Page 54 of The Duke Undone

Anthony watched the slow, repetitive movements of the ravaged hand.

“I see,” he said, pushing over a fresh beer. “Have another.”

• • •

He wasn’t drunk when he left the pub. No, he wouldn’t say drunk. His body responded beautifully to his mental commands like a horse trained to subtle pressures of leg and rein.

There he was, pausing at the corner, crossing the street, turning into the early evening crowds.

They were thick, the crowds. The factory bells had sounded. Where was Charlotte Road? The crowd swept him forward. He asked questions of this man or that, the mouths moved, and his body heeded instructions, turned to the left, to the right. This shabby commercial street, this was his destination. He began to study signs in earnest. They advertised a greengrocer, a sweet shop, a chandlery, a boot maker’s establishment, a millinery. He stumbled forward, stopped short.

miss stirling, the sign read in gold, surrounded by a simple fern motif. dressmaker.

The elderly woman at the sewing machine didn’t pause in her work as he entered. He snatched off his hat, held it in his hands.

The woman’s gray curls escaped her bun, spiraling in all directions. If he’d entertained any doubts, the sight dispelled them.

“Mr. Turner, is it?” she asked. Light glinted off her spectacles as she lifted her head. “From the School of Architecture? You’re two hours late. You are Mr. Turner?”

His stutter could have meant anything at all. She took it for assent.

“Lucy went to make a delivery. She said if you turned up, I was to keep you. I think she worried I’d run you off.”

The sewing machine whirred more loudly as she finished a seam.

He heard himself laugh, a nervous laugh.

Steady there. He put a hand on his chest to quiet the convulsions. Then he willed his body to stroll deeper into the shop. Easy does it. He tested his voice.

“You are Miss Stirling, Miss Coover’s aunt?”

“You think I look too old.” She snapped a thread and her eyebrows arched up above her spectacles.

“Not at all. I . . . that is . . .”

She allowed him a moment’s fumbling, then shoved fabric back through the sewing machine, the renewed whirring causing her to raise her voice.

“I was aunt to Lucy’s mother, my favorite niece. I’m great-aunt to Lucy.”

“Your favorite great-niece.” He aimed a smile. She was twinning slightly in his field of vision, so he smiled dead center.

“My own heart,” she said. “Dearer than my heart.” The whirring stopped abruptly and she met his smile with an owlish look. “Thank you for looking at the building. I’ll eat your hat and swallow the buckle whole if your opinion sways the Board of Works, but I suppose I’m grateful you came. Might have been better if you’d come when you said, but you’re here now.”

“Here I am,” he agreed. “Mr. Turner.” The nervous laughter moved his chest a second time. Did Miss Stirling’s great fondness mean that she believed her niece’s lies? She seemed far too astute, too steely, to swallow obvious falsehoods.

“Student of architecture,” he said, pointing at his smile. Miss Stirling’s face was darkening. He intuited that his affirmations weren’t having the intended effect.

Why had Miss Coover lied? Perhaps she didn’t want to raise her aunt’s hopes. She’d come to the conclusion that he didn’t rate very highly with government officials despite his rank. She harbored no great faith in his influence, or powers of persuasion, after all.

Well, he tended to disappoint. He’d tried to tell her as much.

“I do hope the solidity of the construction is the only thing that interests you.” Miss Stirling’s spectacles glinted as she bent again over her machine. He couldn’t mistake her meaning.

“Of course,” he said and blinked at the ceiling beams. Heavy, strong, straight.

“Shipshape,” he said, backing up a step, then another, following a beam, nodding his approval. He bumped something and spun to catch it as it swayed. He held a woman’s torso in his arms, her gown bunching. He started, letting go. The mannequin thudded down.

“What have you done to poor Titania?”