Deene was hanging onto his composure by a gratifyingly obvious thread, and yet a rousing set-to on the street—though mightily entertaining—would serve no one, least of all Georgina.
“Perhaps your lordship might explain to me why you want to see your niece?” Dolan turned and ambled along in the direction of Deene’s travel. “Grown men don’t typically associate voluntarily with small girls.”
Deene at least comprehended the need to avoid a scene—the English were predictable in this regard—for he fell in step beside Dolan.
“I do not have to explain my motives for seeking the occasional company of my sister’s only offspring.”
It was an effective hit, but the wrong answer.
“Perhaps you need not explain your motives to God Almighty, your lordship, but I am the girl’s father.” Oh, the pleasure of being able to say that so gently and implacably. Dolan considered brightening his future perambulations about Town with more frequent collisions with his benighted Lord Brother-In-Law.
Marie’s wit was not the least of the attributes Dolan missed about his late wife.
“Let me put it this way, Dolan. Either I see her with your permission, or I will take any means necessary to see her without.”
“I’m quaking in my muddy bogtrottin’ boots, your lordship.” Dolan let his brogue broaden perceptibly, then noticed no less a person than the Duchess of Moreland making a brisk progress down the street. “Heard your colt finally put that braying ass Islington in his place. One would hate to miss the rare opportunity to offer you a sincere compliment, Deene, particularly when the compliment can be rendered in public.”
“And my thanks for your kind observation is rendered just as publicly. At least tell me how Georgie goes on.”
Marie had always sworn her brother wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the previous marquis and marchioness, but Marie was—had been—blind when it came to the people she loved. Dolan silently apologized to his wife’s sainted memory, but allowed himself to doubt the sincerity of Deene’s query.
“Georgina, as always, thrives in my care, Deene, and you’d better hope your colt never comes up against my Goblin.”
Deene’s expression had become that bland, handsome mask of impassivity Dolan could only envy. The English were arrogant, ungrateful, and not to be trusted, and they could not be relied upon to turn up stupid at times that suited any but themselves.
“Your Grace.” Deene made a lovely little bow to the duchess, who bestowed a dazzling smile on the idiot.
“Deene, good day.” She turned, that smile still on her lips, and waited for Deene to handle the introductions.
A sweet moment, to be introduced to a duchess, and by no less than his own seething brother-in-law in view of all and sundry.
“Your Grace, may I make known to you my brother-in-law, Mr. Jonathan Dolan? Dolan, Esther, Duchess of Moreland.”
And abruptly, the sweet moment turned… tainted. For one instant, Dolan forgot how a man—a gentleman—behaved upon introduction to a duchess.
Deene had bowed. Dolan bowed to the same depth and came up with his best charming smile in place—Her Grace was an easy woman to smile at, pretty even at fifteen years Dolan’s senior, with a palpable graciousness about her not typical of her kind.
Not that Dolan had been introduced to so very many duchesses.
“Mr. Dolan, a pleasure. My daughter was complimenting your Georgina just the other day. If raising my five girls is any indication, your daughter will soon be turning your hair gray and breaking hearts. Deene, I’ll be expecting you for supper Tuesday next. The numbers won’t balance if you decline.”
She murmured her good days in such dulcet, cultured tones Dolan could almost forgive her for being a damned duchess.
“I’d heard you were driving out with the woman’s daughter. I wouldn’t mind having the daughter of a duke for Georgina’s aunt.”
Deene had recovered himself thoroughly. He aimed a stare at Dolan that felt uncomfortably pitying. “Dolan, there is more to choosing a wife than the benefit she brings you and your bogtrotting relations.”
“And do you number your sister’s only child among those bogtrotting relations, Deene?”
They’d descended to insults that hit dangerously close to tender places, and lowered their voices accordingly. As Dolan watched his brother-in-law’s handsome face, he reflected that learning to trade insults like a true English gentleman was not an accomplishment to be proud of.
“You had best hope your Goblin never finds himself running against King William. I would not want to have to explain to my niece why English bloodlines are superior to all others, even as they relate to lower species.”
Dolan smiled, so English was that insult.
“Perhaps you’re right, my lord, at least when it comes to running fast. Shall we part on this cordial note between enthusiastic horsemen, or go another three rounds?”
For one disturbing moment, something bleak flickered through Deene’s eyes.
“Good day, Dolan. Please give my compliments to Georgie and tell her I asked after her. You have my thanks as well for the flowers you keep on Marie’s grave.”
“Good day, Deene.”
On that civil—and puzzling—note, they did part, though Dolan felt the need for a quiet place to sit and reflect on the entire conversation before administering the week’s verbal beating to his solicitors.
Marie had loved her brother. It was probably accurate to say that upon being forced to marry Dolan, her brother was the only person she’d loved. Dolan could acknowledge that he and Deene had both loved Marie in return, though of course in quite different ways.
And yet, for the one moment when bleakness had flickered through Deene’s eyes, Dolan would have sworn that they also shared another emotion where Marie was concerned, an emotion more burdensome than love.
Dolan had to wonder on what grounds the marquis might be entitled to feel guilt where his sister was concerned—if indeed that had been guilt Dolan had seen flickering in Deene’s handsome blue eyes.
“Eve Windham, what on earth can you be poring over in here when any sane creature is outside on such a glorious day?”
Louisa sat herself—uninvited and unwelcome—right beside Eve on the small sofa.
“I’m making a list, if you must know.” Eve set the list aside, though she’d hardly kept her aims secret from her sisters.
“Of?” Louisa, having the advantage of greater reach, helped herself to Eve’s scribblings. “These are names of men.”
“My sister is a genius.”
This provoked a grin as Louisa perused the admittedly short list. “These are single men, but what a group you’ve gathered on your paper, Eve. Trit-Trot; Sir Cleaveridge Oldman, better known as Old Sir Cleavage; Harold Enderbend, known to his familiars as Harold Elbowbend.” Louisa continued to study the list, her grin fading. “These are your white marriage knights, as it were?”
“They are a start.” Though it had taken Eve all morning to come up with even a half-dozen names.
“Scratch Trit-Trot off your list. Joseph says he gambles excessively.”
Eve took up the paper and did as Louisa suggested, but it was no great loss. Trit-Trot would bow and blather her witless in a week.
Cleaveridge would not keep his hands to himself.
Enderbend was a sot whose drunken wagering would bankrupt them in a year.
Eve nibbled her pencil. “Can you think of anybody else? Mind you, this is strictly in the way of contingency planning.”
“We should ask Jenny. She notices things. This discussion will require sustenance.”
That Louisa wasn’t laughing at Eve’s project was both reassuring and unnerving. While Lou rang for trays—plural—another footman was sent off to retrieve Jenny from the gardens.