His brother smiled, deploying those whitened teeth. “Especially when it presents itself with such exquisiteness. If I may be so bold, might I have the pleasure of your given name?”
Mrs Locke abruptly leaned forward.
This would be good.
“I agree that gossip is often embellished but should inform you that it does concur on one point. Your large and prominent…” She straightened his brother’s cravat. “…ego.” And patted his lapel. “Return to the light, my lord, where all the little boys and girls play. You’ll never have occasion to use my given name.”
Told you so.
With a nod and glacial gleam to her eye, she stepped back and was about to turn when she paused.
Mrs Locke wasn’t done yet.
“And if I recall, Lord Ernest,” she murmured huskily, “did not your Caliph Vathek’s dissolute pursuits take him to hell where he was destined to wander in unabated anguish?” She raised a brow. “One can only hope.”
Casper made a leg as she sashayed off, leaving his brother with rigid stance, gaping mouth and a now perfect cravat that had no doubt taken the valet half an hour to craft fashionably crooked.
With eyes glued to her retreat, Ernest cleared his throat. “I… She’s magnifi–”
“Leave her be,” Casper warned, opening the arched door to discover a room with three books, which for the Plymtrees one could assume constituted a library. “Mrs Locke has not long thrown off her widow’s weeds and deserves some peace, not your salacious slatherings.”
“Does that mean you know her given name?”
Casper swirled a decanter that had been resting on a side table and peered at the colour through the light of the sconce. “MrsLockehas a flint heart and a unique talent.”
Pouring two glasses, Casper sniffed, sipped and nodded. Adequate.
Ernest quaffed in one. “Ah, so is she one of your bevy of beauties?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your swarm of sirens, nest of nymphs… When I first came to London, I was terribly impressed. Thought you had a mistress a day. But then they came and went so fast, and Uncle explained they were all female artists that you sponsored. Terrible day. Your pedestal melted like a snowball between the thighs.”
Casper raised a disdainful brow. “The day you discover the most proper Mrs Locke’s real name is the day I shall parade in those absurd striped stockings you wear.”
Ernest tipped his empty glass. “We have a wager.”
* * *
The soggy aromaof stable clouded Evelyn’s skirts as she glugged champagne, the hackney’s floor having been strewn with enough straw for a dozen donkeys.
She’d entered the aristocratic Plymtree portals without scrutiny, arm in arm with Matilda and “Great-Aunt” Flossie, who had peered somewhat sceptically at her new great-niece but then decided she belonged to the wild Harris branch of the family.
Herself and Matilda had at once made for the retiring room, where in hushed whispers, Evelyn had divulged her list of objectives:
No. 1 – Drink champagne for courage.
No. 2 – Indulge in a parlour game of “Hunt the Duke”.
No. 3 – Drink champagne for recuperation.
No. 4 – Meet back in the supper room for “Hide the Lobster”.
No. 5 – Drink champagne for…just because.
Evelyn could only hope the duke was present at this grand affair, otherwise all her practised dance steps, relearning of fork positions and Artemisia’s stitching toil would be for naught. But at least No. 1 on her list had been successfully accomplished before Matilda had returned to “Great-Aunt” Flossie in the ballroom. And No. 3 was assured.
“I’d marry him in a thrice,” declared a voice as the door opened and a pretty, dark-haired girl drifted through. “Handsome, rich and titled. What more does one require?”
