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“I’ll take this to Grandmother Danbury,” Gareth suddenly said, allowing his hand to bob up and down with the diary, almost as if he was testing its weight. “She’ll know what to do.”
And she would, he thought. Grandmother Danbury liked to say that she knew everything, and the annoying truth was, she was most often right.
“Do let me know what you find out,” Caroline said, as she headed for the door.
“Of course,” he murmured, even though she was already gone. He looked down at the book. 10 Settembre, 1793…
Gareth shook his head and smiled. It figured his one bequest from the St. Clair family coffers would be a diary he couldn’t even read.
Ah, irony.
Meanwhile, in a drawing room not so very far away…
“Enh?” Lady Danbury screeched. “You’re not speaking loudly enough!”
Hyacinth allowed the book from which she was reading to fall closed, with just her index finger stuck inside to mark her place. Lady Danbury liked to feign deafness when it suited her, and it seemed to suit her every time Hyacinth got to the racy parts of the lurid novels that the countess enjoyed so well.
“I said,” Hyacinth said, leveling her gaze onto Lady Danbury’s face, “that our dear heroine was breathing hard, no, let me check, she was breathy and short of breath.” She looked up. “Breathy and short of breath?”
“Pfft,” Lady Danbury said, waving her hand dismissively.
Hyacinth glanced at the cover of the book. “I wonder if English is the author’s first language?”
“Keep reading,” Lady D ordered.
“Very well, let me see, Miss Bumblehead ran like the wind as she saw Lord Savagewood coming toward her.”
Lady Danbury narrowed her eyes. “Her name isn’t Bumblehead.”
“It ought to be,” Hyacinth muttered.
“Well, that’s true,” Lady D agreed, “but we didn’t write the story, did we?”
Hyacinth cleared her throat and once again found her place in the text. “He was coming closer,” she read, “and Miss Bumbleshoot—”
“Hyacinth!”
“Butterworth,” Hyacinth grumbled. “Whatever her name is, she ran for the cliffs. End of chapter.”
“The cliffs? Still? Wasn’t she running at the end of the last chapter?”
“Perhaps it’s a long way.”
Lady Danbury narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
Hyacinth shrugged. “It is certainly true that I would lie to you to get out of reading the next few paragraphs of Priscilla Butterworth’s remarkably perilous life, but as it happens, I’m telling the truth.” When Lady D didn’t say anything, Hyacinth held out the book, and asked, “Would you like to check for yourself?”
“No, no,” Lady Danbury said, with a great show of acceptance. “I believe you, if only because I have no choice.”
Hyacinth gave her a pointed look. “Are you blind now, as well as deaf?”
“No.” Lady D sighed, letting one hand flutter until it rested palm out on her forehead. “Just practicing my high drama.”
Hyacinth laughed out loud.
“I do not jest,” Lady Danbury said, her voice returning to its usual sharp tenor. “And I am thinking of making a change in life. I could do a better job on the stage than most of those fools who call themselves actresses.”
“Sadly,” Hyacinth said, “there doesn’t seem to be much demand for aging countess roles.”
