Page 50 of The Devil to Pay

“Montagu is probably right,” Jules said carefully, knowing he could not give her the answers she wanted.

Narrowing her eyes at him, the duchess pursed her lips. “You know what the trouble is,” she said.

“Possibly,” Jules replied, evading her and heading for the decanter she always kept for days when her children, or the rest of the world, tried her legendary patience a little too far.

“Jules,” she said sternly, folding her arms.

He turned, shaking his head. “No, Mama. Not even for you. My lips are sealed.”

She made a sound of frustration and returned to the chair she had obviously been sitting in when he arrived. A notebook lay open beside it with copious illegible notes scrawled over the pages. No doubt preparing for her next novel. He pitied her poor editor, for despite her wealth of talents, his mother’s handwriting was execrable.

Jules turned his attention back to the decanter and heard a tut of disapproval from behind him.

“It’s not even noon,” she reproached him.

Jules snorted. “If I must face my father, I’ll be damned if I’ll do it without a little something to calm my nerves.”

His mother sighed, shaking her head. “Well, I don’t think you can blame him for being vexed with you,” she said impatiently. “Lord, I’m vexed with you! What were you thinking? No, don’t tell me. I don’t imagine there was anything resembling a thought in your head when the poor woman caught your eye.”

Jules shrugged. He had always spoken frankly to his mother. She was a defiant force of nature who had set about ensuring women knew how their own bodies worked and how to avoid unnecessary pregnancies. Missish, she was not.

“She was beautiful and lonely, and that devil of a husband carried on parading his mistresses around town without a care for her feelings. I mean, if the fellow must be unfaithful, the least he could do was have a bit of discretion, not make her feel a fool in the eyes of the world. Instead, he left her at home all alone, never escorting her anywhere. The only time she got out was if her brother deigned to take her.”

“True enough, love,” she said sadly. “I felt wretched for her, but you must see that you’ve only made things a thousand times worse?”

“Of course I do. Now!” he said irritably. He took a sip of the brandy, regarding his mother’s worried expression. “Just how furious is he? Are we talking murderous rage or something more apocalyptic?”

His mother smiled, a reassuring expression that told him he might escape without being flayed alive. “You do your father a disservice,” she scolded gently. “I know he has spoken harshly to you the last few times you’ve seen each other, but he is worried about you. He loves you so much and is so proud of you, and then you go and act in such a way… darling, you must see how frustrated it makes him to watch you throw all your talents to one side and act the brainless aristocrat. For he does not know of your tremendous success, remember. If he did, perhaps—”

“No!” Jules said, going hot and cold at the very idea.

“He’ll be hurt when he does find out,” she told him frankly.

“He won’t, because he will never know,” Jules said, downing the rest of his drink.

His mother sighed but said nothing.

Jules turned to look at her, noting the concern in her eyes. Sighing, he set down the empty glass with regret, the desire to pour another was strong but he resisted. He sat down opposite her, his elbows on his knees, leaning towards her. She reached out her hand to him and he took it, gently squeezing her fingers.

“Mama, I need to tell you something. I’ve met someone.”

“Oh!” the duchess exclaimed, her expression changing in an instant. “Oh, Jules!”

“What’s he done now?” demanded a weary voice from the doorway.

Jules stiffened, all at once feeling eight years old and in short trousers as he turned to face his father, the duke. He shot to his feet, standing up straight and resisting the urge to check his cravat was still tidy.

“Good afternoon, Father,” he said, wishing his heart would stop messing about and beat in a regular rhythm rather than skipping around like a newborn lamb.

“Oh, Robert! Jules has met someone,” his mother said, defusing a little of the tension in the room with her obvious joy at his words.

Surprise lit his father’s eyes, and he closed the door, coming into the room and sitting down on the arm of the duchess’ chair. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, smiling down at her with an expression that spoke of decades of love and affection, of a deep understanding and accord that few people ever managed.

“Is that so?” he said softly. “Well, well.”

“Tell us everything,” Mama demanded urgently.

Jules sat down again and cleared his throat, aware he could not do so. He had meant to give his mother a slightly expurgated version of the truth, but with his father here, he could not even do that. Instead, he kept it brief.