Never a Duke, page 20
He held back a branch so Rosalind’s mare could pass before his gelding. “When common sense approaches sedition, the nation has reached a sorry pass, but fear not. I will keep my financial theories to myself when I call upon your father. I brought you something.”
“You brought me something?”
Ned unbuckled a saddlebag and passed over a bound book. “Your own copy of Mr. Smith’s treatise. My copy is full of scribbling and marginalia, else I’d give you that.”
“You are giving me a copy of…” She brought her mare to a halt. The Wealth of Nations was beautifully bound in red Morocco leather, the title embossed in gold. “You cut the pages for me. Is this why you were up so late last night, Ned?”
He gazed down the bridle path wending its way beneath the leafy oaks. “I needed something to occupy my hands while my mind eased away from the day’s business.”
“This was very thoughtful of you. I shall treasure it always.” She would also read it, every word, probably many times. “I haven’t any saddlebags. Could you bring it by the next time you call on me?”
“Of course.” He accepted the book and returned it to his saddlebag. “Might we walk for a few moments?”
“I would enjoy a stroll,” Rosalind said, signaling to the groom. Ned helped her to dismount, his assistance damnably correct.
“We won’t be long,” she said to the groom. “No need to loosen girths.”
The fellow nodded and gave Ned a look that suggested her ladyship had best not come to any harm.
“We are in Hyde Park,” Rosalind muttered when she and Ned had strolled a good ten yards down the path. “It’s not as if you’d abduct…”
“Somebody is abducting young ladies, though so far, no women of your exalted station have gone missing. I want to kiss you so badly my lips ache, and yet I also have information to impart, and yonder groom will not give us much privacy.”
“Your lips ache?” The idea should have been humorous, and it was, mostly.
“My lips and a few other parts. I’ve had news.”
“Tell me.”
“An old connection who makes his living down near the wharves met with me this morning, which is another part of why I was so unforgivably late. He’s had word of some doings that give me hope we might find your maids in one piece, and only slightly the worse for their ordeal.”
The groom, damn him, was following on his cob at a discreet distance, leading the two riderless horses by the reins.
“You’ve found the women?”
“I can’t say that. The fellow had few details, but this development is worth exploring. A doss house has abruptly ceased doing business as a doss house, with no explanation, and yet, somebody is using the place for something.”
That did not sound to Rosalind like much of a development. London was awash in rickety overnight lodgings for rackety people. “Is your informant reliable?”
If Ned was aware of the groom, he gave no sign of it. “Yes, at least as regards this.”
“But not in other regards?”
“Billy would not be received in even middling company, Rosalind, but I’ve known him since boyhood. I trust the accuracy of his information.”
Ned Wentworth is received, but he’s not good ton. Drat George and his clumsy meddling. “How do you know him?”
Ned’s smile was a bit pained. “I just do. He has no reason to lie to me.”
“Unless he’s setting a trap. Whoever has taken these women is doubtless doing so for financial gain. This Billy person might be in league with them.”
Ned sauntered along for another few yards, to all appearances a gentleman enjoying a pleasant morning with a lady.
“I will not march up to the front door of this establishment and demand entrance, Rosalind. Present company, among many other factors, gives me sound motivation to remain among the living. I will use caution and call upon a few of my more arcane skills to effect reconnaissance. I must first find the place, though. Billy’s description was less than exact.”
Ask Wentworth if he’s a former criminal, ask him if Walden put a pickpocket in charge of keeping other people’s money safe.
“What arcane skills, Ned?”
“The ability to loiter about like a potted palm,” he said, “looking so harmless and unremarkable nobody notices me. Came in handy at university and stands me in good stead at Her Grace’s at-homes. Why?”
“Were you a housebreaker, Ned? Does something worse than a boy’s thievery lurk in your past?”
His steps slowed. “The charge that first put me in Newgate, as best I recall, was petty larceny for a bungled attempt to pick a pocket. Polite society cannot seem to leave my ancient history in peace, though.”
