. . . Darius.”
And given that when he rapped upon the panel, he’d seal his fate with that inevitable trip to the gallows, Dare let his arm fall to his side.
“If you are, in fact, the person I believe you are—my grandson?” This time, there was a question from the duke.
If you are, in fact, the person I believe you are—my grandson?
All he need do was just deny it. To confirm that the other man was dicked in the nob and that Dare had no bloody idea what nonsense had spared him the hanging he’d been moments away from.
A sound of impatience escaped the young lady standing there. “Let us just leave.” She clipped out each syllable. “I’ve already told both of you, this is a waste of all our time.”
A memory intruded, made stronger by the disdain emanating from the young woman across from him.
You’ve wasted your time in coming here . . .
“I trust that would be best for you, wouldn’t it?” Dare taunted her.
The young lady’s jaw tensed. “If it means protecting the title from a common street thief whom my grandparents are desperate to believe is the grandson they lost, then yes . . . that would be best, indeed.” She angled her shoulder dismissively and spoke in more gentling tones to the old woman. “Grandmother, come. I told you . . . Darius is dead.”
They prefer you dead, Dare Grey . . . Live your life . . .
And yet . . . if he walked out and sent these people on their way, there would be no life.
Fixing a smile on, Dare looked squarely at his late mother’s father, the duke. “Hello, Grandfather. How long it has been.”
Chapter 2
Living in the Cotswolds, a small village on the outskirts of London, Mrs. Temperance Swift had discovered there were different rings of hell.
Dealing with old Mrs. Marmlebury, the town’s nastiest widow and gossip, was the last and most miserable of all the rings.
Mrs. Marmlebury tapped her wooden fan on the counter. “Are you listening to me, Mrs. Swift?”
“Yes, Mrs. Marmlebury.” After all, it would be nigh impossible to tune out the old woman, who was deafer than her late husband had been blind.
“Because if you were,” the elderly lady went on as though Temperance hadn’t spoken, “you should know that I quite prefer pink. I look lovely in the shade. Mr. Marmlebury always said I was a vision in it.” She dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “God rest his soul.”
“God rest his soul,” Temperance murmured, bowing her head in the requisite display of contrition and respect. More like God rot it. When he’d been living, the gentleman had made a habit of visiting the dressmaker and assaulting the staff, all under the pretense of “shopping for my beloved wife.”
“Mr. Marmlebury insisted it was the only color I should wear.”
Temperance bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that the late Mr. Marmlebury had been blinder than a bat, with a penchant for mixing blue and red in his own attire.
Alas, if a client couldn’t be reasoned with, then any dressmaker determined to keep her business adhered to the adage “the patron is always correct.” After all, ultimately their pleasure and happiness were of the utmost importance.
“I like pink. It’s not shameful, like red.” She glanced pointedly at Temperance’s modest vermilion dress. “Would you gather me pink, Mrs. Swift.” No one would ever dare confuse the widow’s words as a question, but neither could a seamstress afford to make presumptions with clients.
“Of course.” Rushing across the shop, Temperance made her way over to the bolts of fabric, the pathetically skimpy selection of pinks. While her client angled a fabric before her wide frame, Temperance considered the choices.
She picked up a pale piece.
Pink.
God, what a hideous, garish color. Any and all shades of it. What was it about pink that so many women should prefer such a hue?
Nay, with warm brunette coloring, Mrs. Marmlebury would be far better suited in—Temperance skimmed her gaze quickly over the drearily limited selection—peach or apricot . . . or even an apple green. Temperance lowered the bolt. Perhaps the old widow could be persuaded?
A small figure slid into position beside her, briefly startling a gasp from Temperance.
“She can’t,” Gwynn Armitage, a fellow seamstress at Vêtements Français, said from the corner of her mouth. Temperance and all the girls who’d been employed here had become adept at hiding their speech while working.
“She can’t what?” Temperance spoke in matching hushed tones. She