Page 51 of A Deal for the Duke’s Virgin

That was probably for the best. Thalia’s brother clearly disapproved of him. It was unlikely that he’d remove his consent to the betrothal, because Christian was a rich duke, but one never knew. Best not to give him any excuse.

When Emmeline was finally out of sight, Christian let out a long, ragged breath. He glanced in the opposite direction, hoping to find Thalia, but she was nowhere to be seen. He’d expected that.

I shall have to explain at the fireworks show.

He thought uneasily of the translations Thalia was meant to be doing for him, as well as the new notes and papers he’d found in his sister’s room. Those papers appeared to be poetry, judging by the length and rhythm of the lines. He’d have no chance at all of translating them himself. Would she still do the translations?

Well, she would have to if she wanted him to keep up his side of the bargain.

A bargain. That’s all this is. I act as her betrothed, and she helps me find Laura.

Thoughts of his sister brought a fresh wave of unease. There’d been no word from her and no news of her from the spies he’d sent out all over England. And now Scotland, too, based on what Thalia had discovered.

I’m going to give her a good kicking when she gets home. The worst scolding of her life. Not that she’ll listen to me. Not that she ever did.

He set off down the hill. There was no point in trying to find Thalia, and he wasn’t sure that visiting her at home was a good idea.

Might as well get a drink, then.

His feet took him to White’s. It was hardly as exciting as Hartley’s, but it could provide decent food and good drink at the very least.

A footman took his coat and hat at the door, and he was assiduously shown to a private table. Unlike Hartley’s, privacy could be almost guaranteed downstairs at White’s. There were plenty of secluded alcoves and private booths, although one was never entirely safe from fellow members.

At this time of day, however, the clubs were quiet. It was too late for luncheon and too early for supper, the usual times when gentlemen sought to avoid their families and have a little peace and quiet.

Brandy was brought, and Christian took a long, careful sip.

The Emmeline problem would require some attention. He doubted that she would lose interest in him so easily. Whatever impulse had sent her skittering back to him would not recede anytime soon. His threat might keep her from gossiping about Thalia, but he would doubtless see her again.

No, Emmeline did not interest him. Thalia, however, did.

He thought about how she’d smiled at the children and how they’d beamed back at her, adoring and admiring. Nobody could doubt that they loved her.

He’d heard from others that she took various children out of the orphanage on a treat outing for a picnic up on the hill. He’d also heard that she paid for the food out of the meagre allowance her brother gave her.

She seemed relieved when I spoke about patronizing the orphanage, he thought, swigging back the last of his brandy. I daresay I could do some good.

He hadn’t intended to offer his help, but wouldn’t that be a good way to keep an eye on her?

And if my help benefits some orphans and hard-working nuns… well, there are worse ways to spend my money.

He thought of how the children had stared up at her, hanging on her every word, and his chest tightened.

My son would be about their age. I wonder what she would be like with him? Would she love him, care for him, and make him love her?

Maybe. No sense in pondering that, though, because his son was long dead.

“You can have another,” his father had said, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest. As if children, even babies, were entirely interchangeable.

As always, Christian put aside thoughts of his father. It only made him angry. Having finished his brandy, he gestured for a footman to bring him another.

Instead of a footman hustling over, however, he caught a glimpse of a freckled, chestnut-haired young man of about twenty with round spectacles slipping down his nose. A footman scurried behind him, looking frantic.

“Sir, your membership…” the footman began, but Christian waved his hand.

“I know this fellow. No need to throw him out.”

The footman reddened. “Your Grace, he does not have a membership.”