She rose and walked to him, laying her hand on his, where it rested on the arm of his chair. ‘I release you from your promise. You have done all you can. I am very grateful for the attempt. But some things are simply not possible. Not even for you.’ She gave him the sort of gracious nod she’d seen ladies use in London when they needed to withdraw from a difficult situation. ‘I am going to my room to rest before dinner. The menu tonight is chestnut soup, a turbot fillet and loin of veal. Do not be late.’ She left them and took the back stairs to her room.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Percy got up and went to the decanter to pour them each a brandy, Thomas stared after Louisa. She had been smiling as she’d left them. He was more aware than ever that most of her smiles meant nothing. This particular smile had never faded, even when her grandfather had raved at her like a madman.
She’d smiled when he’d said he loved her, as well. Had it shocked her, he wondered? It had certainly surprised him. The words had popped into his head as a natural part of the argument Tom Smith would make to defend his suit. But they’d become something else as they left his mouth.
Percy handed him the glass and he drank.
‘That was a whopping great lie, you told earlier,’ Percy said.
But had it been a lie? It had sounded to him as though he really loved Louisa Skeffington. Or rather, Tom Smith did. But if he was Tom Smith… Dash it, this was getting far too complicated!
Percy was grinning at him. ‘You have not told a story like that since Oxford when we were caught out after curfew. You pretending to be your own cousin?’
‘Oh, that.’ He’d forgotten.
‘What are you going to tell the countess, the next time you see her?’
Another lie? The truth? He had not thought that far ahead. ‘I will think of something,’ he said determinedly.
‘I look forward to hearing what you come up with,’ Percy said, toasting him. ‘But whatever you say, she will forgive you. Everyone always does.’
‘Because no one wants to cross a duke,’ Thomas said grimly.
‘I am almost as eager to hear what you mean to do about the old man, upstairs.’
‘So am I.’ He was more interested in what he needed to tell Percy, right now. After all this time, how could he announce that the easiest solution might be for the Duke of Bonham to simply marry his sister, since he was the only one in the room who could afford to keep her?
Before Percy could comment, there was another knock at the door. A staccato hammering, unlike the crisp tapping of the countess’s man.
Percy rose to greet this latest visitor only to back into the room a moment later, followed by three men who Thomas had never seen before.
‘May I introduce our local constable, Mr Barnes, and his…’ Percy glanced at Thomas then back to the two men standing behind Barnes, who filled the doorframe like a wall of meat. ‘Friends?’
‘I am sorry, Mr Skeffington,’ the constable said, shifting from foot to foot. ‘Personally, I would never have done so, but Lord Skeffington suggested I bring sufficient help to enforce his wishes.’
‘And they are?’ Percy asked.
‘That you and your friend be removed from the premises post haste.’
Thomas blinked in surprise. This was an interesting development and not one he had considered. Probably because he was far too used to doing just as he pleased, while others stepped out of his way. He did not abuse the privilege. But whatwould he have done if there were interlopers in his home that provoked him and would not leave?
Percy laughed, an overly jolly sound that did not reflect the seriousness of the situation. His friend had always been able to defuse the most difficult situations with bonhomie. ‘Apparently, there has been a mistake. We were speaking with my grandfather just an hour ago and he said nothing about this.’
Barnes looked even more uncomfortable. ‘He sent a footman to summon me half an hour ago, along with this message.’ He reached into his pocket with a trembling hand and pulled out a sheet of paper, handing it to Percy.
Percy gave it a shake and held it up to read. ‘Well, it does seem to be his handwriting.’ He glanced back at Thomas. ‘Is it possible to have angry penmanship?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said with a shrug.
‘He is quite specific about what he wishes for us. For you, particularly.’
‘Really?’ He doubted it was anything good.
As if to demonstrate, the two men stepped into the room towards them. They looked like the sort of stout-hearted fellows he would want working on his imaginary farm. The sort who would have no trouble muscling an unruly draft horse into a harness or turning a team of oxen by pulling their horns.
‘I am sorry,’ the constable said with a shrug in Thomas’s direction. ‘As Mr Skeffington says, the note is very specific.’
