“Venus’s honeypot?” Ernest mused. “Cupid’s arbour? Eve’s custom house? I say, that’s rather ap–”
“Ahem.”
Uncle Virgil and Ernest glanced up from their respective post-dinner brandies.
Casper fixed them both with a ducal glare from the doorway of the second dining room. “If you have quite finished cackling like a pair of old hens, I am for the study to work, should you require me. And if I hear any such tittle-tattle outside of this room regarding our guests, I will order Copperhouse to remove your tongues with the silver butter knife.”
They both grinned inanely. His authority in this household had eroded to a slither.
“By the way, Casp, the subject of Lord Humby came up this afternoon whilst our houseguests and I were reading. I’d no idea he was such a blackguard and will give him the cut from now on but…” He fixed a remarkable Rothwell glare himself. “…why the devil didn’t you tell us?”
“I thought you’d trust me to have good reason.”
Uncle tutted, yanking at what looked to be galligaskins borrowed from the year 1600 – and ought to be returned post-haste. “Really, my boy. We cannot read minds, especially yours. You must…share your thoughts.”
“I’ll share this, Uncle: I abhor your breeches but thank you for following my request to obtain the fripperies for our two ladies, especially the gloves.”
His uncle raised a glass and winked. “There you go. And I’m not so keen on the galligaskins either. I might change as they itch like the devil with fleas.”
“And Ernest…” His brother glanced up with concerned brow. “Fine work on acquiring that stallion. He’s a solid addition to the Burford stables – his pedigree is superb and I’m sure he’ll breed many a winner.”
The brow smoothed. “Thank you, Casp. I appreciate that.”
“Although, I think you overpaid by five pounds.”
A newspaper was thrown in his direction but he retreated to general merriment and Ernest’s yell to watch out for striped stockings in the post.
Noting an odd fluffy sensation within, which he assumed was the over-spiced venison pasty from dinner, Casper strolled down the hallway and headed for the study.
This afternoon after the exhibition, he’d caught up with missed meetings and perused his reports, but all his delegated commands appeared to have been satisfactorily carried out.
The gentlemen had then dined alone as Cousin Lydia had retired early to read Ernest’s cast-offs, and Evelyn had remained with her sister in their rooms, but as he now closed the door to the study, he felt somewhat…lonely.
Ernest and Uncle were set to cut a dash at some Cyprian masquerade ball later tonight, hence the galligaskins, but that type of affair had never appealed.
As a rule, all his paperwork and accounts kept him more than occupied but…
He missed Evelyn. Her companionship and warmth. The way she’d beheld him at Somerset House – with gratitude and wonder.
And then the carriage ride… He’d felt so damn alive in her company, ached for her, and although his body had protested her whispered refusal at his advances, his good sense had agreed. There remained too much unsaid, too much unknown.
He sunk to his chair and stroked The Cat Thing, who’d begun gnawing on his favourite quill as though it were still attached to the goose. Two reports,Ten Ways to Negate Lameness in SheepandAdvantages of Oats in a Wet Climate,competed for his attention.
Neither particularly appealed.
Unlocking a drawer to hunt a pristine quill, he discovered Evelyn’s shawl from the Plymtrees’ event, all that time ago; it still held a hint of soap and he placed it upon the desk in order to return it on the morrow.
Beneath the frippery, a small velvet bag revealed itself, which he’d meant to give to the Prince, so he shoved it to his waistcoat pocket.
Dismally, he flicked through theTen Waysreport and speculated if Evelyn might be in the library.
He threw the report aside and steepled his fingers, considered reconnoitring.
Except he’d spent the entire morning parted from his desk as it was, and if she wished to speak with him, she knew where he could be found. Idly, he perused theAdvantages of Oatsreport until a candle to his left gave a last hiss and spit, casting the document to darkness.
Perhaps it was an omen to visit the library for the better light, and he rose to amble for the door.
With a hand to the brass handle, he paused.
