Duke in Name Only (The Entitled Gentlemen Book 2) by Caroline Warfield

Author:Caroline Warfield [Warfield, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Historical
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2023-05-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Folks began to gather three days before the trial, and Kaskaskia, Illinois’s new state capital, was crowded to its rooftops. Some folks camped outside of town in spite of the cold weather.

Phillip could see the swelling crowds on the street beneath his window in a hastily constructed hotel. He paced the room in which he’d been confined, for—he was told—his own good. Welling didn’t want to lose his prime witness. Armed deputies took shifts in the hallway between his room and Nan’s. Earlier in the week, they’d gone to look in on Jamie, well-armed and accompanied by their guard. Nan’s brother had been housed with Doctor Bingham, a local physician, who assured her Jamie would recover. Nate had been assigned to stay and look after his needs.

The crowded streets made forays riskier, and Phillip had been inside for two days. The boredom was as wretched as it had been under the siege. The only relief came from an interview with the prosecuting attorney that took the better part of one afternoon.

He welcomed a knock on the door—anything to relieve the silence. Carter’s voice through it said, “The tailor’s here with your gentleman suit.”

At Welling’s insistence—and apparent subsidy—a tailor had taken his measure the day they arrived. He was, he’d been informed, to appear respectable and not “like some scruffy river ruffian.”

Phillip opened the door to let the man in. Across the hall, Nan stood at the door to her room, a book clutched to her lush chest. He could only smile with what he hoped was care and commiseration, keeping a tight leash on the temptation to ask her to join in the fitting, something sure to horrify the tailor and get back to Welling.

An hour later, he studied himself in coat, waistcoat, and a plain cravat reflected in the mirror while the little tailor hemmed his trousers. The ensemble would see him, if not barred from Whites, spoken about with sly comments and disparaging tones behind his back there. Two years before, he himself would have turned up his nose at it. Today, after four months in homespun shirt and cotton trousers held up by a remainder of rope, he stood a bit taller and felt more like himself.

He turned this way and that. Welling might be determined to turn the trial into high drama, but Phillip had to admit to the man’s wisdom. He would impress a jury in this outfit, at least a jury on the fringe of civilization. A random thought made him grin at himself. Where would he carry his knife in this suit?

By the time the tailor tucked the suit, pressed and ready, into the tiny closet shrouded in cotton against the persistent dust of Kaskaskia, Phillip had enough.

He watched the tailor on his way out and turned to Carter. “When you bring Miss Archer’s supper, bring it—and yours too—in. We’ll eat together for once.”

The constable appeared conflicted, as if unsure what to think, but in the end, he agreed. Phillip went back in to tidy up.

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