My Own True Duchess by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Grace Burrowes
Published: 2018-06-15T16:00:00+00:00

“One generally rejoices to receive a duke on one’s doorstep.” Anselm handed Jonathan his hat and walking stick, as if Jonathan were the bloody butler. “You look like a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

Jonathan was a man not in the mood for His Grace’s games. The night had been long, the encounter with Theo unsettling. Then Moira had started fretting again.

“Which word? Duke? I’m learning more about that sorry reality every day. For example, being a duke means employing a staff who claim venerable years. Said staff is prone to rheumatism, catarrhs, hay fevers, gout, and all manner of ailments about which one must be regaled at length. I conclude that whatever other faculties fade with an abundance of years, verbal stamina only increases.”

Theo would scold him for whining, but the housekeeper, butler, and first footman were all laid low with one ailment or another.

“The word I referred to,” Anselm said, “was rejoice. A handy verb. To feel joy or delight. From the Latin gaudere. One rejoices to behold my splendiferous self on one’s doorstep.”

“Rejoice,” Jonathan said, leading his guest up to the estate office. “Rhymes with no choice and Miss Annabelle Boyce of the contralto voice. If I should become a duke—not that I wish for the day—will I also enjoy your handsome complement of humility?”

Anselm had the good sense to wait until he was behind a closed door. “Tresham, are you well?”

Had Jonathan indulged in even two hours more rest over the past few days, had Moira not been in such a mood last night, had the discussion with Theo not been so puzzling, had any of the various ledgers he was wrestling with balanced, he might have conjured up an appropriately witty reply.

“Why must women be so complicated, Anselm?”

“Because men are so thickheaded?” Anselm’s answer sounded tentative, like a working theory developed after much thought, which made Jonathan feel marginally better.

“The hypothesis has merit. Are you in the mood for spirits, tea, or something else?”

The Quimbey estate office overlooked the gardens, an abundance of windows being conducive to accurate calculations. Compared to the tidy geometry of the garden, the office was a mess.

“I’m in the mood for friendly conversation.” Anselm moved a stack of ledgers from the boys’ foundling home to clear off a reading chair. “You’ve been busy.”

The remains of Jonathan’s breakfast tray sat on the blotter. The rest of the room was adorned with piles of correspondence, ledgers, wage books, and agricultural treatises.

“Quimbey is in love.” Jonathan tossed himself into the seat behind the desk. As a boy, that chair had felt like an oversized throne. Now it felt too small for his weight and in need of new cushions. “And even the furniture in this household is ailing.”

“Quimbey’s affliction is relatively recent.” Anselm helped himself to a slice of cold, buttered toast. “This office looks as if somebody has been battling the forces of chaos,”—he munched his toast—“and losing the fight.”

“Quimbey has been relying on the same house steward for fifty years, Anselm.

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