11
Richard sat hunched over his desk, frowning down at the rows of figures that stubbornly refused to make sense. Numbers had always eluded him. As a boy, he’d muddled through his lessons with the help of patient tutors and his father’s gentle encouragement, but even now, with years of experience behind him, columns still blurred and balances never quite added up as they should. He had long since learned to rely on his man of business to handle the more intricate aspects of estate management, but pride insisted he at least make the attempt before surrendering the ledger.
The door creaked open and his mother’s voice broke the silence. “Do you intend to remain in here all morning, or will you join us for breakfast?”
Glancing up at the long clock in the corner, Richard blinked in surprise. “Is it that time already?”
“It is,” she said with the faintest smile, her eyes sweeping the cluttered desk.
With a rolling of his shoulders, he rose. “I suppose I could use a reprieve.”
“Good.” She turned as if to leave, then paused at the threshold. “Before you sit down, go fetch Miss Theodosia from the gardens. She’s been out there drawing for hours, and I daresay she will miss breakfast.”
He sighed inwardly. “Is that truly necessary?”
“I believe you promised to be more civil.”
That was true enough. “Very well,” he said with little enthusiasm.
Her expression softened. “I’ve noticed a change in your manner towards Miss Theodosia. You’ve been less… brusque.”
With a dismissive shrug, he replied, “It’s self-preservation. If I drive her away, Olivia will never forgive me, and I, quite frankly, would never forgive myself.”
“Regardless of the motive, I am pleased,” she said. “I find her to be rather delightful.”
His jaw tightened. “Do not let her deceive you, Mother. She may charm you as she tried to do to me, but she is not what she pretends to be.”
“We’ve discussed it—Olivia and I—and neither of us believes it’s a pretense.”
“That is rarely a good sign,” he muttered.
She ignored him and continued. “She seems sincere.”
“You are both too tender-hearted,” he replied, though without much conviction.
His mother fixed him with a thoughtful gaze. “I do not know why you are so jagged about her, Richard, but be careful. You may be wrong.”
“I know what I’m doing,” he said firmly. “You must trust me.”
“I do,” she said, “but part of me hopes you are wrong. If Miss Theodosia is innocent, then she’ll be exonerated. And you won’t have to challenge Mr. Smith to a duel.”
He stiffened. “I am doing this for Olivia. For her future.”
Her eyes searched his face, as if weighing how much of that was truth and how much was something else. Finally, shespoke. “And how, precisely, is this helping Olivia’s future?” she asked. “We are already contending with the disgrace of her elopement and Mr. Smith’s heartless abandonment. The whispers in Society have not yet faded. What do you suppose will happen if you hunt the man down and challenge him to a duel? If you kill him, we will not merely be dealing with whispers. We will be drowning beneath a fresh tide of scandal.”
He drew a breath. “We cannot let Mr. Smith win.” The words came out harsher than he had intended.
His mother’s expression was a mixture of exasperation and desperation. “And what, pray tell, will happen if you are killed?” Her voice broke slightly on the last word, though she quickly mastered herself. “Have you considered that, Richard? If you fall, the marquessate will pass to some distant cousin who knows nothing of our affairs, nor cares for Olivia or me. We would be left to fend for ourselves, ruined both socially and financially. Is that the future you envision for your sister? For me?”
His chest rose and fell in a deep, uneven breath. “No,” he admitted, voice roughened by emotion. “Of course not. But what choice do I have? It is the only way I see to resolve this—” He broke off, his fists curling at his sides. “Mr. Smith married Olivia under false pretenses and cast her aside like rubbish. I cannot—will not—stand by and do nothing. I must set this right. For her sake… and for mine. It is my duty.”
For a long moment, his mother said nothing. Then she merely nodded and left him with a parting, “I’ll see you in the dining room.”
Closing the ledger, Richard made his way through the townhouse and out the rear door, which a footman opened with a bow. The crisp morning air was laced with the scent of roses.
Ahead, beneath the shade of a sycamore, he saw Miss Theodosia, seated on a blanket with her sketchbook resting onher lap. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her hand moving swiftly across the page.
He didn’t wish to startle her, so he called out softly, “Good morning.”
