Page 51 of Dukes for Dessert
“Cheek. But you are no doubt right. Then it is either to do with my trial or some other tediousness.” David eyed the envelope on the tray with distaste. “Read it to me, Forty. My eyes are glazed by my intense study of soil composition.”
Without a word, Fortescue set down the salver, slit the envelope with a silver knife he kept about his person, slid out the missive, unfolded it, and cleared his throat.
“I am pleased to report that Mr. Griffin has withdrawn all charges of assault and attempted murder,” Fortescue read in a monotone. “The Crown has dropped the prosecution, citing lack of evidence.”
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What?” David came to his feet, his mouth hanging open.
“All restrictions on your movements have been lifted,” Fortescue finished. “Congratulations, sir.” He didn’t change expression, but David had known the man long enough to see the relief in his eyes.
David snatched the paper from Forty’s hand. He read the message through—the words indeed said he no longer had to worry about Griffin and his accusations.
“How?” He demanded of the page, then he raised his head. “No—I don’t care how. This changes everything. Pack my bags, Fortescue. We are racing to London tonight.”
“London?” Fortescue’s brows climbed the faintest bit, his version of excitement. “I’ve only just come from there.”
“Well, we are going back. The swedes will have to wait.”
“It is too early to plant them in any case,” Fortescue said.
“Is it?”
Fortescue neatly folded the telegram David had dropped on the book and slid it back into the envelope. “Yes, sir. They prefer soil that is above forty degrees Fahrenheit, and my almanac says we will have several more frosts before the weather warms.”
David dragged his thoughts back from Sophie’s beautiful smile and focused on Fortescue’s bland countenance. “How the devil do you know that?”
“I have had a lifetime to read as many books as possible, sir. When I understood that your interest had shifted, at long last, to what is growing in your own fields, I refreshed my knowledge of crops that thrive in this part of England. In case you had questions about them.”
David laughed. “Forty, you are the most impertinent, presumptuous manservant I’ve ever had the misfortune to be saddled with.”
“So you have said many times, sir. But as I am the only manservant you have ever been saddled with, the comparison can hardly exist.”
“It is my way of saying I love you, Fortescue. Now, let us have those damned bags packed. I have a lady to woo. She’ll turn me down flat, I’m certain, and soon I’ll be back, trying to soothe my broken heart with research on fertilizer and crop rotation.”
“She might say yes, you know,” Fortescue said as David charged from the library to the stairs. “Then you can read to her all about tilling the fields. She will never regret her choice.”
“Ha. She already thinks me the greatest fool in Christendom. Besides, she’s still married at present, not to mention far more interested in Roman ruins than a ruined Englishman.”
“Very poetic, sir.”
“I thought so.” David caught his breath at the top of the stairs. “A few small bags are all I need. Come and watch a lady trample me into the dust.” He beamed at his long-suffering valet. “I cannot wait to see her.”
Sophie stood on a stool in her bedchamber while Eleanor’s dressmaker pinned a skirt in place, making tiny marks on it with chalk.
Eleanor had insisted Sophie have new dresses made, nothing drab or nondescript, she said severely—Sophie had nothing to be ashamed of. Thus, within a short time, Sophie found herself attired in deep blue silk evening gowns, bottle-green walking dresses, and dusky pink tea gowns.
Why Eleanor thought Sophie needed yet another ballgown, she wasn’t certain, but Eleanor had rattled off a long explanation that Isabella had insisted it be done for the grand ball at the Grosvenor Square house and Sophie could not be seen in something she’d worn before. The Queen and the south of France had come into the speech somehow, and before Sophie could do more than blink, the dressmaker had arrived. Now Sophie stood in her underthings while swaths of silk enfolded her body.
Eleanor swept in, her blue eyes alight, her smile wide. “Mr. McBride is here. Dear Sinclair. He is so happy now that he has Bertie and more little ones. His eyes are softer, though not, I gather, when he is in court with a criminal squirming on the dock before him. He wants to see you—it must be to do with your marital state. I told him you’d be down at once.”
The dressmaker, no doubt used to Eleanor’s abrupt ways, began to calmly unpin the skirt. Eleanor assisted, apologizing profusely to the dressmaker and promising that Sophie would be back to continue the fitting forthwith.
Sophie restored her everyday skirt and shirtwaist, but her fingers shook so that Eleanor and the dressmaker had to help with her buttons. Eleanor hooked her arm through Sophie’s and led her out, patting her hand as they descended the stairs. Sophie had thought to explain she could face Mr. McBride alone, but then decided against it. A friend at her side was just what she needed.
She was glad she hadn’t insisted Eleanor leave her when they entered the front parlor. Mr. McBride, a handsome blond Scotsman, came to his feet at their entrance, but he wasn’t alone. Next to him, already standing, was David.
Sophie’s breath left her. David’s gaze was all for her, his blue-gray eyes filled with his biting wit and a strange apprehension.
