“Because he’s five and ten and he wants to be a man.”
“Gambling and whoring does not make one a man.”
Percival gave a quick snort. “No, my darling, it does not. But there are plenty of men out there who believe it does. And those are the voices he is hearing now, just as I heard them when I was at Eton.”
She looked askance at him. “Do not tell me you did something like this.”
“Of course I did, only I was a year older and had my older brother along. He knew all the places that were relatively safe for us to explore. My worry is that Timothy did not have that.”
“The boys he went with are certainly not that much older. And Rowbotham was not one of them.”
“So he did not live up to their part of this odd bargain you have with them.”
“Apparently not.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
Her father reached out and rubbed her arms. “My darling, we must maintain some kind of hope. Even if his friends left him behind, maybe they know where he might be.”
“Lady Eloise?”
Eloise stepped away from her father and turned toward Mullens. Their overly tall and lean butler held out a silver salver. “A message has arrived for you, my lady.”
She stared at the tray. “From whom?”
The butler sniffed. “I would not know, my lady.”
Eloise gave him a quick grin. “Of course not. Thank you, Mullens.” She picked up the message and turned it over, peering closely at the script A in the wax. Surely Rose Timmons, now Ashton, had not responded already. Eloise’s note to her friend had only been sent two hours ago.
“Do you want to open that in my study? Who is it from?”
Eloise ran a finger over the wax seal. “I’m—I am not sure. Yes, if you do not mind. I cannot imagine it would be about Timothy this early.”
“My paper knife should be on the desk. I’m going to see about your mother.”
“Of course.” Eloise followed her father out of the drawing room, then diverted into his study, where she found the knife near a stack of correspondence. She slipped the blade under the seal, unfolded the foolscap, and found her breath caught in her throat.
Sunday, 17 July 1825
Lady Eloise,
It is with deepest apologies that I must let you know I will not be at the Marsden Ball tonight. I realize this leaves you totally at the mercy of Lady Lydia, with no relief provided by my would-be suit of her on the dance floor, but my absence cannot be avoided.
My mother, the duchess, collapsed a short time after midnight with what the doctor is calling a hemorrhagic apoplexy. Lady Newbury, it seems, has some experience with this condition due to her father, and informs us all that life will be quite different in the Kennet household for some time to come. I am not sure what this means for my continued suit of your friend; I do know it means I will not be in attendance at tonight’s gaiety and frolic.
I hope Lady Lydia does not become unbearable in my absence, although I suspect her ability to wield her charms about the room will draw in any number of flies dance partners to occupy her attention.
I am also writing to thank you for your considerate advice regarding my upcoming nuptials. I believe I know the answer to your question; all that remains is for me to discuss it with my father, which is, for obvious reasons, not possible at the moment. But I do hope that some day I may be able to return the favor, repaying you in some form or fashion. All you have to do is ask.
At your service,
Robbie
With her knees no longer able to hold her upright, Eloise sank down in her father’s desk chair, her hand over her mouth. The letter trembled as her other hand shook to the point that she rested it on the desk, unsure which aspect of this missive she found the most stunning—the fact that Lord Robert Aston had thought to inform her about his mother’s condition and saw the need to apologize to her—toher!—or his informal and thus inappropriate signature.
It clearly had been written prior to her letter to Rose—perhaps even at the same time. He had not heard about Timothy’s disappearance. Yet, in the midst of his own family crisis, he had thought about her, had taken the time to write her.
Why?
Eloise’s hand slipped from her mouth, and her fingers rested against her shoulder, in the exact place the lock of her hair had last night. Her mind called up the look in Lord Robert’s eyes—the pure intensity of those bright blue eyes in his dark face—as his gaze traveled over her, lingered on her hair, her breasts, her hands. Not with a look of lewdness but one of deep curiosity. He had not been scandalized by her presence in a modiste’s shop well after dark—he had been more intrigued bywhyshe was there.
