“I can see the comparison.” Jack chortled. “Snarling, fearless, pants after Irish bones and chews–”
“I think Rainham will tell you,” he barked, “it’s because I am tenacious, dangerous and good at catching rats.”
Chapter Five
Conscience makes cowards of us all.
“Do you wish to explain, Alex dear, why we are attending a musical soirée at the Beckfords’? Aren’t they the same family you invited to my little rout last year?”
“No and yes.”
On hearing his mother sigh, the Duke of Rakecombe fiddled with his jet cufflink, the carriage veering around a corner. No doubt Mother would love to hear how his prized walking cane had ended up in Miss Quinlan’s possession. She’d clap her hands in glee at his lack of concentration and furthermore deduce false suppositions.
His plan for tonight was simple: Eat. Snooze. Retrieve. Depart.
“Their daughter married the Earl of Kelmarsh, didn’t she?” Mother pestered. “And they have no other daughter, do they?”
“Yes and no.”
The carriage rumbled over cobbles, causing his crumpet to throb and reminding him the ducal transport needed to be re-sprung. One of the miscreants from last night must have caught him a blow, as his eye socket had a bluish tinge and ached like the very devil.
“Hmm,” his mother murmured in that way his mother always murmured when she was pondering.
He glanced across and met her thoughtful eyes, knowing his own capability for insight hadnotbeen inherited from his father’s side.
“Perhaps I simply require some edible food?” he muttered. Indeed, he was so damn peckish, his gizzards felt like his throat had been cut.
She laughed lightly.
His mother, despite the past turmoil of their lives, still held a ready smile, and he wondered how she did it.
Lines creased the corners of her eyes, her blond hair slowly fading to ash, but when she smiled, she appeared years younger. The Earl of Fotherington had been courting her for three Seasons.
With cautious eyes, he watched her tap a satin-gloved finger against her mouth. “Are there any other ladies attending who hold your interest?”
Luck was with him, as the coach swayed and jolted to an abrupt halt, terminating his mother’s interrogation. If she received any inkling as to the reason for tonight, the barrage of questions would be prodigious.
A footman lowered the steps and he made his escape before holding out a hand. Mother descended, graceful as ever, and stood beside him, gazing at the Beckfords’ elegant but petite house on Conduit Street.
Her satin glove patted his side. “Well, I trust you implicitly, Alex dear. So, if we need to be here, then here we are.”
Guilt clenched at him for a time. Why did Mother hold such trust when he’d betrayed it so gravely in the past? “Mama–”
“I do remember meeting the Beckfords at my rout, very nice people. Didn’t they have an Irish relative with them, as well? A pretty, dark-haired girl. A Miss…now what was it?”
A trap. A deadly trap. More fatal than a Rookery snare. And coming from Mother, not a very subtle one.
The question was whether he should fall into it or skirt the precipitous edge. He’d try the latter. “A Miss Quinlan, I vaguely recall.”
She glanced up, eyes twinkling. “Why, yes, dear. Is she here also?”
The trap widened, edge falling away. “Mother, she is an Irish nobody.” There, that should put paid to any flawed thoughts.
“Hmm.” She tapped his arm smartly with her fan. “And I was a Welsh nobody, so don’t take that attitude with me, young Alexander Westhide.”
Feeling all of ten years of age, he took his mother’s hand and kissed the back. “And Father could not have chosen anyone better.”
She beamed up at him and clucked his chin – about the furthest she could reach. “When will you men ever learn,” she said. “I chose him, dear.”
