He was staring into the birdbath, seemingly lost in thought. He looked up but did not answer.
“Forgive me,” she said quickly, “I presume too much. I did not mean to inqui—”
“Well, not the death and devastation of war obviously. But the action? Absolutely. The urgency, yes. Thestrugglesuited me. I cannot abide idleness... sitting behind a desk...waiting. I haven’t the patience for it. I lack patience in general.”
“I can see that,” she said. “In the twelve hours since I made your acquaintance, I’ve scaled fences, thrashed about in the bushes, and tramped through alleyways. You’ve occasioned yourself in a position to ‘overhear’ not one but two conversations with my employer. If I was a poetic sort of girl, I would characterize our interactions as ‘breathless.’ ”
“No fault in breathlessness, Miss Tinker.”
She felt herself smile. “I amnotpoetic. Just to be clear.”
This conversation has run away with itself, she thought.
I’m very close to earning fifty pounds, she thought.
She thought and thought, but her brain wanted only to hear more of his story.
“What happened?” she asked quietly, raptly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“To put an end to this work that you loved?”
He didn’t answer immediately, and she rushed to add, “Forgive me, I do not mean to—”
“Well, my father died,” he said flatly. “After that, not five years on, my oldest brother died.”
He paused, staring up at the stars.
Isobel felt her eyes grow large. She’d not expected an answer so devastating or personal.
“Oh y-yes,” she stammered. “The whole country has heard of the tragedies in your family. I was so sorry for the terrible... sort of, one-two punch of it all. The grief must have been... relentless.”
“It is not ideal. It’s very... sedentary—grief. In other words,notfor me. The only mental state for which I havelesstolerance than idleness is grief. Much as I tried, I couldn’t loll around Middlesex, stewing in it. I was already a foreign agent when my father died, and I threw myself into my work with even greater fervor. America. The British West Indies. Spain again.
“And then...” he took a deep breath, “...my last brother died. And suddenly there were no more Beckett brothers in line before me.Iwas duke. And all of that grief, and the yawning fields of Middlesex, and a lifetime of idleness, was thrust upon me. I would be a foreign agent no more. I would be none other than a festering, immovable, sheep-counting duke.”
“Oh,” she said—because she must say something. His easy manner had slipped; there was an edge to his voice. He looked for a moment as if he might wrest the birdbath from its platform and heave it into the brush. “I’m... I’m so very sorry, Your Grace.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “That is the very great irony, isn’t it? Who can be sorry for a duke? It is a rare and precious privilege, is it not? The wealth, the power, the...”
“Sheep?” she provided.
Another laugh, less bitter but very sad. “Yes, the great many sheep. Life is not a contest obviously, Miss Tinker, but given your circumstance with odious Mr. Hooke versusmycircumstances as the Duke of Northumberland, you have it far worse. Your lot is more hopeless—everyone would agree.”
“Thank you?” She fought another smile. It couldn’t be helped.
“Your lot is so bad,” he continued, “I’m trading on your desperation to extract this Iceland information from your unwilling lips.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Why was she smiling?Stop smiling, Isobel. Have you learned nothing at all?
“Forgive me,” he said. “It was not my intention to add to your frustration.”
“Yes, I have been puzzling through exactly what your intention might be.”
With exaggerated enunciation, he added, “Woe is me, the wealthy duke with the palatial estate and all the... the...”
“Sheep,” she provided. “I believe we have identified sheep among your many assets.”
