“My aunt detained me. She asked me to give you this. It used to belong to your mother. I’m supposed to leave it in the sitting room downstairs.”
“You can put it there, and I’ll take care of it.” He pointed to a low table with a large box of knives.
Should she be concerned?
She placed the book gingerly beside the box. “Now… back to the trees…”
“In the country, I throw at specifically designed targets, thick slabs of wood. If I miss, the knife goes into the grass or a tree. Here, a missed throw sends the knife into the paintings or the floor or the wall. We cannot very well toss knives at a tree inthe garden or in Hyde Park. So… I have a few new trees felled, halved, and carted up here when needed. We line the wall with them. The center ones usually require replacing sooner than the outer ones.”
“That’s extravagant.”
“I wouldn’t bother if it was merely me throwing. I hit the center every time. But my sisters like to practice. And their aim can be… less than perfect. Not Juney’s. She’s quite talented.” The other corner of his mouth kicked up. “You may leave, Jacobs.”
As the butler disappeared, Emma said, “But what about your aunt? You promised me she would chaperone.”
He picked up a blade and pointed it over her shoulder. “Meet Aunt Millicent.”
When she followed its line, she discovered a short sofa resting against the wall behind her. A woman whose gray coiffure could only be called chaotic draped across it, snoring. “Poor dear. Her neck is at an awful angle.”
“I’ll fix her.” He knelt in front of the sleeping lady and nestled a pillow beneath her head. She snorted once but did not wake. “Sleep well, Aunt Millie.”
He stood and prowled back toward Emma, reaching for the knives but watching her.
“Shouldn’t you wake her?” Emma asked.
The duke shrugged. “She needs her rest. She has boxing lessons this afternoon, and then it’s off to chaperone the girls at a ball this evening. You are attending, I assume.”
Emma nodded. “Yes. Lady Macintosh is particular friends with Lady Coldpepper, the hostess. But… back to the boxing.”
“Your sisters arrived earlier this morning.”
“Could we remain on a single topic for more than a breath?”
He looked up from choosing a blade. “If it’s an important one. And the subject of our sisters is more important than AuntMillicent’s boxing lessons. They’ve become friendly. Our sisters. Have you noticed?”
“Difficult not to. Either your three are over at Lady Macintosh’s house or my three are over here. Do you object?”
“Not at all. I find myself quite glad. Particularly for June and Gertrude. Being so much younger than their sisters, they have often felt alone. I do not know why they have not found friends before now. But now that is one worry I need not consider. Thank you.”
“I had nothing to do with it.” She crept closer to him—close enough their arms almost touched—and peeked into his box. Silver blades with sharp points and wooden handles, satin from use.
“You have had the charge of your sisters for some time now, haven’t you?”
“Aye.”
“Then you are the one who fashioned them into the type of ladies my sisters enjoy spending time with. Thank you.”
She gripped the edge of the table. His gratitude warmed her from the inside out. She didn’t want to be warmed by him. “You’re being nice to me today.”
He turned sharply, and his eyes flashed lightning. “Have I been anything other than nice to you?”
“I suppose when I provoke you.” She dropped her gaze back to the knife box. “These are beautiful.” Each implement no more than six or seven inches. White hilts. Ivory? Tips deadly.
“Nowill knives. They belonged to my father.”
“Did he teach you?”
He snapped the box shut and strode toward a table near the windows. There were two chairs on either side, and he gestured for her to sit as he did so opposite her. “Yes, he did. Now, what can you teach me? About Felicity and her prospects.”
