“Ah, there’s Eleanor.”
Eleanor?
Miles followed the direction of Dair’s tilted champagne glass through the crowded art exhibition marquee to a radiant brunette conversing with a gaggle ofTonmatrons.
“Who’s Eleanor?”
“The friend who invited me. And hence you. The Duchess of Somersby.”
Duchess?
Wearing a dress of lilac, the lady reminded Miles of a field of French lavender: graceful, vibrant yet serene. “Afriend, you say?”And he raised a single brow at Dair.
“No, no. Nothing untoward. I knew her husband, Laurence. We met on the Grand Tour and became fast friends. When he married Eleanor, we kept up correspondence and if I returned to England, we’d all dine together. Then Laurence died. Bad lungs.” Dair breathed deep. “I’d introduce you but I’ve just seen Mother and Jeremy heading for the refreshment’s table.”
Neither Miles nor his cousin had been aware that Aunt Mildred would be here in her capacity as patron of The Society of Genteel Art for Genteel Ladies…
Miles sipped his champagne.
This marquee had the feel of something far grander than canvas and poles should allow. To his soldier’s way of thinking, canvas existed to keep a regiment dry, and hence his only yardstick for this was his army tent – which fared rather badly in comparison, having lacked polished wooden flooring underfoot, white silk elegantly wafting above, the ends drawn open for afternoon light and a soft breeze carrying the scent of late-blooming roses.
The Duke and Duchess of Rothwell had greeted them, the duke urbane and crisply dressed while the duchess glowed with the pride of a hostess whose event was a decided success, filled as it was with artists, patrons and hangers-on like himself and Dair.
Critics gestured, artists expounded upon theirraison d’êtreand the air was filled with admiration and the faintest whiff of competition.
As Dair had said, the exhibition was for artworks of the four-legged fraternity, and a cluster of equine portraits had caught Miles’ eye: fine detailed studies of glossy coats and intelligent eyes. He’d even purchased one by the sister-in-law of the Dukeof Rothwell himself – a magnificent horse mid-gallop, a feat that other artists often struggled with, the hooves all over the place.
“Mother is heading in this direction.”
“A tactical retreat?”
“I’d say so.” Dair turned on his heel. “And never fret,” he called over his shoulder, “I took the precaution of bringing a hip flas–” A tall fellow appeared out of nowhere, barged into his cousin, hissed something or other and then continued on.
Miles frowned but Dair, with unperturbed stride, headed across the lawn and to a bench that backed onto the glorious shrubbery.
“What was that about?” Miles also took a pew. “That chap in the marquee?”
Dair’s eyes flicked up, now glacial. “Lord Flitton. Thinks I cheated him at cards the other night.”
Perhaps Miles should not ask but… “And did you?”
“What do you think?” Dair’s features were as tight as a storm-stretched sail. “How do you imagine I win so often?”
Likely it was meant in jest but…
Miles studied his cousin Alasdair as though he were a plant, dissecting him to discern what lay beneath the stylish petals and protective sepals.
And he saw cunning, astuteness and determination. But no deceit.
Plants and flowers survived because they used all they had to their advantage, their beauty, scent and enticing nectar, to exploit mankind and insects alike.
If plants were people, Miles oft thought they’d be the cleverest and craftiest of the kingdom.
“No, I do not believe you cheat, Dair. I think you most likely have hidden mathematical genius.”
A flicker of a smile appeared. “Perhaps.”
They both looked out over the Gardens and indeed there was much to admire in this doubtless brief October sunshine.