George certainly couldn’t. “Twenty years ago, I was still wetting my bed. Nobody feels any need to mention that, do they?”
“You are being logical, my lady. Polite society will choose vindictiveness over logic most of the time.”
All of the time. “When can you speak to Papa?”
“Will he be in later today?”
Rosalind wanted to drag Ned by the arm back to the house that very moment. To have him accost Papa at breakfast, though Papa preferred to start his day with a silent meal spent in the company of the newspapers.
“Call upon him immediately after lunch. He should be at home, and not yet closeted with his man of business. I want a special license, Ned.”
“Whereas I want to observe every courtesy. Her Grace of Walden might like to contribute to the planning of the particulars.”
God, no. A meddling duchess would complicate what ought to be a simple and expedient exchange of vows. “I’d rather she not.”
Ned gently nudged Rosalind with his elbow. “Let’s quarrel, shall we? Have a rousing set-to right here in the park. That groom pretending not to spy on us will be agog, and tongues will wag.”
“You are teasing me.” A puzzling response to a difference of opinion, but at least he wasn’t lecturing her.
“Rosalind, if we are to be married, I hope you will give me the benefit of your thinking on all matters of importance. We will differ, we will discuss, and sometimes, we will not mince words. Sometimes, I will be wrong and you will have to explain to me the error of my ways. Sometimes, you will be misinformed, and I will point that out to you. I, too, want to be married as quickly as possible, but our families would look askance at that choice. Right now, I am interested in how to win your father’s approval, and a hole-in-corner ceremony isn’t likely to do that.”
“You make sense,” Rosalind said, wishing he did not. “Do you really think we will argue?”
“I think,” Ned said, bending near, “that once given a clear field to wield your considerable reasoning powers, you will delight in arguing with me. Read Mr. Smith. That should keep us exchanging verbal fisticuffs for a good five years. I will also delight in turning you loose on Walden and Lord Stephen, who think themselves the most rational of men.”
The prospect of marrying into such a family, one that welcomed all comers to a debate, that entertained radical notions in a spirit of well-intended inquiry, boggled Rosalind’s mind. No wonder she delighted so in Ned’s company, and no wonder she wanted to make all haste to the altar.
“I adore you, Ned Wentworth. Now you have my lips aching too.”
The path curved up ahead, such that if Rosalind were quick, she might be able to sneak a peck to Ned’s cheek with the rubbishing groom none the wiser.
“I will call upon Lord Woodruff this afternoon,” Ned said, “and then we can indulge in the liberties allowed a courting couple.”
“No more aching lips?”
“Lips aching for all the best reasons,” he countered, drawing Rosalind around the bend in the trail, and a few steps to the left. “Infernal perdition.”
Rosalind followed Ned’s gaze to the next curve in the path. Lindy rode along on his flashy gray, Clotilda Cadwallader up on a chestnut mare beside him.
“Roz, is that you?” Lindy called. “When one rides in the park, one generally involves horses, my dear. Wentworth, good day. I assume you know Miss Cadwallader?”
Rosalind handled the introductions, though the fair Clotilda was already acquainted with Ned. The groom came along with Ned’s and Rosalind’s horses, and Rosalind was compelled by manners to allow Lindy and Miss Cadwallader to escort her home.
Well, infernal perdition, to quote Ned, but at least Rosalind would see her intended that afternoon. She was home and changing out of her habit before she realized that Ned had only indirectly answered her question about the specific nature of his unfortunate past.
* * *
Ned had barely settled at his desk before His Grace of Walden strode into the office. The duke was immaculately attired, as always, and exuding more than his usual complement of impatience.
“Silas Cadwallader has an appointment immediately after lunch,” Walden said. “You will need to handle that chore, for I have a committee meeting to chair. Cadwallader doubtless wants an increase in his line of credit, before his womenfolk spend him into the poorhouse.”
