ll need a special license, and I have time—barely—to procure one, if you’re interested in marrying me.”
* * *
“I was hoping to speak with your man of business,” Mr. Dodson said, “but he’s apparently otherwise occupied, and his office directed me here. I apologize for intruding on your privacy at such a difficult moment.”
Althea Wentworth took her time preparing Mr. Dodson’s tea. In the wing chair opposite the low table, Constance also held her peace, while Mr. Dodson barely hid his gawking. The Wentworth town house was tastefully appointed.
Very tastefully. He’d expected something else, of course. They all did.
“A death warrant has been signed for my brother,” Althea said. “Difficult is putting it mildly, when we know him to be innocent.”
“Your loyalty does you credit,” Mr. Dodson replied. “Without having met Mr. Wentworth, I sincerely hope that if he was convicted in error, then the timely intervention of the Almighty or a nearly comparable force will save his life.”
Constance was tapping the arm of the chair with each finger in succession eight times—a piano exercise, played silently when she was troubled.
“Your tea,” Althea said, passing over the French porcelain cup and saucer. She prepared Constance’s tea next, though Constance had no use for tea.
“Do you ladies have any idea what the College of Arms does?”
“Also called the College of Heralds,” Constance said, fingers moving at the same steady tempo. “The College has authority to grant new coats of arms, research matters of heredity, and oversee the recording of pedigrees. They also have authority over the flying of flags on land. Their charter dates from 1484 and was granted by King Richard. The Court of the Lord Lyon performs comparable duties for our neighbors to the north.”
Constance had the same azure eyes as Quinn, and they gave her a feline ability to look imperious when she stared rather than simply rude. Althea’s eyes were plain blue, though she saw clearly enough.
Mr. Dodson was a man quivering to deliver exciting news. Althea and Constance had had enough excitement of late, thank you not at all.
“Just so,” Mr. Dodson said, bouncing a bit on his cushion. “Just exactly so. We at the College undertake our efforts on behalf of the sovereign, who relies utterly on our discretion. As you might imagine, when it comes to pedigrees and inheritances, that discretion can be sorely tried.”
Althea stirred her tea. Quinn had insisted his sisters know how to preside over a tea tray. Even he hadn’t the power to make them drink the wretched stuff.
“Mr. Dodson, Constance and I are coping with a significant strain. Our patience is sorely tried by any who seek to take advantage of us at this most challenging time. We are furious with the Crown on behalf of our brother and not inclined to tolerate flummery.”
“Enraged,” Constance added. “One might say murderously so.” She smiled, an apology for her honesty that made her all the more intimidating. Truly, she had learned from Quinn’s example.
Dodson set his cup on its saucer and deposited both on the tray. “The College of Arms does not deal in flummery. Just the opposite. We unearth the truth, no matter how uncomfortable that truth might be. We’ve uncovered illegitimacy in the best families of the realm, we’ve unearthed secret marriages that resulted in bigamous unions by titled men. We—”
“Why are you here?” Althea asked. “If there is a grief worse than mourning, we’re enduring it. You offend decency itself by wasting our time over tea.”
Dodson was a small, tidy man, though lack of height imbued some with a need to posture, witness Constance’s histrionics. As he rose and started a slow tour of the room—admiring the bust of George III, peering at shelves of classic literature—Althea spared a thought for Quinn.
He’d asked them not to visit him again, asked them to cease pestering the barristers for appeals and pleas that would only waste money. Quinn had ever been too pragmatic for his own good, and now he was to die for it.
“I’ll get straight to the point, ladies,” Mr. Dodson said, grasping his lapels with pale, manicured hands.
Constance shot a glance at the clock on the mantel.
“Your brother,” Mr. Dodson said. “Your brother Quinton Wentworth has inherited the Walden ducal title, along with various minor titles, properties, and financial appurtenances thereto. I’m off to Brighton, where I hope to convince a compassionate king that a man facing such responsibilities, even a man convicted of a serious crime, should be shown mercy by his sovereign.”
“Get out,” Constance said, rising and pointing at the door. “Get out, and take your greedy, rotten little scheme with you. Quinn is innocent, and you’ll not get him to hand his fortune over to the Crown with this ramshackle farce.”
Constance was ever one to surprise people—men especially—with her intelligence, though the logic she’d applied was all but obvious. Quinn had not left any of his siblings a great fortune, and he’d had reasons for that, good reasons.
