“May God hear your prayer, my friend.”
“Did you send your spies out?”
George plucked his coat from a nearby chair and removed his snuffbox. “I did. They should report back in a day or so. I suspect they will have heard the same rumors Lady Mary mentioned, but as their sources will be servants and shopkeepers, I expect they will dig deeper.” George inhaled the snuff, set the box aside, and rolled down his sleeves. He pulled cuff links from a pocket and snicked them into place. “Have you had supper?”
“Nary a taste.”
George stood and slipped on his coat, then he grabbed Thad’s arm and turned him toward the main entrance of the Lyon’s Den. “Let us adjourn and find a hearty repast then. I also want to hear your impressions of His Grace, the Duke of Kirkstone. I have a bet concerning him at Campion’s, and I wish to know how far off the mark I may be.”
Chapter Seven
Friday, 28 April 1826
Kirkstone House, Mayfair, London
Half-past eight in the morning
Mary looked overthe array of food on the sideboard in the breakfast parlor, wishing she had requested a tray of tea and toast in her room instead. Although she knew it must be delicious, nothing appealed to her bedraggled mind and body, and the scent of fried gammon made her slightly nauseated. Even her beloved kedgeree, a dish she normally craved, felt as appetizing as a plate of straw.
Mary arched her neck, trying to ease the stiffness brought on by a sleepless night, and she blinked against the sunlight streaming through lace-curtained windows. The breakfast parlor, an uncommonly pleasant room with its pale green and white décor, faced east, making it extraordinarily bright in the early mornings. Annoying, to say the least. Exhausted, Mary had not bothered to ring for Raleigh, and still wore her night rail and dressing gown. She had never adjusted to the London practice of being perfectly coiffed and dressed before leaving herbedchamber, and she doubted they would ever have visitors this early.
Finally, she chose a piece of toast, a boiled egg, and a few slices of pear. As she settled in her chair, draped her serviette over her lap, and watched as the footman poured her a cup of tea, Kit and Beth entered, both looking drained already. Mary had heard Kit’s heavy footsteps just after six that morning, and she knew he regularly retreated to his study for a couple of hours before breakfast to handle duchy business as well as that concerning his new appointment.
Kit looked at Mary’s plate, then her face. “Did you not sleep much?”
Mary shook her head, reaching for the marmalade. “Too many thoughts.”
“About your young man?”
Mary scowled. “He’s not—yes. And Mina. And India.”
Beth nodded her thanks as the footman poured her tea, but she sat down without any food. Kit paused as he filled his plate, concern in his eyes. “Not even toast?”
Beth gave a slight shake of her head. “Not today.”
Mary suddenly felt selfish for dwelling on her own concerns. “Why did you not stay in bed? I could help with the preparations. Just tell me what to do.”
Beth looked up at Kit.
He shook his head at his wife as he sat at the head of the table. “No. You are not well enough.”
Mary’s stomach felt even queasier. “What is going on?”
“Telling her will not make me any worse.”
Mary straightened in her chair and faced her brother. “Tell me now so Beth can go back to bed.”
Beth smiled, and Kit gave a long sigh, then looked at the footman. “I will need coffee this morning.”
With a nod, the footman left.
Kit reached and clutched his wife’s hand, then looked at Mary. “More than one thing actually. Beth is improving. The doctor thinks she will be past the worst in a few weeks.”
“Mine lasted three months as well.”
Beth chuckled as Kit’s face reddened. “Yes. Well. Um. There’s more. Now that the war with Burma is over, the East India Company—”
“And the government,” whispered Beth.
