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And Fletcher didn’t.

He remained where he was, regarding his mother with cool disdainwhile reminding himself she’d given birth to him. He at least owed her a modicum of respect.

“I do not know her, and I know everyone who is anyone,” the duchess said with the arrogant air of someone who is confident of her superiority.

If she thought Fletcher would stand silently by and allow her to besmirch Rayne’s character or permit her to be the target of his mother’s barbed tongue, she was gravely mistaken.

The truth was, he knew next to nothing about Rayne’s family other than her mother had died when she was young and, by some twist of fate, the current Duchess of Sheffield had become her guardian.

There was something about the duchess’s first husband being Rayne’s original guardian, but Fletcher had either forgotten the details or he’d never been privy to them. In any event, it mattered not a jot to him if Rayne were the daughter of a haberdasher and a seamstress or a blacksmith and a tavern wench.

Regardless, he’d bite off his tongue before he revealed any of that to his mother.

Unlike his mother, pedigree didn’t mean two farthings to him.

“I suppose she’s the reason you’ve broken precious Cecelia’s heart, not to mention your own dear mother's?”

“Ye’d have to possess a heart to have it broken, Mother,” he replied nonchalantly. “And Miss Wellbrook has nothin’ to do with the situation with Lady Sheldon-Furnsby, which ye are well aware.”

His mother didn’t so much as flinch at the harsh barb or well-aimed verbal censure.

“If ye must ken, this is Miss Rayne Wellbrook. She is the Duchess of Sheffield’s niece. The Sheffields are my neighbors, and the duke is my friend and business partner. Miss Wellbrook, this is my mother, the Duchess of Kincade.”

Rayne angled her head but didn’t curtsy or babble some insincere drivel about being glad to make the duchess’s acquaintance. No one was ever glad to make her acquaintance.

“Bah. You always were too sentimental and softhearted for your own good, Kincade,” she scoffed, taking in the room and turning her mouth down in unrepentant disapproval. “I shall send you my decorator’s contact information.”

“That shan’t be necessary. I have my own decorator.”

Fletcher would be damned if he’d permit his mother to encroach upon this house, even if it was with something as inconsequential as the recommendation of a paint color or the positioning of a vase or portrait.

Mother’s gaze slid to Rayne, and she fashioned a sardonic smile. “I’m sure you do.”

“Why are you here at…?” Fletcher veered a glance to the marble and brass mantel clock. “Half of ten?” When was the last time his mother had arisen before noon? Her reason for intruding this early in the day must be dire indeed. “What do you want?”

He didn’t even strive for politesse.

“Tea and scones or crumpets would be nice. I didn’t break my fast.” She perched on the edge of the chair farthest from Rayne as if she were afraid the upholstery might soil her gown, or Rayne might taint her with her presence.

“Nae.” Tea implied she was welcome. He hadn’t left her house a fortnight ago to have her come around whenever she desired and poke her nose into his affairs at 19 Bedford Square.

Rayne tightened her fingers around his.

Wofford, his gait measured but swifter than normal, entered the drawing room. His cravat hung askew, as did his waistcoat. Several tufts of previously neatly brushed sandy-brown hair stuck out at weird angles. He attempted to right his waistcoat while looking down his considerable nose at the infuriated woman, still pointing her parasol like a sword in Fletcher’s direction.

“Please forgive my tardiness, Your Grace, as well as my failure to detain your…guest.” His flared nostrils and the slight hesitation before the word guest said all that he didn’t dare vocalize. “I’m unaccustomed to being pushed down the stoop stairs.”

Fletcher looked aghast at his mother.

“Ye shoved him down the stairs, Mother?”

He couldn’t keep the incredulity and condemnation from his voice.

Rather than look chastised or repentant, the duchess elevated her chin and pursed her lips. “He would not let me pass, so I gave him a small push. A tiny little nudge, really. One couldn’t even call it a true shove. His own great size and clumsiness caused him to topple onto the pavement.”

Hardly, if Wofford, who weighed at least seventeen stone, had taken a tumble. But it was just like his mother to pass the blame. She’d done that for as long as Fletcher could remember.

Filling his lungs, he willed his ballooning temper under control. “That, Mother, is precisely why I hired him. That is what he is supposed to do.”