Ergo, if the Crown was intent on producing a title to preserve Quinn’s life, then the Crown was in truth interested in preserving Quinn’s fortune, though not Quinn’s possession of it.
“You are overset,” Mr. Dodson said. “I do apologize for causing you to be discommoded, Miss Constance, but I tell you nothing less than the truth.”
“The truth is what the Crown says it is,” Constance retorted, “and the Crown has said my innocent brother, who never cheated or killed anybody, and who has shown generosity to more than a few, is to die next Monday.”
By rights, Quinn should already have met his fate. Joshua had explained the reprieve, if a reprieve it was. Constance’s description of Quinn’s character was accurate, but very much a minority view.
“Tell the rest of your truth in the next five minutes,” Althea said, “or Ivor and Kristoff will see you out.”
The footmen standing on either side of the doorway, a pair of blond Vikings in livery who were not twins but as good as, didn’t so much as blink. Quinn had found them in Stockholm, though like many of his finds, their story remained a mystery. They went everywhere together on their half day, shared a room, and bickered in their own language like an old couple.
More than that, Althea did not need to know.
Dodson resumed his seat and used four of his remaining minutes to sketch a genealogy that dug a rabbit warren of family history back through three centuries.
“So you see,” Dodson concluded, “your brother truly is the Duke of Walden, and you would be Lady Althea Wentworth and Lady Constance Wentworth. I cannot imagine our gracious king allowing such a lofty and respected title to lapse when a legitimate heir is yet extant to claim it.”
Oh, of course. Dear George was occasionally gracious, but he was invariably greedy and ran up debts with the enthusiasm of a debutante shopping for hair ribbons.
“This will destroy Stephen,” Constance said. “The boy is wild with rage at Quinn’s situation, and inheriting a title will drive him past reason. You may keep your dukedom, Mr. Dodson.”
Stephen, at seventeen, did not enjoy a solid grasp of reason most days. He had all of Quinn’s intelligence and none of Quinn’s self-restraint. Stephen was ungovernable at present, and, as Cousin Duncan had observed, understandably so.
“No, madam,” Dodson said, hands on hips. “At the risk of contradicting a lady, I may not keep the Walden dukedom. Titles don’t work that way. I cannot expect you to understand the details of titular succession, but when legitimacy has been established, and letters patent provide that male heirs—”
“Your five minutes are up,” Althea said, gently, because Dodson was only trying to do his job. When Quinn had done his job, many had criticized him for it, called him flint-hearted, greedy, and unprincipled.
“The difficulty,” Althea went on, “is that you might well be right: Quinn has inherited this title, he’s due all the honors and whatnot, and you may even manage to wrangle a pardon from King George.”
“You’d best be about it, if you intend to try,” Constance said, checking the watch pinned to her bodice. “Though it won’t do George any good. He’s not getting Quinn’s money.”
Any mention of wealth was vulgar. Bedamned to vulgar, Quinn had always said, when ignoring financial realities meant his family went hungry.
“If the king signs a pardon, then your brother will not die,” Dodson retorted. “A duke might be plagued by scandal, but polite society is usually willing to overlook peccadillos when His Majesty’s example does likewise.”
Manslaughter was not a peccadillo. The last doubt about Dodson’s scheme evaporated. The Crown wanted Quinn’s fortune, but Quinn had made sure his fortune was safe from royal plundering.
“We wish you every success obtaining a pardon for an innocent man,” Althea said, rising. “But Quinn will refuse his sovereign’s mercy. Our brother is all but dead, and we have the Crown to thank for that. No piece of paper obtained at the last minute, the better to steal from a grieving family, will earn Quinn’s notice. Good day, Mr. Dodson.”
“Safe journey,” Constance added, coming to her feet.
Ivor and Kristoff opened the double doors at the same moment. Althea had caught them practicing that move, like the acrobats at Astley’s practiced their tumbling.
“Your brother shall not die,” Dodson said. “I know my duty.”
Althea said nothing. Constance linked arms with her.
And Dodson stalked out, Ivor on his heels.
Kristoff closed the door and passed Constance a handkerchief, then tidied up the tea tray and left both sisters their privacy.
“Why must Quinn be so stubborn?” Constance lamented, dabbing at her eyes. “And how shall we manage without him?”
“He’s stubborn because that’s all he knows how to be,” Althea said. “Quinn’s stubbornness saved his life and ours—and he’s not dead yet.”
Though, of course, he soon would be.