Unclaimed (Turner #2)(81)

In the hall, footfalls sounded, heavy and fast.

“That didn’t take long.” Mark turned.

The door burst open. “Mark,” the man in the doorway said, “what in God’s holy name can you have been thinking?” The man crossed the room in three strides and engulfed Mark in what looked like a ferocious hug. “You idiot,” the man was saying. “You mope for a week, and then you disappear for forty-eight hours without leaving word at all. I’ve heard nothing of you but what Margaret was able to glean from the papers. Have you any idea how worried I was?”

“Stop fussing, Ash. I am an adult. I told you where I was going.” Mark pulled away, and Jessica got her first good look at the newcomer. The two men looked…nothing alike. The Duke of Parford was broader than Mark and taller—a physique that seemed suited more to a laborer than to a peer and a businessman. His hair was coffee-dark; his skin tanned.

“Fuss, fuss,” Parford muttered, and he reached out and ruffled Mark’s hair.

Oh, to be part of a family again. It almost hurt to watch. It hurt more when Parford looked over and his eyes fell on her. She could see the wariness creep into his expression, the tight lines collecting on his cheeks. Not much reaction from him, but she felt as if he’d slammed a door in her face.

“We do have a great deal to talk about,” the duke said.

Mark was turning to her. “Ash, this is Jessica Farleigh. She is—”

The duke looked her over, and then slowly, he crossed to her and put out his hand. Jessica blinked at him and then took it.

“So. I suppose we’ll have to figure out how to keep you from hanging in the court of public opinion.”

“I…I suppose we will,” she said.

He nodded politely to her. But as he did, he spoke under his breath. “Hurt my brother,” he told her, “and I will hang you up myself.”

For some reason, the threat made her feel more at ease than mere friendliness.

The duke pulled away and gestured. “Come, Mark, speak with me in my office.”

“Don’t try and exclude Jessica. This is about her, too, and—”

“Leave off, Mark.” Ash rolled his eyes. “Margaret arrived here yesterday—didn’t you hear me say so? She wants to talk to your Jessica. It’s some sort of woman conversation. We’re supposed to take ourselves off and leave them alone.”

“Oh, well, then.” Mark brightened. “You’ll like Margaret. And she’ll love you—I’m her favorite brother.”

In Jessica’s estimation, duchesses didn’t take kindly to women who preyed on their virtuous younger brothers. Especially not when the brother in question was her favorite. “Hmm,” she said. “How comforting.”

Mark was already half out the door.

The room seemed darker after he left, and smaller. She’d come to know Mark when he lived in an isolated house, all by himself, with a few servants to come in and look in on him from time to time—as if he were mere gentry, surviving on a few hundred pounds a year. Even then, the gap between their stations had seemed enormous.

But this… The candelabra on the wall were edged with faceted crystal. The dark, polished wood of the wainscoting met gold and cream and red paper. And when she craned her neck, she saw a ceiling of clever plasterwork, gilt-and-blue edging cunning landscapes. She felt as if she’d walked into a royal hall while wearing a sack. She reached out one finger—not because she wanted to stroke the impossibly delicate vase before her, but just to make sure that it was solid. It couldn’t be real. None of this could.

A tap-tap sounded behind her. Jessica whirled around, knotting her hands together behind her back. She felt as if she were a thief, caught in the act of slipping valuables into her skirt pockets.

But this wasn’t the Duchess of Parford standing in the doorway—not unless the duke was even more broad-minded than Mark had represented.

“Mrs. Farleigh.” The man who stood before her was thinner than Mark, and taller. He was dressed in dark blue. His hair was ebony, his eyes blue. She could see traces of Mark in his face—and none of Mark’s innocence in his eyes.

“You must be Mr. Sm—Mr. Turner, I mean.”

“I see my brother has disclosed my appalling name.” He didn’t smile at her, and she swallowed. They stared at each other a long time, like strange cats, not sure what to make of one another. If she looked away, she feared he might be upon her in a second, rending her fur.

“I don’t bite,” he finally offered, and he came into the room.

“No? You are the magistrate, are you not?”

He sat next to her. “Guilty conscience? Never fear. My jurisdiction doesn’t extend to London.”

She swallowed and looked away.

“That,” he said, “was supposed to be a joke. I’m starting this off completely wrong.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Welcome to the family.”

That had to be some kind of trap. “You can’t want a connection with one such as I.”

He shrugged. “Has Mark told you about me at all? I live alone in Bristol, and I infuriate the local gentry by letting various ragtag scoundrels go from time to time, simply because I believe they’re innocent of the crime with which they’ve been charged.”

“Oh.”