“So I wondered... why on earth are you living in a boardinghouse haunted by a woman like that?” Arthur sounded a little amused. But mostly deadly serious.
James slowly lifted his head.
“Women... like... what?” he said softly.
His son’s eyes flared widely in surprise. He’d heard that tone often enough to know he needed to tread carefully.
“It’s just that I was surprised to discover that”—he lowered his voice—“it was thought she’d fled the country, or drowned herself, due to the scandal, and now suddenly all is well and she’s putting on a show?”
“The whole mess involving Kilhone and Revell, you mean.”
“Of course.”
“To my earlier question. Could you kindly elucidate how she differs from other women of your acquaintance?”
He was simultaneously coldly incensed and genuinely curious about what Arthur would say.
But his son was both clearly reluctant to elucidate and baffled by James’s tone.
“You’ve known me your entire life, Arthur. Tell me, what opinion do you have of my patience?”
“Well, they’vewiles, don’t they?” His son had lowered his voice again. “Women like her. And their morals are...”
Something in his father’s expression killed the end of his sentence.
“Are you laboring under the misapprehension that the ladies of theton, young or old, do not possess wiles? You’re married, for God’s sake. How do you suppose you got that way? I hope you’re not thinking it was entirely your idea.”
“She . . .” He paused and furrowed his brow to think about it. “Do you think . . . my wife was . . . She wouldn’tdreamof... having wiles.” He trailed off, amidst a dawning comprehension.
Valkirk snorted. “Thank God for women and their wiles, or men would never get anything done.”
“Hmm. Well, Miss Wylde hadtwolovers, whom she set against each other, and one shot the other, and he barely survived. I shouldn’t like to see that happen to you.”
And this was what happened to gossip. And why, even when it vanished from the newspaper, it grew on, misshapen, like a cancer, and spread among society. At the center was something approximating truth, but the farther it traveled, the more contours grew ragged and wrong and increasingly evil.
“Lies,” James said coldly.
Which brought his son up short. “It was in theLondon Times,” he pointed out cautiously. “Kilhone was shot. Two men were involved.”
“Yes. That much was true. They printed lies. It was gossip, and the rest was lies.”
Since his father was so seldom wrong, and arguing with him had always proved a fool’s errand, his son fell quiet.
But he was clearly still confused.
For God’s sake. He’d managed to keep his son out of gaming hells and away from lightskirts who excelled at getting young aristocrats, particularly drunk ones, to part with their money. He was educated and erudite. He was a kind person, and perhaps a trifle too lazy and too innocent.
But what had tested him? Did heneedto be tested?
He’d wanted him to be innocent of the worst of the world. Who would wish upon his own child the things he’d seen? God willing, there would be no more wars in England in his lifetime. He’d thought doing some actual work might help shape Arthur’s character into something sturdier and more distinct. It was why he’d given him the farm—raising sheep and selling quality wool seemed like just the sort of thing a clever man could transform into a useful, profitable enterprise.
And yet here they were.
“Three things, Arthur. Do you really think one small woman can cause an outbreak of duels? Secondly, do you really think I’d be so reckless with my life or anyone else’s? And thirdly, do you really thinkanyoneis going tobestme in a duel?”
“It’s just... at a certain age... men take notions to...”
He wasn’t brave enough to continue that sentence in light of the duke’s expression.