“I’m sorry, Walden, but I—”
“Be noncommittal,” Walden went on, as if Ned hadn’t spoken. “Polite, deferential. Make the usual understanding noises, but hint that for a man of his station to go into debt over fripperies is an insult to him. Remind Cadwallader that his wife and daughters must learn to manage on a budget, though the ladies have likely been managing on pennies and prayers for the past three years.”
“Walden, as it happens—”
“I’ve had word that Lord Woodruff’s eldest might offer for Miss Cadwallader, which should make for an interesting match, provided the happy couple can remain afloat on the River Tick. Keep the meeting short, cite another pressing engagement, promise to schedule a second meeting if he wants to revisit the matter next month, and then—”
“No,” Ned said, loudly enough to be heard in the corridor. “Or rather, I cannot handle this meeting. I have a prior engagement.”
Walden’s impatience coalesced into a scowl. “Driving in the park again, Ned? Going on another picnic?”
“And what if I were?” The question had come out: An’ waa’ if I wur? The Cockney had surfaced, which it did about once every three years, when Ned was losing his temper. He ought to be mortified, but he wasn’t. Far from it.
Walden’s expression became curious. “Are you perhaps venturing into the stews to find the missing women?”
“I am not.” Not that afternoon.
“You lie poorly, which is a credit to you, according to Jane. I commend your nobility of spirit, if looking for needles in haystacks is the work of a noble spirit, but Ned, the bank is your—”
“The bank is my job, Walden. Lady Rosalind is my future. I am meeting with the Earl of Woodruff to ask permission to court his daughter.”
His Grace, the imperious, imposing, fantastically wealthy and endlessly influential Duke of Walden, was rendered speechless, while Ned had more to say.
“I work twice the hours you do and four times the hours Lord Stephen puts in. If he is to be your successor as bank owner and titleholder, then his lordship must be able to do my job. He should know the tellers by name, if not the badgers, and he needs to spend time in the lobby as you used to, greeting the customers because your livelihood depends on them. If I want to go on a damned picnic twice a year, that is the least I am owed, considering all the at-homes and musicales I have endured in addition to running this institution.
“And if I must venture back into the stews,” Ned went on, “to see decent women spared a future your sisters narrowly escaped, then into the stews I shall go, and you have nothing to say to it. I was managing on my own in those slums before you set one wealthy, booted foot on London’s cobbles, which is why Jane charged me with looking after you, Your Grace, not the other way ’round.”
In the ensuing silence, Walden prowled to the window for his usual reconnaissance, which meant Ned could not read his expression.
When the duke eventually faced Ned, he wore a glower that had probably intimidated everybody from the sovereign to the boot boy. “Are you quite finished?”
Ned inventoried his list of resentments and frustrations. “Stop having me followed.”
“I am not having you followed, though bank policy requires that you take a badger with you, if you’re on bank business.”
Ned put down his pen in the very center of the pen tray. “I wrote the damned policy, Your Grace, and you violate it more than all the other managers put together. Lord Stephen comes a close second, but then, he’s seldom on the bank’s business because he regards this place as somewhere to go when he’s bored with his clubs and inventions.”
Another silence stretched as tight as a drum head. “Courting does not agree with you, Ned.”
That might have been Walden’s heavy-handed attempt at humor, or it might have been an equally heavy-handed warning.
Ned wasn’t having either. “Perhaps banking does not agree with me.” Not eighteen hours a day of it, six days a week, plus Sunday dinners, at-homes, and the occasional make-up-the-numbers appearance at Her Grace’s insistence, to say nothing of stories on demand in the nursery, and let’s-bury-the-dog.
“You are a very good banker,” Walden said, propping a hip on the corner of Ned’s desk.
“Too good, if you cannot spare me for a few hours here and there, Walden. What did you once tell me? An employee who cannot be replaced cannot be promoted. You would need three men to replace me, and they would be tired men indeed.”
Walden’s boot swung in a slow rhythm. “I’ll hire you another assistant.”
