Adrian grinned. “A rare feat. I must meet her soon. Perhaps you’ll bring her to White’s for an evening, show her off to the rabble.”
Oscar said, “She’s not likely to enjoy the rabble. Nor they her.”
“Splendid,” Adrian said. “It will be the event of the year.”
Oscar sighed and stacked his letters, pushing them away. “Was there anything else?”
Adrian’s eyebrows rose. “Can’t a man visit an old friend to offer congratulations?”
Oscar thought of their years at Eton, of the schemes and secrets and, later, of Adrian’s uncanny knack for being everywhere and nowhere at once. “You never do anything without a reason,” he replied.
Adrian looked hurt. “I have always considered you my dearest friend, Scarfield.”
Oscar snorted. “That’s because your other friends are dead or in debtor’s prison.”
Adrian shrugged. “And yet here you are, thriving.” He tipped his glass in salute. “I’m glad you found someone who can match you. Truly.”
Oscar could not think of a reply that wouldn’t sound either defensive or sentimental, so he let the compliment hang.
Adrian finished his drink in one smooth swallow. “I should go. I have a standing engagement with Lady Chertsey’s whist table, and she bites if kept waiting.”
Oscar stood as Adrian did, and together they moved to the hall. The manor felt different already—a subtle but growing sense oflife, an echo of laughter from the breakfast room, the distant thud of running feet above them.
They reached the front entry just as Nancy swept through. She wore a dress the color of moss after rain with a tartan cummerbund, and her hair—rarely content to stay pinned—spilled a coppery streak over her shoulder.
Adrian stopped and stared, so much so that Oscar nearly elbowed him. Clearing his throat, he said, “Duchess, this is a friend, Adrian Farleigh. Viscount of Eastmere.”
“Your Grace,” Adrian bowed with the air of a man greeting royalty.
Nancy’s mouth curved. “It is a pleasure, Lord Eastmere.” Her brows furrowed ever so slightly. “You look familiar, though I am only just making your acquaintance.”
Oscar saw Adrian’s eyes dance with delight. “Perhaps we have met in a former life, Your Grace. If not, I must consider this morning my good fortune.”
Nancy laughed. “You may be correct, Lord Eastmere.”
Adrian bowed again. “How radiant you look this morning.”
“Oh, you flatter me!”
Oscar watched, uneasy. Nancy never bantered with him quite that way. It pricked at him—an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation.
“Are you departing so soon?” Nancy asked.
“Regrettably,” Adrian replied. “But if my company is ever required for an emergency, I am but a short carriage ride away.”
“Why, we must host you for dinner, Lord Eastmere,” Nancy said, glancing at Oscar as if daring him to object.
Adrian seized on this. “I would be delighted.”
Oscar said nothing, but he suspected his own smile was as sharp as a knife’s edge.
“Well, then,” Nancy concluded, “it is settled. We will write to you when the day is chosen.”
Adrian took her hand and bowed again, and this time, Oscar did not miss the way Nancy’s eyes twinkled as she withdrew her hand. He could not explain why it bothered him.
“You shall have breakfast with me this morning,” Nancy declared, pinning Henry in place with one hand while straightening the buttons of his jacket with the other. “And if you say a word about the nursery, you will find yourself eating plain porridge for a week.”
Henry’s eyes widened, round as eggs. “In the morning room?”
