A Duke in the Night(25)

Clara frowned. “About what?”

“The Duke of Doxies. Here, down in Dover.” Rose paused. “Hmm. I feel like that could be the beginning of a very fine limerick.”

Clara frowned at Rose’s tone. “The Duke of Holloway is indeed in Dover,” she said evenly. “And yes, I was speaking to him.”

“Why is he here? Spying on his sister?”

Quite possibly. “Lady Anne, it seems, failed to mention to the duke that she would be spending the summer here with us when she made the required arrangements. He discovered her plans only after she left.”

Rose’s elegant brows lifted. “Hmm. I’m beginning to like Lady Anne more and more.”

Clara sighed.

“Let me guess. His Grace stomped all the way out here to drag her back to London?”

Clara sighed again. “Worse.”

“Worse? What could be worse?”

“He’s here to stay.”

“At Avondale?” Rose’s voice was an octave higher than usual.

“At Avondale,” Clara confirmed.

“Why? Surely he can spy from a distance?”

“The Earl of Rivers has requested that he evaluate the property. Lands and stock and such.”

“Now?” Rose looked horrified. “When is he leaving?”

“I don’t know.”

“His presence is rather inconvenient, don’t you think?”

“We’ll work around it.” Clara tried to inject some confidence into her words. “He invited us to dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?” Rose cocked her head, seemingly unimpressed. “How does that improve anything? And have you forgotten that this man once tried to make a fool out of you? I was there, if you recall.”

“Good Lord, Rose, that was ten years ago.”

“And I remember very clearly that he behaved like a damn swine.”

“A great deal has changed since then.” Clara scowled. “And when you’re done with my sister, Circe, I’d like her back so that I can have a civilized conversation.”

Rose unfolded her arms and sighed. “Fine. I apologize.”

“Thank you. So did he, you know.” She hadn’t told Rose the details of the conversation she’d had with Holloway in the museum, and she didn’t care to examine the why of that too closely.

“Who?”

“The duke. Apologized for his actions that night.”

Rose leaned on the back of a gold-and-blue brocaded chair. “Was he drunk?” she speculated into the silence. “When he apologized, I mean. That he was drunk back then is rather a given.”

“He was not drunk now or then,” Clara replied evenly. “I would imagine he apologized because he is no longer a boy. He is a man willing to take responsibility for his actions and make amends for those that may have been unwise. He has been nothing but a perfect gentleman.” She winced inwardly, wondering if her defense of the duke sounded too fervent.

“A perfect gentleman?” Rose’s smirk returned. “That’s not how I’ve heard him described.”

Clara pinned her sister with a quelling look. “By whom?” She regretted that question the second it was out. For their purposes it didn’t matter if the Duke of Holloway was the devil himself in disguise or if he danced naked around bonfires fornicating with the queen and her entire court. So long as he stayed out of their way.

Rose raised her hands in mock defense. “The ladies who have graced my old London studio. Not that anyone was complaining,” she said. “On the contrary, his rumored lack of…gentlemanly habits between the sheets was being extolled.” She let her hands drop and ran her fingers over the stitched braid along the back of the chair. “Discussed at great…length.”

“The ladies who frequent your studio should pay heed to the fact that their conversations are probably not as private as they would like to think,” Clara admonished, trying to ignore the heat that had suddenly ignited deep in her belly.

Rose sniffed. “I’m just the humble artist. If I repeated everything I heard, I would probably be accused of being a spy and hanged for treason by half the members of Parliament, the House of Lords, the army, and most definitely the navy. Sailors are a sentimental lot when it comes to wives and mistresses and wishing to have a memento in their image. It’s intriguing what secrets pass for pillow talk.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Clara made a face.

“I’ve never done a portrait, boudoir or otherwise, on behalf of the Duke of Doxies,” Rose mused.

“Holloway,” Clara corrected sternly.

Rose ignored her. “It can’t possibly be from lack of money, even given what I charge. I wonder if it’s because he can’t decide which mistress is his favorite? Or if by the time I was finished painting one, he’d already have moved on to the next?”

“I find your sudden zeal for spiteful gossip rather unbecoming, Rose.” Annoyance was prickling, and Clara decided it was because Rose was being so contrary. It certainly had nothing to do with who August Faulkner chose to keep company with.

Rose looked away, her features drawn. Clara studied her younger sister, seeing the tautness in her petite body and the way her fingers were curled along the back of the chair, and she suddenly understood.