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A frantic flapping of wings, so close they brushed his cheek, made him straighten. ‘Only panicking pigeons,’ he said after a moment. ‘Must have seen a sparrowhawk.’
Cleo curled in tight against his chest, for once, it seemed, at a loss for words, then she sat up and began to put her clothing to rights.
‘Cleo, I am sorry.’
‘Why do you always apologise when we make love?’ she demanded, jamming her bonnet back on and pushing wisps of hair back with angry stabs of her fingers. ‘I want you, you want me, yet you are such a hypocrite about it.’
Quin opened his mouth to reply and she snapped, ‘And don’t you dare say honour or I will never speak to you again.’
‘Which would be an excellent thing!’ She turned away, but not before he saw her teeth close hard on her lower lip. ‘Cleo, I’m sorry, darling.’
‘Don’t call me that.’ He could see her fight for composure, then she turned back. ‘Can’t you tell Grandfather what a rake Dryton is?’
‘It won’t make any difference. The duke is of a generation where gentlemen were expected to behave like that and ladies were expected to ignore it. He’d only find someone else anyway.’ That was not the solution, but what was? He could not allow her to be forced to marry into complete unhappiness and yet he had no right to help her.
‘Very true,’ Cleo said. ‘I can see that I will have to take things into my own hands. Can I trust you not to tell Grandfather we have had this conversation?’
‘Of course.’ He could see from her face that there was no of course about it. ‘I swear. Cleo, what are you plotting?’ Something dangerous, something that would ruin her, he was horribly certain and if he hadn’t been so damned worried about his precious honour and duty in the first place then she wouldn’t need to.
‘Don’t worry, Lord Quintus.’ Tidy again, she reached for her parasol and stood up. ‘I am not considering a career on the streets.’
He let her go ahead of him, watched as she went to join Maggie and the footman and turned back towards Grosvenor Square. He did not follow her.
* * *
Quin arrived on the Duke of St Osyth’s doorstep two days after the encounter in Hyde Park within an hour of receiving a curt summons from his Grace. He knew himself to be immaculately turned out and his expression calm as the butler opened the door and pronounced, ‘You are expected, my lord’, but his internal state was anything but tranquil.
He had been trying to think of a way to influence St Osyth, a way of helping him understand his granddaughter, but he could come up with nothing. Now he decided to just tell the man straight that he was driving Cleo to despair.
The butler swept him straight into the duke’s study. Quin bowed slightly. ‘Good morning, Your Grace.’ Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, he thought as he smiled and waited for the older man to speak. Go down with all guns blazing and tell him what you think of him for putting political and dynastic consideration before his granddaughter’s happiness and well-being.
The duke got up and waved him to a chair. ‘Sit. Damn bad business, this.’ He seemed more worried than hostile.
‘Your note was not explicit, Your Grace.’ His stomach clenched. God, I’m too late.
‘She’s bolted. Cleo, I mean. Left during the night last night, through the kitchens, it seems. That half-trained woman of hers went with her.’
Thank heavens for that small mercy. Maggie was streetwise and tough, although that hadn’t stopped the pair of them getting into trouble in Syracuse, he thought with a stab of real anxiety.
‘That is extremely worrying, Your Grace.’ I sound like some smooth diplomat. War has broken out? How inconvenient. A young woman is alone and unprotected in London? How worrying. Quin gritted his teeth on the angry words. ‘Have you any inkling why?’
‘Taken against the man I intend her to marry, I suspect, foolish chit. Anyone would think she was some lovelorn girl barely out, not a widow of three and twenty.’
‘Perhaps she has run to a man?’
‘She doesn’t know any except you.’
Was that an accusation? Quin took a deep breath through his nose, held it until the urge to call the man out subsided, and said, ‘I can assure you, Miss Woodward was not on my doorstep this morning. I have not seen her for days.’ And she won’t come to me, she doesn’t trust me. ‘Has she money?’
‘A few sovereigns. She left her aunt’s jewels and she took only walking and morning gowns, nightwear, that sort of thing. Enough for a couple of portmanteaux.’
‘Might I suggest Bow Street, Your Grace? Or a private enquiry agent.’
