Page 10 of My One and Only Duke

“Good God. The sisters?”

Timmons glanced up and down the street. “They have handsome portions, all tied up in the funds. Each has a dower property, which becomes hers in fee simple absolute upon Wentworth’s death or her twenty-eighth birthday, whichever shall first occur. Wentworth has provided well for his family, left his partner a thriving business, and tied it all up with enough knots and bows that even Chancery won’t be able to untie it.”

This was what came of commoners amassing too much wealth. “Then where in perdition does the rest of the money go? Is the problem a mistress? An aging auntie?”

“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sir, but the bulk of the Wentworth fortune, and a great fortune it is, will go to charitable interests in Yorkshire.”

“Yorkshire is nothing but sheep farms. How can there be any—”

A beer wagon came around the corner, harness jingling, the hooves of the great draft team churning thunderously against the worn cobbles. Dodson marched for the opposite walkway, Timmons at his side.

“Charitable interests in Yorkshire,” Dodson grumbled. “Of all the notions. That will not serve, Timmons.”

“I thought not.”

A disagreeable breeze wafted on the air, and a crossing sweeper darted out to collect dung from the middle of the street.

“That money cannot go to charity while our good king is left with a lot of useless debt.”

“Certainly not, sir. Shall I pack for a jaunt down to Brighton?”

“No need. I’ll handle this. What is that smell?”

Timmons’s gaze fixed on the retreating beer wagon. “I believe you might have stepped in something, sir. Something left by a passing horse.”

Dodson darted a glance at his boots, which he prided himself on maintaining at a high shine.

Most of the time. “Well, damn. You say the family dwells in Mayfair?”

Timmons recited a direction in a very pleasant neighborhood.

“I’ll pay a call on Mr. Wentworth’s siblings, and then I’m off to Brighton.”

“Best hurry, sir. Mr. Wentworth has only a few days left.”

* * *

Until conceiving a child, Jane had felt little more than passing sympathy for the unfortunates whom Papa harangued at such holy length. She’d been too preoccupied with her own tribulations. Besides, if the prisoners hadn’t sinned to the point of breaking man’s laws, they wouldn’t have been a captive audience for any preacher with a nose strong enough to tolerate the Newgate common.

Impending motherhood had caused Jane to re-examine her conclusions. Had the prisoners sinned or had they been unlucky one too many times, such that sin was the price of survival? Were they victims of circumstance and bad luck, or of criminals yet running free?

She sank into the chair Mr. Wentworth considerately held for her. “You ask me who the father of this child is. The father is no longer relevant. He will never be relevant again.”

Mr. Wentworth’s glower would have sent a lesser woman fleeing from the room—the cell—but vertigo was another of the charming indications of Jane’s condition. She no longer fainted outright, mostly because she took seriously the first glimmerings of unsteadiness or fading vision.

“The father,” Mr. Wentworth said, “was relevant for the five minutes required to get you with child. He forfeits any claim to irrelevance for the duration of the child’s minority, at least.”

Mr. Wentworth’s words were carried on a Yorkshire winter wind of conviction.

“He was relevant for the five minutes necessary to speak our vows as well,” Jane said, “but he entangled himself in a matter of honor and did not emerge victorious.”

“Dead?”

“Quite, and these matters are not discussed.” Ironic, that in the eyes of the law, Gordie had been murdered. The killer had gone back to his club, sat down to a breakfast of beefsteak, and probably had a sound nap thereafter.

Mr. Wentworth, by contrast, had a date with the gallows.

“My condolences.” He put a hand on Jane’s wrist as she reached for her tankard. “No more lemonade for you. You should be eating as much red meat as you can.”