Page 83 of The Dueling Duchess

“Look around this pub, Guy.”

Guy looked around, nodding to the other customers, most of whom seemed quite friendly and all of whom were smiling at him. He turned to his friend. “So?”

“Do you think they stare at me that way—adoringly—when I come in here alone?”

“They’re not staring adoringly.”

“Oh, yes they are. Look again.”

Guy lowered his lashes and drank off the last of his pint, his gaze flickering around the room at the other punters.

They did seem to be watching him rather . . . raptly.

He set down his empty glass. “I’d say they’re watching with interest rather than adoration.”

“You are splitting hairs. The truth is that people read the society or gossip sections of the paper to escape their dreary lives. The women want you and the men want to be you.”

“Do you want to be me, Elliot?” he teased.

“I’m the exception.”

Guy laughed.

But Elliot wouldn’t be distracted from his point. “They all know who you are—every single one of them. Sketches of you flood the newspapers and print shops. Stories of your antics—from duke to doorman! The peer is now a porter! are everywhere. Have you seen Humphrey’s window lately?”

Guy was feeling less and less amused. “Is that a serious question? I avoid those places like the plague.”

“If you had seen it, then maybe you’d understand why you are the last person who can perform an investigation into anything. At least not unless you want that investigation to end up a newsworthy event. Even before you lost your status, title, and money, you were fodder for the masses: Lord Darlington, the Darling of the Ton. The man who—”

“All right, all right—that’s enough, I get your point. So, then what can I do?”

“I’ll be back in two or three weeks.”

“Well, damn it, Elliot, I don’t want to just sit here for two or three weeks doing nothing.” He leaned across the table, not bothering to hide his urgency. “I need to find some way to make Cecile forgive me.”

Elliot made a scoffing sound. “And you think prying into her past is the way to go?”

“I think something rotten happened with her cousin, but Cecile won’t tell me the details. The one time I asked why she wasn’t making Blanchet guns—she’s an artist, for pity’s sake!—she cut me cold. That tells me something is wrong.”

“Just because something is wrong doesn’t mean there is anything legally actionable. Or anything you can do about it.”

“She said I can’t make guns. Something about that makes me feel as if she tried, but Blanchard stopped her. You didn’t hear how proud she was of her father and her own skill, Elliot. I don’t think she’d give up her family’s heritage easily. Something bad must have happened to her.”

“So, this is all conjecture on your part.”

Guy sighed. “Yes, it’s desperate flailing, if you really want the words with the bark on them.”

“This seems a Byzantine way to get information, Guy. Can’t you just talk to the woman? Do what normal people do and ask her?”

“Good God, Elliot, don’t you think I’ve tried?” Cecile had been more distant than ever with Guy after their encounter last week. “She’ll hardly speak to me. It’s all I can do to get her to pass the saltcellar at the breakfast table.”

“You must have really, really gotten under her skin.”

“I did,” Guy admitted. “So now I need to find some way—some thing—to make her believe I’m sorry and that I’ve changed.”

“I fail to see a connection between making her believe you’re sorry and digging into her past.”

“How can I help her—and thereby get into her good graces—if she won’t tell me anything about herself?”