“Dinner in an hour.”
“Yes, of course. I was just going to go dress for it.”
Helena patted Hugh’s shoulder and took her leave. So Hugh walked to his bedroom. He shrugged out of the jacket he’d been wearing. Ventnor appeared as if from nowhere and took the jacket from him.
“This linen will wrinkle,” said Ventnor, walking to the closet. “Really, Your Grace, you cannot just discard your clothing on the floor.”
Hugh felt tired suddenly. “I dressed myself during my convalescence.”
“Yes, and it was abundantly clear when you walked back in here. What would you like to wear for dinner, Your Grace.”
“Remind me why I cannot wear my day clothes to dinner?”
“It is not done. Also, Lord Rutherford is coming to dinner at Her Grace’s request, so there will be company. I think the black formal jacket will do nicely. Perhaps the blue waistcoat.”
“Whatever you think, Ventnor.”
A few minutes later, Hugh was dressed properly enough to please Ventnor. He recognized his jacket as being the one he’d worn the night he’d landed on Adele’s doorstep, which of course made him think of Adele. Ventnor ran a brush over it to remove any lint.
“I suppose the family you stayed with did an admirable job of cleaning this coat,” said Ventnor. “I have always liked it. I would have been sad if it had been permanently damaged.”
“I imagine it must have picked up some dirt from the street.”
“Perhaps. But here we are, good as new.” As Ventnor smoothed the front of the coat, his hand caught on something. “I believe there is something in the pocket, Your Grace.”
Hugh reached into the pocket inside his jacket and found a folded piece of paper. It was the note Adele had left him on his last morning at the Sweeney house. He read it and reread it. Then he refolded the note and left it on top of a chest of drawers.
He knew he must see her again.
So resolved, he said, “Nothing to worry about, Ventnor. Do I look presentable enough for dinner?”
Ventnor smirked. “You’ll do.”
*
Lark looked bothways as he snuck out of the empty cloakroom. Bless the warm weather outside; no one wanted to check their coats at the door.
He checked his hair in a mirror before he returned to his friends, still ensconced in their usual spot near a fireplace. Lark was elated to see Hugh laughing with Owen and Fletcher as he approached.
When Lark was just a short distance from his chair, Anthony caught up with him. Anthony’s long hair had fallen out of the ribbon he’d used to tie it back. Lark’s fingers itched to run through it, but he instead shoved his hands behind his back.
“I meant to ask, will you be attending the Wakefield ball?”
“Looks that way. Swynford is making his grand reentry into society after his brief illness and has asked me for moral support.”
Anthony tilted his head. “Is Swynford’s health still poor?”
“No, he’s perfectly fine. But you know how he loathes balls.”
Anthony nodded. “That is because the mamas of thetonthrow their daughters at him like dockworkers throwing cargo from a ship. Cultivating a reputation for being the sort of man who may or may not indulge in certain unspeakable acts allows me to avoid most of that.”
Lark shook his head. “You are going to get yourself hanged one of these days.”
“If I am, it will have been worth it.” Anthony grinned, then said, “Do you suppose that when you have the cover of arespectable wife, you will still find the time to bugger me in cloakrooms?”
Lark pressed his lips together, bothered by the many layers of implication in the question. “Doubtful.”
Anthony winked at Lark and then looked over his shoulder toward Lark’s friends. “You don’t suppose party-averse Hugh would—”
