Page 4 of The Duke’s Hidden Duchess

The Duke was quiet. Behind them a woman was being told, in the bright false voice of charity, that she would suit very well, and the woman was thanking her benefactress like somebody hauled out of a river.

“I have a sister,” Wexford said at last. “Georgiana. She is nineteen, clever, and convinced that the world was arranged for the express purpose of boring her. She has driven away four companions in the past year. The last departed in tears and took with her a clock of which she had grown particularly fond.” He paused. “I do not want a woman whom my sister can frighten.”

“You wish to hire my rudeness.” Selina considered the notion and found that it did not offend her.

“Your spine,” he said. “The rudeness I shall deduct from your wages.”

The offer lay between them, absurd and enormous, while the practical part of her mind was already weighing the salary against the fortnight’s lodging that was all that stood between her and the street.

“You would take the daughter of a convicted murderer into your house,” she said. “And place her near your sister.”

“I would take a woman of sense into a house that has none to spare.” He said it without ceremony, as another man might state a sum.

“And if your household discovers who I am?” Her hands had drawn together again upon the table.

“Then they will regret it.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I can give without lying.” His hand settled flat upon the cloth and remained there. “I cannot promise that you will never be recognised. I can promise that, in my house, it will cost whoever recognises you more than it costs you. That is what I have to offer.”

“You are very certain of your household.”

“I have never had cause to be otherwise.”

“Then you have been fortunate and mistaken it for management.” She smoothed her glove over her knuckles once more. “I hope you are never taught the difference.”

He regarded her with a look that held equal parts interest and warning. “You think me arrogant.”

“I think you have not yet encountered the thing that would teach you not to be.” She did not look away. “I hope, for both our sakes, that I am not it.”

The salary he named a moment later sent her gaze to the window and held it there, for it meant the difference between a room of her own and one shared with three strangers; between a future and the absence of one. Long ago, she had promised herself that she would not weep before those who held her fate in their hands. She kept that promise now by the narrowest of margins, fixing her attention upon a chimney across the street.

“You have not asked whether I did it,” she said, once she could trust her voice. “The theft, I mean. The one your sister’s former companions will be whispering about within the week. Whether a murderer’s daughter can be trusted near the plate.”

“I do not require an answer. If you steal from me, I shall dismiss you, and you will have squandered your one good reference.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You are too intelligent to be a thief. A thief must believe the day will go well.”

“And what am I?” Her hands had grown still upon the edge of the table.

He did not answer at once. He turned the glass another quarter turn, frowned at it, then pushed it an inch away across the cloth. The frown remained.

“A thing that lasts,” he said. He appeared dissatisfied with the answer, but made no attempt to improve upon it.

A brief, unwilling laugh escaped her and startled them both. She pressed her lips together at once.

“Tell me about your sister,” she said, recovering herself. “If I am to keep her from frightening me, I should like to know what form the frightening takes.”

“She is not cruel. She is nineteen and lonely, and has decided that boldness is a cure for both. She reads novels her governess did not select. She receives letters she does not show me. She speaks of officers and masquerades with a fondness I find alarming.” He moved one shoulder again, though the gesture did not suit him. “Four companions have attempted to manage her through disapproval.”

“Then four companions were fools. Disapproval is a kind of company, and a lonely girl will accept the company and preserve the fault.”

He looked at her sharply. “You have met my sister.”

“I have met myself at nineteen, which is very nearly the same and considerably cheaper to consult.” She rested one finger upon the edge of the table. “Was she given her freedom too late or too early?”

“Too late.” He addressed the answer to his glass. “I kept her close after our father died. I believed it a kindness.”

“It was a cage. She has spent a year testing the bars, and now you are surprised to find them worn.” Selina heard herself half a beat after the words had escaped and withdrew her hand into her lap. “Forgive me. You have not hired me to correct you before I have earned my first quarter’s wages.”