The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(44)

Lydia nodded firmly. “I know they would.”

There was nothing naïve about Lydia’s optimism. She’d won it fair and square, and even Minnie couldn’t rob her of it. Odd, that Lydia could be so firm in her vision of the future, and Minnie could see nothing.

She turned her head. “As it turns out, I do have something else on that front I should tell you. Doctor Grantham wanted me to invite you to come along and put up handbills with me and Marybeth Peters.”

Lydia’s eyes drifted to the crumpled piece of paper she’d just thrown on the fire.

“Not those kinds of handbills,” Minnie said with a smile she didn’t quite feel. “Boring ones—about smallpox and disinfectant.”

“And Doctor Grantham will be there?”

“No.” Minnie gave her another smile she didn’t feel. “That’s the part you’ll find so interesting. Someone else volunteered in his stead, and you’ll never guess who.”

“Fool.” Lydia squeezed her hand. “I already know. Was it like a fairy tale? Minnie, pining in distress—wait, you’d never do that. Minnie, pinching the bridge of her nose while the idiotic men argued, wondering how she was going to get them all to do what she wished.” Lydia smiled. “And then, the Prince of Wales stepped into the room!”

Minnie burst into laughter.

“Oh, very well,” Lydia said. “That would be unlikely, I suppose. Besides, he’s married, and I’d hate to imagine him unfaithful to Princess Alexandra. So instead, I’m going to guess it was the Duke of Clermont. He swept in, took one look at your bosom, and claimed you for his own.”

“Well…”

Lydia pointed at her. “I knew it. You should see the way he looks at you.”

Minnie tried not to, but she could call it to mind without any reminder whatsoever. Her cheeks warmed.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Minnie warned.

So he looked at her. It didn’t mean anything. He spoke without thinking, didn’t consider the consequences of the things he did. He likely looked without intending anything by it, too.

“He was just being…” She trailed off, not knowing how to finish. Gentlemanly? Annoying?

She was leaning toward the latter, given that he’d used her words directly in his handbills. But she could remember him looking at her after the Workers’ Hygiene Commission had let out, his eyes so intense. And that surprised smile, when she’d said she liked his friends. It had felt as welcome as a sunrise.

“He sent a note around,” she finally said. “He suggested we meet tomorrow afternoon. It will be me, Marybeth Peters…”

“And the Duke of Clermont.” Lydia smiled. “I have such a feeling about this, Minnie.”

Look up.

Minnie put her arms around herself. “Don’t. Don’t feel. I can’t let myself.”

Lydia simply shook her head. “Of course you can’t. That’s why I have to feel for you.”

Chapter Twelve

IT TOOK MINNIE NO EFFORT on the next day to maneuver the Duke of Clermont into a nearly private conversation. After all, handbills were best put up in pairs—and once that had been established, Lydia latched herself on to Marybeth Peters and marched across the road, paste and paper in hand, leaving Minnie alone with the duke.

Not truly alone. They were on a public thoroughfare, for one, and Lydia and Marybeth were within shouting distance on the other side of Haymarket. People drifted down the streets. A man was selling chestnuts on the corner; some boys had made a fire on the pavement, one that they carefully fed with bits of rubbish.

And Minnie didn’t know what to say to him. What was he up to? He’d given her that letter. He’d told her he wanted her, and she still felt shivers down her spine when she remembered the look in his eyes as he said those words. And then he’d used her words in a pamphlet, darkening the cloud of suspicion that followed her.

Instead of trying to sort all that out, she handed him the pot of paste. “What do you know of manual labor?”

“Um…” His eyes twinkled at her. “I’ve read about it. I toured the factories I inherited from my grandfather. I’ve made it a point to talk with workers when I have the chance.”

“But you’ve never done it.”

“Not…as such.”

Minnie handed the duke a wooden stick. “Congratulations,” she said. “You are about to lower yourself to new depths.”

“I can hardly wait.” He took the clay pot in bemusement and followed her down the pavement. She stopped at the first corner and held up a handbill.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“You take the paste,” she explained, “and you put it on the handbill. Then I put the handbill on the wall.”

“Just like that?” He unscrewed the top from the pot, dipped the stick in, and clumsily glopped the white mess onto the handbill Minnie was holding.

“You are an untidy paster.” She turned from him, slapped the paper against the brick, and marched on.

She didn’t think he’d meant to cause her problems. He looked at her as if nothing had happened. And for him, nothing had changed. They’d smiled at each other on the train, and she’d told him she liked him.

When she turned away, she caught his smile at her words. His smiles were like flashes of lightning come at night, swift and fleeting, lighting up the entire landscape for a few moments before vanishing once again. Smiles like that, she reminded herself grimly, might look pretty, but they could still leave heaps of smoking rubble behind.