Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(64)

Iris was not entirely sure what to reply to that. She wanted to say she was sorry, but Donna Pieri’s demeanor didn’t call for apology. Indeed, the other woman was calm and proud.

Perhaps she had weathered so many negative comments upon her harelip throughout her life that she no longer wished for any comments, not even sympathetic ones.

They came to a cross street, where two ragged boys skipped up to them, spinning brooms and demanding coin to sweep the road for them.

Donna Pieri opened her purse and took out two pennies to give them—a prudent action, since the child street sweepers were known sometimes to deliberately flick muck onto the skirts of those who refused to pay them.

They crossed the street and Donna Pieri continued, “Raphael was the apple of Maria Anna’s eye. She would write me long letters about him, about how he was growing, what he ate, when he first walked, when he first rode a pony. She loved him dearly. I could read it in her letters.” She pursed her lips. “She never wrote me of her husband. I knew this was a bad sign, but I did not know how bad until I received the letter informing me that she had died.”

Iris knit her brow, sorting through the other woman’s careful words. “Your sister’s death was sudden?”

Donna Pieri’s mouth turned down, her eyes bright and angry with old sorrow. “Yes. I had no notice that she was ill beforehand. Naturally I immediately began my journey to England, but by the time I arrived, my sister had already been buried. Her husband told me that her health was not good. The English weather did not suit her. She had a fever of the lungs and failed very quickly.”

“I’m so sorry,” Iris said. How horrible it must have been for the other woman—alone in a strange country, bereaved of a beloved sister, not even allowed to mourn properly at her funeral.

Donna Pieri nodded curtly in acknowledgement. “I was not yet proficient in your language and I did not like my sister’s husband, but I felt it my duty to stay so that my nephew would know of his mother’s family.”

Iris shivered, thinking how awkward it would be to live with a man one hated. A man one suspected of abusing a beloved sister.

“That must have been difficult.”

The older woman shrugged. “Yes and no. Dealing with the old duke was tedious, but Raphael …”

“What was he like as a little boy?” Iris asked.

“I first saw him sitting bent over a table, drawing with a pencil. His black hair was clubbed and it fell in curls down his back. When I called to him, he looked up, and I was struck at how much he looked like Maria Anna: big gray eyes, red mouth, his face a perfect oval. He was handsome.” A small smile curved Donna Pieri’s lips. “As I got to know him I discovered that Raphael was a joy, so small and solemn and clever. He could draw faces and horses so well I was astonished. And he clung to me when I first arrived, though he could not have remembered who I was. No doubt I reminded him of his dead mama.” She sighed, her smile dying. “I hoped to help him. To protect him. In that I failed.”

Iris looked down, feeling her eyes fill with tears so that the ground before her blurred before her eyes. “He told me that you took him to Corsica after he cut himself. Surely that saved him.”

The older woman was quiet as they strolled along.

“I did what I could,” Donna Pieri finally said. “It was not enough and it was too late, but it was all I was able to do at the time.”

Iris inhaled. “I think you were very brave.”

“Thank you.” Donna Pieri stopped and looked up at her. “He will try to push you away, you realize. This is something he does. You must not allow it.”

“I understand.” Iris swallowed, suddenly realizing that the other woman’s tale had been much more than a recitation of memories. It had been a handing over of care. “I won’t let him chase me away.”

They turned the last corner and Iris looked up to see their carriage. There behind it was another carriage.

And standing beside both was her brother Henry.

Raphael watched out the window as his carriage rolled slowly along Bond Street. He was to meet Iris here after her shopping trip with Zia Lina, but the road was so crowded he was making little progress.

The carriage rolled to a stop.

He pushed open the window to see what the matter was, and saw Zia Lina and Iris standing up the block. Iris appeared to be in conversation with a man, and though Valente and Ivo were hovering nearby, Raphael decided he should find out who the gentleman was.

He opened the door and jumped down.

Ubertino, sitting in the driver’s seat, called to him in Corsican, and Raphael waved to him and pointed to the ladies before jogging to the sidewalk.

He strode swiftly down the street, dodging the other pedestrians until he came close enough to hear the gentleman exclaim, “You what?”

Zia Lina was looking displeased, while Iris had a pleading expression on her face.

Raphael felt a protective instinct rise in him and stepped between the ladies, taking Iris’s arm.

The gentleman, wearing a white wig and nut-brown suit, turned to glare at him. “And who are you?”

When the man looked at him, Raphael recognized the blue gray of his eyes, even though they were narrowed in anger. This had to be Iris’s brother.

He bowed. “Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore. And you are?”