Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(22)

“No, no, no,” he said, his earlier teasing gone. He made an ineffectual attempt of pushing the six pence over to Hermione.

“I insist, Papa.”

He hesitated and then scraped the meager offering close. “You’re a good daughter,” he said, his voice gruff.

“Sometimes.” She glanced at the closed door and then returned her attention to her father. “Have you…” She paused. “…heard from Nurse Partridge or Lord Cavendish?”

“Your sister is well.” He cleared his throat. “But still no word from Cavendish. I’m certain the young lad is merely busy.”

She nearly choked. Busy? Too busy to see to the young lady whose virtue he’d stolen, and then run-off to the city, leaving Elizabeth with a babe in her belly. “Papa,” she said, a faintly pleading note to her words. “You know you must find him and force him to do right by Elizabeth.” Finding Lord Cavendish and Hermione making a match. Those had been the two driving forces behind their arrival in London.

Hermione, however, had hoped Lord Cavendish could be found and brought up to scratch, forced to do the right thing. She’d also had grand hopes for her own success with Mr. Werksman. The marital-business to some wealthy nobleman had once posed the grimmest, most unlikely of their goals here during a London Season.

Papa stood. He came out from behind his desk and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Do not worry, my dear. We shall find Lord Cavendish and they two shall wed and then you shall wed and both my daughters will be happily married to good men.”

She flattened her lips to keep from reminding him that he had another daughter. And a son, for that matter.

He clapped his hands once. “Off you go, then. I’ve business to attend.”

She eyed the clutter atop his desk. He’d not attended business in some years now. She pushed herself to her feet and kissed him on the cheek. Hope stirred in her breast. Perhaps Papa was well aware of the direness of their circumstances, and devoted his days to the finances and Elizabeth’s situation. “Very well, Papa.”

As Hermione took her leave, she paused with her hand on the doorknob and threw one parting glance over her shoulder at her father. He’d reclaimed his seat. Gone were all earlier hints of teasing warmth and gentle smiles. The broken baronet stared absently at the window.

With a sigh, she opened the door, stepped through, and closed it quietly behind her. She’d willingly accepted the mantle of responsibility after Mama’s passing. Yet, making her way down the dimly lit halls, up to her rooms, Hermione could admit in that moment, at least to herself, how very lovely it would be to pass the worries that cloaked her every step over to someone else’s more capable hands.

Why did the Duke of Mallen’s visage choose this moment to enter her thoughts? Such a man didn’t worry about having to let the servants go or leaking ceilings or frayed garments. He didn’t know the humiliation of relying on relatives who saw you as less worthy, as embarrassments from the country.

She climbed the stairs and collided with Addie. Hermione shrieked and would have pitched backward, but her sister shot a hand out and tugged her forward.

“Oh, dear. Mustn’t have you falling down the stairs. That would be quite a disaster.”

“Addie, what are you doing?” she asked, her heart still racing from her near mishap.

Addie folded her arms over her chest. “I wanted to know about your meeting with Mr. Werksman. Did he agree to your affable duke?” The slight emphasis on the girl’s words indicated just what her younger sister believed about any deviation from a dark, brooding duke.

Hermione continued down the hall. “He agreed to consider it.”

“He did?” Addie trotted at her heels. “But what of the nefarious duke?”

She paused beside her chamber doors and tweaked Addie on the nose. “Oh, I’ll tell the nefarious duke’s story one day, as well. You cannot force words that aren’t there.”

A beleaguered sigh escaped her younger sister. “Yes. Yes, this is true.” She pressed the door handle and slipped past Hermione then raced over to the bed and pulled herself up. “Very well, so you must simply find an affable duke.” She swung her legs back and forth along the stitched and re-stitched coverlet.

“I did.”

Her sister’s blue eyes formed wide saucers. “You did?” She froze mid-kick.

Grinning, Hermione tossed her reticule down upon her secretaire. “I did.” She crossed over and sat beside her sister.

“This is promising. At least he is a duke. Of course, the brooding type would be far better.”

“Undoubtedly,” Hermione said with mock solemnity.

Sarcasm lost to her innocent ears, Addie patted Hermione’s hand reassuringly. “An affable duke is a good deal better than no duke.” She flipped onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow. “Now, you must meet your duke.”

Hermione lay down beside her. She stared up at the watermarked plaster at the far right corner of the room. “I told you, I met him.” Warmth fanned in her belly and spiraled out at the memory of Sebastian.

“I mean meet him, silly.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll require several meetings to conduct your research. Will he come call?”

Hermione blinked once. Twice. And then in rapid succession. “Will he call?” Certainly not. The Duke of Mallen would have little reason to call on her. No reason, if she wanted to be truly precise.