When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,66
every bit as bad as anticipated. Parker added a lump of crumbling sugar, a desperate measure indeed.
“Let a man know that he needn’t do an honest day’s work,” Parker muttered, “and you’ve ruined his character for life.” Parker’s father, the late marquess, had offered that same sentiment, usually from the padded comfort of his elegant town coach.
“They work,” the coachman replied. “They likely work very hard and have little to show for it, and they look as if they could use a friendly drink.”
The notion was distasteful, also shrewd. Parker raised his hand. “Join us, gentlemen. The weather has stopped our westward progress and boredom threatens.”
The two men exchanged a glance, smiled at each other and then at Parker.
“Don’t mind if we do,” the smaller fellow said. “Herman, pay the lady. You meet all the nicest people in the commons of our fine English inns.”
“It’s your turn to pay, Jeffy,” the bigger man said. “I paid last time.”
“For friendly company over a tankard of ale,” Parker said, “I’m happy to pay, particularly if you fellows are familiar with the estates in these surrounds. We’re looking for a ducal property that changed hands sometime in the past few years. Four stories, red brick, circular drive, set against a mature woods. The place might need some attention. It’s a minor holding, and you know how the nobs can be about spending money that doesn’t directly benefit them.”
The travelers exchanged the barest whisper of a glance. They knew. They knew the exact property Parker had been searching for. They knew, and they would tell him everything he wanted to know if he and John Coachman had to drink them under the table to get the information from them.
* * *
Duncan’s bedchamber was exactly what Matilda had expected—tidy, pleasant, uncluttered—and also a revelation. The art Duncan kept near him was personal and very fine: the duchess and her daughter seated at the piano, an oil of a flower girl with her wares. The colors were exquisite, the composition beguilingly simple. Papa would not rest until he’d discovered the painter’s name.
Which Matilda could never tell him, of course.
On the windowsill sat a blue-and-white porcelain vase so delicate it seemed to hold the sunshine in addition to three purple chrysanthemum blooms. Saint-Cloud work, based on the creamy undertone of the white, or possibly—the finish wanted examination with a quizzing glass—Mennecy.
A patchwork quilt in purple, green, and cream squares was folded along the back of the sofa, the colors echoing in a floral rug and in the emerald bed hangings. The room smelled of beeswax and lemon spiced with lavender, and everything, from the oak parquet floor, to the wardrobe, to the desk by the window, glowed with evidence of good care.
“This was the old duke’s room,” Duncan said. “The connecting door in the dressing closet opens onto the duchess’s dressing closet. Both spaces are paneled in cedar, which inclines one to linger over a choice between four white shirts.”
And, someday, Duncan hoped Matilda would be at his side, guiding that choice. He didn’t have to say that. Matilda could feel the hope filling the room even as she pretended to study a sketch.
“This must be Lord Stephen’s brother. How old was he in this drawing?” Duncan’s talent was evident in the realism of the portrait.
“Seventeen. Quinn sat for me dressed in his livery, but refused to let me draw him wearing it. Once upon a time, the current duke of Walden was a footman.”
“That is doubtless a family secret.” The footman version of the duke was an exquisitely masculine subject and subtly unhappy. Anxiety clouded his eyes, as did a pugnacity at odds with his long lashes and the slightly unkempt dark hair fringing his brow.
Duncan had perfectly caught the last rays of boyhood’s sunset and the dawning power of the grown man.
“His Grace’s past is not bruited about,” Duncan said, shrugging out of his coat. “In two generations, his origins will be something Wentworths boast of. Shall I loosen your stays?”
“I wear jumps,” Matilda said. “I grew accustomed to them in France, and with front lacing, one needn’t trouble a maid for assistance.”
Duncan positioned himself between Matilda and the window. “Shall I loosen your jumps?”
The sketches in the other room had derailed Matilda’s desire, distracting her with a less fraught passion than what Duncan offered. Papa had claimed that Matilda’s mother had a much better eye for art than he would ever have, and that he’d learned much from Mama.