“Our principal ducal seat is Wychmere Castle in Lower Rushington, Oxfordshire.”
Both she and Artemisia gawked, salmon balancing on silver forks as though freshly reeled in.
“It’s not a ruin, then?” Artemisia ventured.
“Lower Rushington, was that?” Evelyn queried.
“No and yes,” he replied. “It was originally an abbey, then a royal garrison, and it was of course rebuilt in the fifteenth century.”
“Of course it would have been,” Evelyn concurred faintly. “And I suppose it has a moat.” She’d never believed in coincidence and wondered what the fates were attempting to convey?
“Why, yes,” said Lord Ernest. “Have you journeyed to that part of the country?”
“No. Er…we once thought to visit but were then obliged to change our plans.”
Fate intervened with pudding.
Half-naked nymphs – nakedness acceptable because they were nymphs after all – carved of ice danced around a pyramid of strawberries and biscuits, encircled by ice cream and foaming syllabub.
“I don’t think I can eat any more,” whispered Artemisia, a moistness to her brow. All courses had been sublime but rich, and now bellies protested at their greed. They’d gobbled like common draught horses upon the finest hay, but it was the harsh rasp in her sister’s voice that placed serviette to table.
“I thank you all for a most sumptuous and enlightening evening. But if you would please excuse us, Your Grace, my lords, my lady, as my sister is fatigued and must rest.” Evelyn endeavoured to push her chair back but the first footman, not to be seen tarrying in his duties, was even now assisting her.
Concern creased the gentlemen’s brows, but Lady Owlswick glared and tutted. “It’s the red hair,” she bellowed. “Leads to all kinds of downfall, mark my words.”
Evelyn stood and held out a hand for Artemisia. The gentlemen leaped to their feet.
“A proverb in verse, if I may.” Evelyn brushed a bright curl of her sister’s hair. “The red is wise…” She nodded her appreciation as the footman retrieved her fallen shawl. “The brown is trusty.” She let her gaze glide over the golden duke. “The pale is covetous.” Then to Copperhouse. “And the black is lusty.”
The butler spluttered.
And together the two sisters swaggered from the dining room with red heads held high.
Chapter 18
The Golden Touch.
“No.”
“But–”
“No.”
“If you just liste–”
“No. And that is an end to it. Lord Sancroft merely wishes to fleece some misguided fool of his inheritance and that will not be you.” Casper lit another study candle and then poured his scheduled after-dinner port as the clock chimed seven.
Ernest’s eyes flashed with uncommon ire as he thrust papers concerning stud pedigrees back within his leather-bound folder. “It is you who drives a man to vice, brother. To escape from the languor of idleness.”
“Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Ernest. Those gutter press novels are pilfering your good sense.”
His brother removed his glasses, eyes narrowed. “How did you know that was from a novel?”
Damn, and Casper folded his arms in the most disdainful and superior manner possible, leaning against his desk with a practised air. “I know everything.”
“You’ve been readingUdolfo.”
“I wouldn’t read that turgid histrionic nonsense if you paid me. Now leave me to sort out these accounts, and once again, no. Your stud venture is doomed to fail. Projects such as this need to be researched, detailed and cogitated, with a reasonable reserve and forecasts for two years…in your case, three.”
