She did not find it.
Before she knew it, she was being led into the dining room on Lord Lymington’s arm.
Her dance with that gentleman had been got through. Lord Lymington was not terrible at the activity, but he was a rather lumbering creature. And, as she had suspected, his arm did not have the feel of stone.
Though, she admitted her imagination had gone rather far in expecting jelly. It was simply more cushioned than Mr. Vance’s had been.
“Ho, there, Ryland,” Lord Lymington said as Lord Ryland led his lady into supper.
Isabel had been surprised to see that Lord Ryland had danced with his wife and now took her into supper. She had understood from her book on manners that it was not the done thing. But then, Lord Ryland also hosted a mystery ball about a murder each season, so she supposed he did not much care what the done thing might be.
“Lymington, how do you do?” Lord Ryland said. “May I present Lady Ryland, you would have known her last season as Lady Prudence Landry.”
Lord Lymington bowed. “Of course I remember Lady Ryland. Charmed. I say, Ryland, did I tell you about my horse that throws shoes? His—”
“His name is MacBeth, he’s descended from the Byerley Turk, he is a chestnut, he’s thrown shoes six times in as many months, he cost eighty pounds, you bought him last year from Lord Gerald, and he is sixteen hands? That MacBeth? Yes, you have mentioned him.”
Isabel suppressed a giggle that was part amusement and part embarrassment for Lord Lymington. Lord Ryland’s response had taken her entirely by surprise.
Lady Ryland kept a serious expression, somehow, and only said, “That horse sounds like quite the handful.”
Lord Lymington nodded eagerly at the comment and seemed poised to elaborate on what was already a long set of facts about the equine, but Lord Ryland smiled, nodded, and moved off with his bride.
They entered the dining room and found two open places, while a footman came round with a delightful hock. It was precisely what she would have chosen had she been hostess. Its fruity acidity would cut the richness of the white soup.
She might not know so much about wines had it not been for the kindness of Lord Bertridge. He maintained an extensive wine cellar and regularly sent bottles to her father with a written note about its variety, qualities, and pairings. She had saved the notes and pieced together more from a book she’d found in the library, determined that she should not be caught up short on any subject.
As for her father’s own wine cellar, that had been empty for over a decade.
She was just about to compliment the host’s choice of wine when Lord Lymington said, “What Rylanddoesn’tknow about MacBeth is that just two days ago he threw offtwoshoes. On the same day.”
This really had to stop. Isabel did not know if this were the right time or whether or not Lord Lymington would be offended, but the duchess was right—somebody had to speak to the lord about his lack of conversation.
“I do not even know how he did it. MacBeth, I mean.”
“Lord Lymington,” she said firmly, “do you think Lord Ryland would be dejected upon understanding that he’d not heard about the two shoes?”
The lord’s face screwed up, which Isabel prayed was a signal that he was thinking. “I am not sure,” he said. “Though, I could always ask him.”
“I bid you do no such thing.”
“No?”
“No. Though, I will ask you a few questions, if you do not mind it.”
“About MacBeth?”
“Certainly not. What do you read?”
“Well, I get a few periodicals I read over breakfast.”
“Are they all about horses?”
Lord Lymington nodded.
“And what do you think about all day long? Politics? Music? Gaming? Estate management? Anything like that?”
Lord Lymington slowly shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” He suddenly brightened and said, “I suppose I think about horses, mainly.”