“Hire me a female this time. Somebody interested in more than currying favor with the widows. Tattinger is a good man, but he’s so lonely he’d almost rather be a teller for the small talk involved.”
“Hire yourself a female,” Walden replied, “for clearly, you have the better grasp of what’s needed. I’ll have Stephen do the pretty with Cadwallader.”
“Lord Stephen might not enjoy banking either, Walden. You should ask him. His mind is restless, and banking done responsibly is mostly for plodders.”
“Your small investors don’t consider you a plodder.”
Ned rose, needing for this conversation to be over. He was anxious about his interview with Woodruff, frustrated with the investigation into the missing maids, and too weary in body and spirit to mend fences with Walden as he ought. Time enough to do that at the next Sunday dinner, assuming he was still welcome.
“My employer considers me a plodder,” Ned said, “while I hope the Earl of Woodruff considers me a prospective son-in-law. Was there anything else, Your Grace?”
Walden rose and Ned realized that at some point, the duke had become distinguished. The touch of gray at his temples, the lines fanning from his eyes, the slight grooves bracketing his mouth made a fierce countenance more imposing. Walden was very much a man in his prime, but he was also no longer a dashing swain.
The thought was sad and sobering, for all too soon, Ned would no longer be a dashing swain either, if he ever had been. The years could march past, one quarterly directors’ meeting, one monthly dinner at a time. If Ned did not seize the miracle of a life with Rosalind and hold it fast, he’d become another Tattinger, fawning over widows and fussing over which shade of carnation to affix to his lapel each day.
Ned had no desire to be a duke, but distinction in his later years would be…nice.
“I will leave you with this thought,” Walden said. “Good luck with Woodruff. He’s Tory to his bones and as land-poor as he is land-proud. He’ll be the devil himself as a father-in-law, but if Lady Rosalind is your choice, we will welcome her with open arms.”
Not what Ned had been expecting. “Thank you.”
Walden ambled for the door. “Be careful, Ned. Jane tasked us with looking after each other, but when it comes to courting a lady, every gent is on his own. Lady Rosalind will be lucky to have you, as the Wentworths are and ever have been lucky to have you.”
Walden left on those words, which was fortunate for Ned’s composure. Ned closed the door after the duke, and went to the window, where he stood for a long time staring at the busy street below.
* * *
“Did I just hear our darling Neddy pinning your ducal ears back?” Lord Stephen Wentworth asked.
Walden took the place behind his own desk, a seat Stephen could never see himself assuming. But then, Stephen had never seen himself married, never seen himself as a father, never seen himself walking with relative ease, and look how delightfully those undertakings were going along now.
“Clearing the air,” Walden said. “Ned has always had the knack of untangling knots. Knotted-up traffic, Bitty’s knotted-up nursery dramas, and now, the knotty problem of Lady Rosalind’s missing maids.”
Something had derailed Walden’s usual focus on bank business first thing in the day. Or someone.
“You have that I-must-discuss-this-with-Jane look about you,” Stephen said. “What has Neddy in such a taking?” What had Walden in a much quieter but equally profound taking?
“I owe Ned my life.”
Stephen refused on principle to occupy one of the chairs facing Walden’s desk—supplicant seats, all too often. He instead appropriated the sofa beneath the window and helped himself to a tea cake.
“When you met Ned, he was a scrawny little thief with an impressively foul vocabulary.” Which Stephen had envied him. “You have seen him educated and employed, while Jane has seen him scrubbed up and made presentable. How could you be indebted to him?”
Walden took out a nacre-handled penknife and began trimming one of the three quills in his pen tray.
“How good are your begging skills these days, Stephen?”
“You’d have to ask Abigail.”
Walden’s lips quirked. “Not those begging skills. The ones you survived on as a child when my wages were insufficient.”
Truth to tell, Walden’s wages had always been insufficient. As a younger man, Stephen might have noted that point for the record.
