The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,83
twenty years grinned cheekily back at him.
Lawrence could not breathe. Had he thought discovering “poor orphans” living in luxury to be humiliating? There was no brash, clueless Great-Aunt Wynchester. It was just another lie his self-important, unfounded assumptions had let him believe without question.
“Tommy?” he said hoarsely.
“Thomasina,” the lad said, and Lawrence revised his opinion yet again.
Not a lad but a young woman. With sharp cheekbones, a stylish male coiffure, and laughing brown eyes.
“But you can call me Tommy,” she said. “Everyone who knows me does.”
He gaped at her. “I can’t believe my eyes.”
“Wigs and cosmetics,” she explained. “It’s a bother to keep long hair pinned up against one’s head, so the practical thing was to lop it off.”
“Also it’s easier to sneak into the reporters’ gallery as a man,” Elizabeth murmured.
Belatedly, Lawrence remembered Great-Aunt Wynchester saying she’d never stuff herself into a dusty attic. He now realized why: she didn’t have to.
“Absolutely,” Tommy agreed. “Being a man is the best part.”
“I want to die,” Lawrence mumbled into his palms.
“You gammoned yourself,” Jacob pointed out. “The ruse would never have worked if you didn’t have such abysmal preconceived notions about the elderly and us.”
Tommy nodded. “You believed me to be frail and helpless, so I was. You believed Wynchesters to be ill-mannered, embarrassing bumpkins, so we were. What say you to that, impertinent pup?”
“God save me.” He sank deeper into his plush, expertly carved chair. “I let you call me that in front of witnesses.”
She patted his hand. “Never underestimate an old lady.”
Ears burning, he lifted his face from his hands. “You let me ply you with compliments and fish for family stories about Chloe.”
“All lies,” Tommy agreed cheerfully.
“Except for the meat pies,” Chloe added.
“Now that Faircliffe knows, what are we to do?” Graham asked. “Is this the end of Great-Aunt Wynchester?”
“Never!” Elizabeth protested. “Great-Aunt Wynchester is my favorite sprightly old bird.”
“Pah, sprightly grandmother types have untimely deaths all the time.” Tommy’s eyes widened. “Have Chloe tell you about the horrible collection of German fairy tales at the reading circle. At least I was unmasked by a duke rather than pecked to pieces by crows.”
“Crows are very intelligent,” Jacob said. “I’ve trained mine to do dozens of tricks.”
“Are they assassin crows?” Graham asked politely.
Jacob considered. “Not yet.”
“Then they have nothing to do with Great-Aunt Wynchester’s delicate constitution. Only one thing does.” Graham turned to Lawrence. “Well, Your Grace? Can you keep a wee family secret?”
Five bright gazes fixed in Lawrence’s direction.
Warmth filled his chest. They were trusting him with a secret—trusting his word that he would keep it—because Chloe trusted him. Treating him like family, if only for this moment.
“I suppose,” he said as casually as he could. “Great-Aunt Wynchester is safe to continue terrorizing the streets of London.”
“Huzzah!” Thomasina tossed her cosmetic-covered serviette into the air.
Chloe’s smile melted Lawrence’s insides.
She was sensational. Her siblings were astonishing and awe-inspiring. They accepted one another for who and how they were, disguises and strange pets and all.
Despite Chloe only being able to trace her history back to a basket discarded on an orphanage’s steps, she had a huge, loving family that anyone would yearn to be part of. Irreverent, always laughing. The sort that would stand up for one another at any cost.
Despite being able to trace his lineage back eight generations to the first Duke of Faircliffe, Lawrence had…
Nothing.
A clatter in the corridor caused everyone’s attention to swing to the doorway.
“It’s Marjorie!” Tommy said in delight.
“Come and sit with us,” Jacob called.
Marjorie did not leave the doorway.
“Who is this?” she asked, her voice loud and her eyes directed toward Graham.
“I’m the Duke of Faircliffe,” Lawrence responded, presuming she meant him.
She didn’t react.
Chloe waved in his direction. “That’s the Duke of Faircliffe.”
Hadn’t he just said so?
Marjorie’s eyes lit up. “We have our painting?”
“Not yet,” Elizabeth said. “Help us torture him until he agrees to hand it over.”
“I like torture,” Marjorie said cheerfully, then took the seat farthest from Jacob. “I dislike birds at the dinner table.”
“I forgot about Sir Galahad.” Jacob dashed from the room with the bird still on his shoulder, only to return seconds later, parrot-free.
Marjorie wrinkled her nose at Lawrence. “She said you were handsome.”
Chloe closed her eyes. “Marjorie, this is not the moment.”
“Er…” The back of Lawrence’s neck heated up. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Marjorie considered him. “You’re very handsome. If I painted portraits, I would paint yours.”
He wasn’t certain what to do with this information. “Why don’t you paint people?”