Page 57 of The Duke’s Suspicion

As he stepped to the sideboard, Caroline resumed pushing her food around her plate. Wordlessly, he filled a clean cup with coffee and brought it to her. She looked up. “You are too kind.”

“Sugar? Milk?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She was still stirring when he said, “I am fortunate to have found you here this morning. I have been hoping for a few moments of private conversation.”

The spoon slipped from her fingers and rang against the thin china of the cup. “My father told me. I am sorry that my mother’s health prevented us from speaking yesterday, as you requested.”

He had taken the chair opposite her when he returned to the table, but she did not meet his eyes as she spoke. Her much vaunted poise and good breeding seemed to have deserted her, as she resumed toying with the spoon. A sign of discouragement, as plain as she knew how to make it. “Miss Pilkington,” he said, “do not be alarmed. I only wanted to—”

“I hope you will wish me joy,” she spoke across him, then looked up, a slight tilt to her chin. She had not quite mastered Erica’s defiant expression, but with a little practice she would do very well. “Captain Whitby and I are to be married.”

He parted his lips to speak, but found no words at the ready. It was not exactly surprise that stopped his speech, for after yesterday afternoon’s encounter in the conservatory, he had been all but certain of the way things tended between the two. Once, he would have declared Whitby the best of men and deserving of her favor. Now, however, such praise did not rise easily to his tongue.

Again, she misread his reaction. “I am sorry. Papa ought never to have told you… That is, I certainly never expected…”

“I understand.” She had not expected, nor wanted, his offer, and while perhaps such words ought to offend him—the second rejection in as many days—this time he felt nothing but relief. “My felicitations to you both, of course.”

She hesitated. “I do not wish to be the cause of a breech between you and Captain Whitby.”

He tried to wave her concern away with a flick of his hand, but as the gesture managed to send his own empty cup spinning in its saucer, it failed to convey a convincing dismissal. Settling his palm over the cup, he stopped its motion with an alarming crunch of china against china. “I hardly know, Miss Pilkington, how to explain the case without giving offense. You will naturally assume that jealousy lies at the root of my displeasure, but I find I must beg your pardon and say that it has played no part.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you mean to say that you did not want—?”

“In the matter of your father’s expectations, and perhaps your own,” he said, choosing his words with care, “I find that what I would have done and what I wished to do were not perfectly aligned.”

“Oh,” she said, and this time her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I see.” Amusement played around her lips. “One’s inclination is not always at the service of one’s better judgment, is it?”

He cut his gaze away—answer enough, he supposed. “Does your father know?”

Hurriedly, nervously, she shook her head, then drew in a firm breath that lifted her shoulders. “But it does not matter. I am of age. And according to the arrangements set down at my parents’ betrothal, half of what Mama brought to her marriage will be settled upon me at mine, whether he likes my choice or not.”

“Whitby is a fortunate fellow,” he said, not thinking particularly of the money. He only hoped his oldest friend would prove worthy of such good fortune. Once, he would have had no doubt.

To paper over what might have been an awkward silence, he rose and filled a plate from the sideboard. When he returned to the table, Caroline set aside her coffee. “If you did not come to ask…” With one fingertip, she drew a line across the table linens, connecting the two of them. “What was the matter you wished to discuss?”

“It is time, I believe, to make clear to my friends that I do not intend to resign my commission.” With studied calm, he paused to take a bite of eggs, as if such an announcement were an ordinary one for a man in his position to make and easy enough for those around him to understand. “I will return to my regiment in the new year.”

He had managed to keep his voice firm, although in truth, neither staying nor going was the simple choice it had once been. But if everyone at Hawesdale imagined his military connections unbroken, the better chance the villain would be tempted by the promise of valuable information.

Before Caroline could react to his shocking revelation, he heard the bustle of another guest entering the breakfast room. Rising, he bowed to Lady Lydgate. “Good morning, ma’am. Allow me to ring for fresh coffee.”

“Never mind that,” she insisted with a dismissive flutter of her beringed hand. “I came to find out if it’s true.”

“If what is true, ma’am?” Caroline asked.

“My maid told me that it’s being whispered about the servants’ hall that Miss Burke is a…” She paused to glance theatrically from one corner of the room to another, as if she feared being overheard, then dropped her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “A spy.”

Mr. Remington was a fast worker, he’d say that much for the man.

“Preposterous.” Caroline’s brows dove downward and she looked to him to contradict the rumor.

Amateur theatricals had never been among his favored pastimes, and for a moment he doubted his ability to play his part. But Caroline’s worried expression, combined with Lady Lydgate’s voracious curiosity, left him little choice. The first bit was easy enough, he found, passing so near the neighborhood of the truth. “I’m afraid it is true, Miss Pilkington. Captain Whitby first suspected it and conveyed his suspicions to me. I went to her chamber in search of proof, and…well, you know how close to disaster I came.”

“But if she caught you at it, why offer her marriage?” Lady Lydgate exclaimed. “Why not expose her?”

“Very likely because he had not yet found the necessary evidence, ma’am,” Caroline interjected, “and did not want her to guess the real reason for his intrusion.”