The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(100)

He turned the page to a brilliant scarlet B, illuminated the way one might see in a medieval manuscript. Beech trees made up one side of the letter, and a butterfly perched on the top of the curve of the B. “B is for ‘But I am going to make mistakes.’ Something I am sure does not come as a surprise to you.” He looked at her and turned the page. “C is for Confession. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be a husband. I don’t know how to be a father. All I learned from my father is how not to do it—and that is rarely any guide. But…” Another turn of the page. “D is for Determination.” Another page-flip. “E is for Eternity, because that’s how long it will take before I give up again. F—that’s for Forgiveness, because I think I’ll need a great deal of that, before I start to get things right.”

“You are getting things right at this very moment,” Minnie said with a smile. “Keep on.”

He nodded and turned the page. “G is for… G is for… G is for ‘Good heavens, I should have written these down.’ I’ve forgotten.”

Minnie found the corners of her mouth twitching.

He frowned in perplexity. “Really. I have no idea what comes next. I puzzled them all out in my head, and they were going to be utterly brilliant, and when I was finished, you were going to leap in my arms and everything would be better.”

Minnie leaned over and flipped a few pages over until she found the letter M. This was the page that had been on display in the bookshop when she purchased it. M was done in blues and blacks with hints of gold, the silhouettes of mulberry bushes making the dark shape of the letter against a moonlit sky. This M, perhaps, evoked midnight.

“This is the most important one,” she said. “M is for Me. I’m yours, even when you make mistakes.” She tapped it.

He stepped forward and slowly, slowly pulled her into his arms. “Minnie,” he said, “my Minerva. What would I ever do without you?”

“There’s only one other letter that we need to talk about.” She turned back one page. “L is for love. Because I love you, Robert. I love you for the kindness of your heart. I love you for your honesty. I love you because you want to abolish the peerage. I love you, Robert.” She pulled him close. “I’m not going to toss you out for one mistake.”

“But I—”

She shook her head. “We’ll get into that later. For now, Robert… There are other things that demand our attention.”

“Yes,” he said slowly.

“There is a crowd of reporters downstairs,” she said, “and we’ve just told everyone who I really am.”

“I’ll get rid of them.” He stood.

She held up one hand. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“DO YOU EXPECT TO INTRODUCE THE DUCHESS in society?”

“What does the Dowager Duchess of Clermont think of all this?”

“Why did you write those handbills? Is it part of a parliamentary ploy?”

As Robert stepped into his front parlor a few hours later, the shouted questions overwhelmed him, rising atop one another, adding up to indistinguishable cacophony. The sun had set by now; the oil lamps burned brightly, and the bodies packed in the room had brought the temperature up above the level of comfort.

The newspapermen had been invited in fifteen minutes earlier, and apparently they’d made themselves comfortable enough to scream inside his private residence.

He waited until Oliver had entered the room behind him before he raised his hand. The shouted questions continued, but as Robert gave no answer—and instead stared the men down—eventually the hubbub subsided.

“Gentlemen,” he said, when everyone had quieted down. “Let me explain what is going to happen. I have invited you into my home. I have offered you tea and sweet biscuits.”

More than one hand surreptitiously brushed crumbs off of coats at that comment.

“If you abide by the rules I set, all your questions will be answered and then some. But the man who raises his voice above a pleasant, conversational tone—that man will get tossed out on his ear. The man who speaks out of turn, he will be shown the door. If you behave like a mob, you will be treated as one. If, however, you act as civilized people, we will entertain all questions.”

“Your Grace,” a man shouted from the back, “why the rules? Is there something in particular you fear?”

Robert shook his head gravely. “Oliver.” He gestured behind him. “Please show the shouting gentleman to the door.”

“Wait! I didn’t—”

Robert ignored the man’s protests, letting the others watch him be escorted out of the room. When the door closed on his babbled explanation, he turned to the remaining crowd. There were maybe twenty of them, perched on chairs raided from the other rooms. They all had their notebooks out. Forty eyes watched him warily.

“There are no second chances, you see,” Robert said. He heard the door open once again behind him. “Oliver, if you would please demonstrate the proper way to ask a question?”

His brother went to stand next to the nearest newspaperman and then raised his hand quietly.

Robert gestured at him. “I acknowledge the gentleman on the side.”

“Your Grace,” Oliver asked in a normal speaking voice, “why have you set these rules? Are you afraid of something?”