The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

You have to understand. Sebastian’s jokes brought me through many a hard time. I love him more than I want to kill him.

But the truth was too much. He was struggling to find some way to apologize—and he wasn’t sure whether he should even be apologizing. But she adjusted her gloves, glancing down, before looking at him again.

“Your Grace.”

“Miss Pursling.”

Her eyes were gray, light and clear, and they seemed to see straight through his not-quite-apologetic hand-wringing.

“I always thought you could judge a man by the company he kept.”

“Ouch.” He winced. “Sebastian,” he finally said, “he’s always been excessive. He can be a little much to take in, all at once. But he’s a good man.” He was. Sort of.

Miss Pursling frowned. “What are you talking about? I like your friends.”

“I—you…” He sucked in a breath. “That almost sounds like you like me.”

She gave him a nod. “Logic,” she said, “is a lovely thing, Your Grace. That is precisely what I said. I only wish it weren’t true.” She turned the handle and stepped out the door.

“Wait,” he said, reaching after her.

But the door had already slammed behind her. He was still staring at the space she’d occupied when the conductor blew the whistle. He grabbed his bag and ran.

She liked his friends. She liked his friends? It was odd, to have all that embarrassment turned around. He found himself grinning madly, gleefully, as he caught up with Violet and Sebastian and the rest of their entourage. They were crowded around Violet’s notebook, peering at the pages.

“What are you two giggling about?” he asked suspiciously.

Violet snapped her notebook shut. “I was keeping score,” she said. “I hate to inform you of this, but your Miss Pursling won the conversation.”

He still had that stupid grin on his face, and it wasn’t going away. “Yes,” he agreed. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

Chapter Ten

THE OMNIBUS DROPPED MINNIE a half mile from her great-aunts’ farm. She pulled her valise under one arm and began to walk the rest of the way home.

When she’d left the few clustered houses behind her, she pulled out the letter in her skirt pocket and awkwardly—she had only one free hand, after all—broke the wax seal.

The letter was dated two days past.

My dear Miss Pursling, he had written. I want to make clear what I meant the other day when we encountered one another at the Finneys’ residence. Writing handbills is not some sort of a whim on my part.

You told me the other day that you had looked high, and that you had been battered down. You’re not alone. It is the nature of English society to do precisely that: to keep the lower classes low and raise the upper classes even higher. It is lucky of me indeed to be able to look where I wish.

My most ardent wish is that you, and everyone like you, will look up. That you’ll do so and never be beaten into the ground again. I write handbills because I can write those words without fear of reprisal—because if I am discovered, the House of Lords will never prosecute me. I write because those words must be written. I write because to not write, to not speak, would be to waste what I have been given. I keep it secret because otherwise, anyone who associated with me would become the target for an investigation.

You are undoubtedly my superior in the matter of tactics. As proof, here you have a letter in my own hand, admitting what I have done. Use it to expose me, if that’s what you think will get you your good marriage to an ordinary man who wishes nothing more than to have a quiet wife. Use it, if you must, or keep it and say nothing. You told me the future terrified you. I can’t change the whole of it, but I can change this much.

Or you could look up. You could put that superior mind of yours to real use and fashion a different place for yourself entirely. You could be more. You could be much, much more.

Anything else would be a criminal waste of your talents.

Your servant,

Robert Alan Graydon Blaisdell.

No title. But then, the only title he’d chosen for himself in his writings was De minimis—a small thing. Not so small a thing, though. Minnie could feel the tide of his hope lifting her up with every step.

You could be more.

She’d tasted more once—just the tiniest nibble, but enough to make her life now seem dreary indeed. It was like eating nothing but unsalted gruel every meal, but smelling sausage and pastries all day. After all this time spent choking down tasteless glop, someone was offering her meat.

She couldn’t think logically. She couldn’t analyze. She could think of nothing but her hunger.

I could be more.