When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,27

door behind Matilda and lead her to the place set at his left hand. The hearth held a wood fire that crackled merrily, counterpointing the dripping from the eaves beyond the window.

Had Mr. Wentworth ordered that place set for her for the past several days, only to be left to a solitary meal?

“I trust you slept well?” he asked, putting the teapot by her plate.

“As well as can be expected. How is Mrs. Newbury?”

He held Matilda’s chair for her, a courtesy that had upset her the previous evening and upset her all over in the morning light.

“Mrs. Newbury passed a fairly peaceful night, though fevers plagued her in the small hours. She permitted me to read to her in French, suggesting a constitution of considerable fortitude. A maid is sitting with her now.”

The scents of bacon and toast would likely always have the power to intoxicate Matilda, so substantial were they. A woman in hiding didn’t cook bacon lest a passerby detect the scent. A woman in a hurry never bothered to build a fire merely to toast her stale bread.

“Would you care for some eggs?” Mr. Wentworth asked.

No footman guarded a laden sideboard, no maid bustled about replenishing the tea or the toast rack. The meal was set out on the table à la française, with warming trays keeping the omelet, bacon, and ham hot.

“Eggs would be lovely, but not too much. I need to save room for my buttered toast.”

Mr. Wentworth served her a modest portion, then did the same for himself. He set the butter dish beside her teacup. “Where does this morning find you regarding my travelogues?”

Matilda buttered her toast, thoroughly but not gluttonously, and nattered on about Pompeii and Napoleon’s plundering of ancient treasures, even though she knew every detail she shared, every comment she made, revealed a glimpse of her past.

A glimpse of her.

She’d come down to breakfast prepared to answer in some fashion the questions Mr. Wentworth had posed last night: Who are you? What or whom are you fleeing? He’d never voiced those specific queries, but he had invited her to answer them.

And he’d half answered them himself: You are either the victim of a crime or you have witnessed wrongdoing, and your safety is jeopardized as a result.

Matilda had chattered her way to an empty plate plus a second serving of eggs before she realized that Mr. Wentworth would not renew last night’s interrogation. He’d said they’d speak again at the time of her choosing, and he’d meant what he’d said.

Exactly what he’d said.

He’d finished his tea and patted his lips with his table napkin before Matilda found the courage to attempt the topic.

“How did you know?”

He’d half risen, and settled slowly back into his seat. “How did I know that you were the victim of wrongdoing or the witness to it, rather than the perpetrator?”

She nodded, grateful for the closed door, even as the sound of the snowmelt trickling from the eaves plucked at her nerves. Cold alone was dangerous, but cold and wet was a deadly combination.

“Logic,” Mr. Wentworth said. “In a sense, the witness to a crime has no good options. Confessing the knowledge turns the witness into the criminal’s sworn foe. Ignoring the knowledge burdens the witness’s conscience and makes the witness an accomplice. Nobody benefits from an involuntary relationship with a criminal. Shall I ring for another pot of tea?”

His tone was detached, and the morning sunshine revealed the man he’d become in middle age. A handsome face would shade toward distinguished, gray would dust his temples. He’d still be attractive, at least to a woman who valued gravitas, decency, and learning.

“No more tea, thank you,” Matilda said. “I want you to know something.”

He waited. Just that, while Matilda peered into the dregs of her cup and prayed she wasn’t making a serious mistake—another serious mistake.

“I agreed to accept a certain man’s matrimonial addresses. The man who sought my hand in marriage turned out to be less appealing than I’d thought him to be. I was preparing to cry off, but he’s well connected, while I am…My position was delicate.”

The colonel was a decorated war hero, a marquess’s spare. He was a good catch, possibly even a good man, but Matilda could not marry him.

Mr. Wentworth gently pried Maddie’s empty teacup from her grasp. “Did you sign any settlement papers?”

“No, I did not. The discussions hadn’t progressed that far. Perhaps my father signed papers, but I was never presented with any agreements.” She was a widow