Page 53 of Dukes for Dessert

Sophie made herself nod. “But just now I need … I must …”

She had no more words. Her dry eyes burned as she turned abruptly from David, waved off Eleanor’s solicitous movement, and fled the room.

“I had the feeling she wouldn’t fling herself into my arms and cover me with kisses,” David said despondently.

“Give her a moment.” Eleanor accepted the whisky Sinclair handed her before he dispensed one to David. “This is a shock for her, however welcome.”

David sank into a chair, unaccountably weary, and downed his whisky, as he’d advised Sophie to, in one dose.

Sinclair gave him a stern look. “If she discovers that courtesans were happy to do you a favor, Fleming, it might not appease her.”

“I’ll keep mum,” Eleanor said. “Promise.”

“No.” David sighed from the depths of his boots. “I will tell her all. Eventually. She deserves to know every horrible lie and my hand in them.”

“I see.” Sinclair resumed his seat. “You wish to make certain she hates you thoroughly.”

“So you can wallow in your broken heart and drive your friends distracted,” Eleanor put in. “You do not always have to be a martyr, David. From the number of times Sophie has asked me about you since her arrival—then pretends to forget asking and inquires again—I would say the lady is smitten.”

“My optimistic El.” David heaved himself from the chair to refill his glass. He lifted it to drink, thought about the rivers of whisky that had run through his body in his life, and clicked the glass to the sideboard. “I might have saved her from dire scandal but I did it by no honorable means, and she knows it. Can she be comfortable with such a man as me? I will depart, and she will become the toast of London and marry some lucky gentleman within the year. She will have many children and grow old and happy.”

Which she deserved. So why did David feel hollow inside?

“No, you don’t.” Eleanor was on her feet, facing him. “You will not run away, my friend. I helped you not only for her sake, but for yours. The devil I will let you retreat to the country like a wounded bear, becoming a hermit for unrequited love. Absolute nonsense. There is no reason for either of you to pine away alone. You will remain in London, and you will attend my supper ball, if I have to have Fortescue tie you up and drag you to it. He would, if I asked him.”

“I know,” David said gloomily.

“It might help you to know exactly why you are no longer facing charges from Mr. Griffin,” Eleanor said, her eyes flashing.

She had no idea how frightening she was when she did that. Explained why Hart was a quiet man these days.

“Would it?” David asked. “I can’t imagine what it has to do with Sophie’s life.”

“Please explain, Sinclair, there’s a good fellow.” Eleanor turned in a swirl of skirts and plopped into a chair to enjoy the waters she’d just stirred. Eleanor was a master at that.

Sinclair steepled his fingers. “I was prepared to explain when you arrived today, but understandably you were more interested in my visit to Miss Tierney, and prevented me. I will tell you that Mr. Oliver Griffin is now the principal funder and director of Miss Tierney’s uncle’s excavations of his Roman villa in Shropshire.”

David stared at him. “What the devil? Why on earth is Griffin—?”

“Dr. Pierson will need money, a mountain of it, if he’s to do this thoroughly,” Sinclair interrupted. “I imagine Pierson hoped his old university would sponsor him, but a small villa of the Roman British period, even with an intact mosaic floor, has not drawn much attention. Mr. Griffin, as director of the excavations, will oversee the project, find donors, and possibly interest a museum or his Oxford college. His uncle, a vastly wealthy man, has already promised some funding. Mr. Griffin will no doubt take all credit for this project, though I did tell him that Dr. Pierson must be named as its primary discoverer. Mr. Griffin complied, and agreed to drop all charges against you for this carrot I extended him.”

David groped at the back of a chair and moved himself to sit in it before his legs gave way.

“You offered it. How the devil did you know he’d want Pierson’s dig? Why would he?”

“Miss Tierney told me.” Sinclair spoke calmly but his gray eyes betrayed vast amusement. Confounding David apparently entertained him.

“Miss Tierney—Sophie—told you …”

“Do not speak as though she hasn’t a brain in her head,” Eleanor broke in. “She gathered the intelligence that Griffin is terribly interested in archaeology and greatly disappointed when no one wanted the Saxon antiquities he found in a burial mound in Suffolk. I suspect he is more interested in being lauded and celebrated than doing the actual work, but no matter. Sophie made inquiries, discovered that Griffin has found other burials and been rebuffed as a dilettante several times. She asked Dr. Pierson if he’d consider letting Griffin step into his dig—if he brought piles of cash with him, of course—and Dr. Pierson was delighted. Sophie then asked Sinclair to contact Griffin and offer this exchange.”

Sinclair nodded, infuriatingly calm. “Mr. Griffin proved to be more interested in heading a dig than prosecuting a man for pummeling him.”

David’s lips were numb. “You knew this,” he said to Eleanor. “I was festering in the country reading up on root vegetables, and you could not tell me my sentence would be lifted?”

Eleanor did not look the least bit contrite. “Sinclair and I decided it would be best if you knew nothing until he could present it to you as a fait accompli. If Griffin refused us at the last, you’d have been devastated and perhaps taken a foolish step—left the country or shot Griffin in truth, or some such.”

“You know I’m not a violent man,” David said, affronted. “Unless I’m powerfully drunk, which I haven’t been in a long time. Not since—”