“Please.”
Deene moved the pot that had been sitting by his left elbow to Anthony’s place on his right. “I came out here in part to find you, Anthony, and instead spent more than a few minutes wondering what had become of you. They were not comfortable minutes.”
“I’m touched. Pass the cream, if you please.”
The alternative to bracing his cousin on sight would have been an interview in the library, with Deene seated at the estate desk and Anthony called onto the carpet like a truant schoolboy awaiting a birching.
That would not serve. They were family first, employer and employee second—or so Deene hoped. Deene passed the cream and the sugar.
“I was in Surrey, and congratulations are in order. I’ve become a papa again. Where’s the salt?”
Deene passed the salt cellar too, but took a moment forming his reply. “A papa, again? Did I miss a wedding, Anthony?”
“Of course not. There is cheese in this omelet.”
“I prefer cheese in my omelets, and because the kitchen had no notion you’d be gracing us with your presence, my preferences carried the day. Anthony, explain yourself.”
“There’s little to explain.” Anthony put a spoonful of egg on a toast point and took a bite. “I maintain a household in Surrey for my domestic comfort, and as happens in the usual course, the household includes children. I have two girls and now a boy. There was a stillbirth too, so the children’s mother was a trifle worried this time around.”
Deene looked at the fellow munching on toast and eggs beside him and saw a familiar figure: blond hair, blue eyes, a lanky, elegant build, and the Deene family features on his face.
And yet he saw a stranger. “One can understand why you would detour to greet your son upon his arrival into the world. I gather mother and child—children—are doing well?”
“She’s from peasant stock. Mary Jane knows how to look after herself, and I provide amply for her and the children. Do I take it you also like cinnamon on your toast?”
Deene’s gaze fell on the little container sitting near the butter. “Occasionally, and in my coffee.”
“Bit of an extravagance, don’t you think?”
A casual question, but it might also be an attempt to shift the interrogation away from Anthony’s bastard children and to put Deene on the defensive.
Or were the rumors in Town just taking a greater toll on Deene’s composure than he’d realized?
“I have larger problems than whether I can afford to stock my spice rack, Anthony, or perhaps I should say, we have greater problems.”
Anthony frowned at him. “If you’re going to harangue me about the ledgers, old boy, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in nigh a week, and much of what you want is kept in Town.”
“Anthony, while you have the luxury of maintaining a casual establishment with a female, I am very publicly soon to be in the market for a wife.”
Anthony topped off his teacup and stared at his plate. “I know you feel you must marry, Deene, but you’re hardly at your last prayers, and if need be, I can stick my neck in the marital noose. If nothing else, we know I can get children. Mary Jane will raise ten kinds of hell, but sometimes a little liveliness has enjoyable results.”
“You’d marry to spare me the effort?”
Anthony’s gaze when he met Deene’s eyes was hard to read. “I am your heir. I am your only adult family. I am your cousin. Yes, I would marry if you asked it of me. I don’t like to think I’ve spent most of my life laboring in the Denning vineyards so Prinny can get his fat fingers on all our wealth should the title go into escheat.”
Something eased in Deene’s chest, a doubt, a worry, something he was relieved not to have to name.
“You cannot know how grateful I am to hear it, Anthony, because our situation might come to such a pass.”
They spent more than an hour in the breakfast parlor, dissecting each rumor, tracing its likely impact.
“Kesmore isn’t a gossip, but he lurks in the usual places—at the clubs, in the card rooms, and at Tatt’s. I trust his information.”
Anthony’s expression was thoughtful. “What about his motives?”
“In what sense?” While it was good to have a sounding board, Deene could not like the direction of Anthony’s thoughts.
“He’s married to a Windham, and there are at least two of those yet available for marriage. If he’s not in favor of your courting his countess’s sisters, he’ll want to discredit you—all’s fair in love and war, right?”
Eve had brought up the same point. “I served with him in Spain, Anthony, and as far as I can see, the man would simply tell me to take my business elsewhere. He does not lack for courage or suffer an excess of delicate sensibilities. Moreover, it makes no sense he’d start a number of rumors and then be the first to inform me of them. I say we’re back to Dolan.”
Anthony winced and rearranged his cutlery on his empty plate. “What’s his motive?”
“Spite. The same motive he has for keeping Georgina from us.”
When there was no reply, Deene lifted the pot to refresh their tea, only to find it empty.
“What aren’t you saying, Anthony?”
“I, of all men, have a reason to hate Dolan. Marie and I…” Anthony looked away, out the windows toward the pastures rolling beyond the gardens. “That is ancient history, but I cannot help but wonder from time to time about what might have been. I should know better, but memory is not always the slave of common sense.”
This was tricky ground. Deene did not interrupt.
“But even I, who cannot stand to hear Dolan’s name, am not entirely comfortable ascribing this behavior to him. For one thing, if there is a scandal to be brewed regarding unsound health or finances, the scandal will eventually devolve to Georgina’s discredit. Whatever else he is, Dolan is not stupid.”
Valid point—an aggravatingly valid point, and yet Deene did not want to acquit Dolan of mischief he’d clearly delight in.
“Dolan is cunning, I’ll grant you, but he’s an upstart. He will not know that ten years is nothing when it comes to Polite Society’s recall of scandal and gossip. He might very well think he can topple my expectations now, and when Georgie makes her come out, there will be no association between my ruin and her fortunes. It makes one worry for the girl.”
“Worry for the girl will not redress the reality that insufficient worry was devoted to her mother, though to the extent that I can, Deene, I appreciate your sentiments regarding Georgina’s welfare.”
On that sad note, Anthony took his leave while Deene remained at the table for another half hour, staring at the empty pot.
Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, was looking adorable. Her husband of more than thirty years closed the door to his private study and took a moment to appreciate the privilege of seeing her thus.
She was curled on the end of the sofa closest to the windows, her feet tucked under her, a lurid novel in her hand, and a pair of His Grace’s reading spectacles on her elegant nose. As the door clicked shut behind him, she looked up and smiled at her spouse.
When he’d suffered a heart seizure two years past, His Grace had lain amid all the ducal splendor of his household, praying with abject fervor to be allowed to live for a just few more years—even a few more months—basking in the warmth of that smile.
“Percival Windham, you shouldn’t have.”
He glanced down at the yellow tulips in his hand. “I spared the roses, and it’s my own damned garden. I can pick a few posies for a pretty girl when I jolly well please to.”
He crossed to the sideboard, poured some water in a glass, and stuck the flowers on the windowsill. His wife would pass by the bouquet, move a couple of blooms about and rearrange the greenery, and instead of looking ridiculous in a ducal study, the flowers would look exactly right.