Page 17 of My Dearest Duke

No one had ever called her clever.

“What’s that, Mr. Barclay?” Mrs. Dorrian-Lane inquired with that hint of humor in her voice once more.

“Nothing of import, Mrs. Dorrian-Lane,” he responded, giving Vanessa a private wink.

Her tummy promptly toppled over itself, and she was once again the adoring little girl trailing after her older brother and his handsome friend.

Kingston had always possessed striking good looks, but the virile man before her was breathtaking. In the years since she’d seen him, he’d become a man, fully grown. A splendid specimen of manhood, indeed.

Broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, and long-legged, he possessed sculpted features. His nose bore a slight hump she didn’t recall.

Had it been broken?

When?

During the war?

Had he other war injuries?

That thought roused ruminations of Gabriel, and stabbing pain winged through her.

Had Kingston been there when Gabriel died?

Did he know what had happened?

She and Mama had been provided so few details.

Explosion. Perished in the line of duty. Sincerest regrets.

She had so many questions and shockingly few answers. But this wasn’t the place to ask them.

“Come along.” Kingston slipped Vanessa’s elbow into the crook of his arm as they followed Mrs. Dorrian-Lane. “Let me do the talking, Vanessa,” he whispered into her ear.

“Why?”

Before he could answer, Owen stumbled from the main gambling area accompanied by a diminutive, hunched over gentleman possessing inordinately large ears, a shock of graying reddish hair, and a lecherous glint igniting in his gaze when it lit upon Vanessa.

“Vanessa?”

Oh, bunions and blisters.

Owen’s jaw dropped open, and he made a few inarticulate noises. His bloodshot, bleary-eyed gaze veered first to Kingston before gravitating to Mrs. Dorrian-Lane, then back to Vanessa. Sweat beaded his forehead where a shock of lank hair the shade of dirty wool clung to it.

“Whatever are you doing in Fortuna?” he asked, barely able to keep his reed-thin body upright. He swiped the hank of hair back onto his receding hairline, tottering sideways a couple of steps in the process.

She raised an eyebrow in silent reproach.

He attempted to stand taller. And failed miserably.

“Looking for you,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“This is most inappropriate,” he slurred, swaying on his feet in the manner a young tree does when buffeted by a sturdy breeze. “You shouldn’t be here at all, let alone in an area designated exclusively for gentlemen. Have you no consideration for your reputation?”

“Some things are more important than one’s reputation,” she retorted.

Like catching a thieving liar.

He turned toward the fellow beside him. “I promise you, this is not typical behavior for my sister, my lord, and she assuredly regrets her imprudence.”