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“Did someone say chaperone?” The Duchess of Ashford all but sailed into the room, looking fresher than she had in several days.
Arthur stood. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
She rolled her eyes as she settled into the chair next to Francesca. “Oh, don’t you start too. I go to the White Heather enough to dispense with the formalities, Mr. Barrow.” Kitty Haverston was about the most unconventional duchess to ever hold the title, often accompanying Ashford during his visits to the White Heather on the days Arthur allowed women entry. She was often just as riotous as her husband on those nights, much to the affront of society.
Arthur returned to his seat. “You signed up for it when you married a duke, I’m afraid,” he replied mildly.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Touché, Your Grace.”
Francesca looked between them in curiosity. “I was not aware that you had a hand in Kitty and Ashford’s courtship, Mr. Barrow.”
“He was the one who set us up in the first place,” the duchess replied.
“It was more that I tasked Ashford with babysitting her during her attempted foray into the more scandalous circles of society.” The woman had rather brazenly visited his club without wearing a mask like most Ton women did, and he thought she’d be more than a match for Ashford. That small bit of mischief on his part had turned into far more than what anyone had intended, but he was glad his friend had found happiness from it.
“Same thing,” the duchess replied with a playful scoff. She peered at him from across the table, her smile a strange mix of curiosity and knowing. “So, what is this outing about?”
“I wanted to check the post.” Not wanting to risk anyone accidentally opening an incriminating letter, he instructed his staff at the White Heather to forward any postage to the village proper rather than the house.
“Why didn’t you have them delivered here?” Francesca asked.
The duchess’ gaze grew intent. “Yes, why indeed?”
Arthur readied the excuse he’d concocted. “I receive many letters from those indebted to me, and I respect the privacy of my patrons. There are many who put up a front of solvency to society but have pockets to let in reality, and I didn’t want to risk anyone accidentally opening a sensitive letter.” It wasn’t a complete lie, though he would have normally left matters to his right-hand man in his absence were any notes of that nature sent. But the ladies need not know that.
“Do you have many men indebted to you?” Francesca asked tightly.
He’d almost forgotten how much she seemed to loathe his line of work, which could prove to be a problem. Arthur would never leave The White Heather, even with the complication of his new earldom. If Francesca couldn’t accept that, then there would be no future for them. The thought of her potential derision towards the most important part of his life left an uncomfortable ache. Arthur focused on his irritation with her judgements to make the uncomfortable feeling subside. “A fair amount, yes.”
“Have you ruined a man before?” she blurted after a tense silence.
The duchess smacked a hand on her forehead. “Oh, Lord,” she mumbled.
Arthur might have been amused at the comical scene were he not at the center of it. “No, Lady Francesca, I have not.”
“Really?”
“My terms are reasonable, and I’m not one of those seedy owners who send thugs after unpaid sums. Though, if a man is in that much debt to me, then he is likely in debt elsewhere and will ruin himself in short order, regardless. My tables are fair, and if a man chooses to play and lose, then that is his fault and his fault alone.” A rather insulting thought hit him then, and though he knew he shouldn’t pursue it lest the morning be an utter disaster, his anger overruled common sense. “Do you think I run one of those establishments that fixes their games?”
“If I thought you capable of such a thing, I would have never—” she snapped her mouth shut with an angry blush and abruptly stood. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, and briskly left the room. He thought he glimpsed her hand coming up to wipe her eyes as the door shut behind her. Several seconds of silence passed.
The duchess took a cautious sip of tea. “You two made an utter mess of that.”
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”
“I suggest this morning not be repeated if you want to make an honest go of it.”
“Hard to do when she hates my pride and joy,” he replied morosely, not even caring that the woman seemed to know what he was about. No doubt she had been told of the situation by Ashford.
“I don’t think she hates what you do. It’s more that she doesn’t understand it and is perhaps still bitter about the part such activities played in her ruination.”
“James Berrington decided to do what he did all on his own,” he snapped back irritably.
“And she knows that. Give her some time. Her mind is in an utter jumble over you right now.” And with those tantalizing words, the duchess rose and left the breakfast room, presumably to find Francesca. Arthur could only hope that she spoke the truth.
Chapter Ten
