And he had. But then, she supposed she could be graceful about it all—Sebastian had involved himself with a woman of ill repute, in an unseemly career, once a suspectedmurderess. She hadn’t had a prayer of making a good impression.
But at least Mary liked her. That was—something.
There was the rough clearing of a throat from the doorway—Winston and Charles stood there, eyes averted, as if they had stumbled upon some scene to which they did not wish to bear witness. And Mary stood behind the both of them, arms akimbo, the flash of ire in her eyes suggesting that a good deal had transpired while Jenny had been patching Sebastian up.
“I am sent by my wife to tender an apology,” Mr. Knight said, the sulky tenor of his voice inflected with resentment, and he had the hangdog look of a man who had been harangued to the very end of his tether.
Jenny gave a disdainful sniff. “Ihave no need of an insincere apology, Mr. Knight.” She jabbed one finger toward Sebastian. “But you may apologize to yourson, as it is his judgment you have questioned.”
The nip of his brows created a furrow between them, and his cheeks puffed with an infuriated draw of breath at her insolence.
“Winston,” Mary warned.
Jenny sighed, slipping her hand free of Sebastian’s grip. “Hold the ice there,” she said, and gave it a pat—which made him stifle a whimper of pain. She turned on his father, settling her hands on her hips in a reflection of Mary’s pose. “Mr. Knight,” she said sternly. “I am not asking for—and neither do I expect—your approval. I am going to marry your son, and there is nothing you can do for it. Still, I should hate for every occasion to devolve into such theatrics. I am prepared to be civil, but I expect the same of you. Is that understood?”
She had condescended to a man at least twenty years her senior, but his wife prodded him in the back until at last he mumbled, “Yes, Your Grace.”
She bit back a smile. “Jenny is fine,” she said. “I only said that to make you angry. Which was not well done of me, I admit.”
“But you won’t be.” This, from Sebastian’s brother.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You won’t beYour Gracefor much longer, will you? You’ll have to cede the title when you marry my brother.” It was a bit of a slurry mumble around the rag he had pressed to his face to stanch the blood from his loosed tooth.
She hadn’t thought of that. Soon, she would no longer be an Amberley, nor even the Duchess of Venbrough. “So I will,” she said with a smile. “So I will.” Andthat, she felt, was worth atleastfive percent.
∞∞∞
The ice had melted by the time they returned to Ambrosia, though Jenny had insisted Sebastian keep the cool cloth upon his face anyway. Mrs. Knight had sent them back in the family’s carriage, irrespective of the damage that would likely be done by a dog given too much to shedding. And by the time the carriage pulled into the mews, there was indeed a great deal of wiry grey fur stuck to the upholstered cushions.
Sebastian handed her out of the carriage, and Charlie, happy to have been released from the conveyance, wended around her ankles.
“Don’t feed him anything else,” she warned Sebastian. “I caught Norton stuffing him with beef.” Which would have gone to waste otherwise, since dinner had been quite ruined. The servants were likelystillpicking broken china off the floor of the dining room.
But Sebastian held his grip on her hand when she would have let her fingers slip free of his. “One more night. Please.”
She hesitated. “Well—”
“I’m greedy. I admit it freely.” He eased closer, and his thumb pressed into her palm. “I’ve helped Beckett solve a number of crimes over the years. Greed is the predominant motivation for them—ninety percent of them at least. People rob and steal and kill, and all for the sake of greed. And I’ve never understood what could make someone so avaricious, so covetous that they would forsake all principles in pursuit of such gain. But now—nowI understand. I would beg, borrow, or steal for just one more minute of your time, your company. Iamgreedy, and every bit of it is reserved for you.”
Jenny pursed her lips together. “I was going to say that I need a change of clothes.”
“Oh. Truly?”
“Yes.” She muffled a laugh in her hand at his wretched expression.
“Then I needn’t have—”
“Oh, yes, you did. A woman likes to hear things like that.”
“I’m not any good at them.”
“I beg to differ.” She reached up to pat his cheek—the one that wasn’t swollen and cold and clammy from the cloth. “But you should practice often anyway.”
∞∞∞
“Are you certain this is a good idea?”
