She sighed and murmured, “I wonder.”
“Does something distress you about the duck, Lady Rosalind?” Conbatten asked.
“The duck? Oh dear, no. I have only let my troubled thoughts escape me. Do forgive me for it, very bad form.”
“As theyhaveescaped you, I rather think the cat is out of the bag, as they say,” Conbatten said.
“You say I ought to unburden myself entirely?” Rosalind asked. Whether he meant so or not, she had every intention of unburdening herself.
“If you wish,” the duke said.
“Well, since you would press me on it,” she said, “I am troubled over a certain gentleman, a baron from my neighborhood, who is very rash. He is terribly in love with me though I have rejected him. Before I came to Town, he swore he would follow me here.”
“Has he done so?”
“I cannot be sure,” Rosalind said. “I have not seen him, but I get the feeling that he is here. I have felt he has been lurking around somewhere. Watching me and where I go and who I talk to. The problem is, what will he do?”
“What do you suppose he will do?”
“As I said, he is very rash. A duel with anyone he considered a rival would not be out of the question. He would probably bring his brother to act as his second.”
“I see,” the duke said. “So I will imagine, then, that this brother is either equally rash, or he is the younger and would not mind finding his elder brother dead on a green and he the new baron.”
“Oh, I think the brother must also be rash.”
“And if one were to keep an eye out for these two heroes, what would one be looking for?”
Rosalind felt a little confused over the invented baron and his brother being named heroes.
She said, “The baron is of course very handsome and strong. His brother, the second who would turn up with a challenge, if there was to be one, he is…less so. Archibald is his name. He is short. And a little fat. With a doughy complexion and very large sideburns.”
“Poor Archibald. He will need to get hold of his brother’s title ifthat’sall he’s got going for him,” Conbatten said. “I imagine he is not as rash as you imagine, but is rather hoping his rash brother gets himself killed.”
Rosalind glanced at the duke quizzically. Why should he worry about Archibald’s motives or his prospects?
Lady Hightower interrupted their conversation. “Conbatten, I must have your thoughts. Lady Worthington says there is a wax figures display at the Lyceum that is positively fascinating. Ought we to go to it?”
“I have seen it, as have Lady Rosalind and her sisters,” Conbatten said. “Certainly, Lady Hightower, if you wish to go, I will escort you there. It is very original.”
“My family are great friends of Madame Tussaud,” Rosalind said. “We met the lady while we traveled to London and of course promised her we would attend her at the Lyceum.”
“Was not the figure of Marie Antoinette so lifelike, Lady Rosalind,” Lady Worthington asked.
“Oh, well, I did not look very closely. You see, we had to rush out to take my sister Cordelia home. We had expected, well we thought…”
Rosalind trailed off. For some reason, she felt less than confident just now. It was as if everyone around her were somehow more sophisticated. Like perhaps she seemed a simpleton for rushing out of Madame Tussaud’s exhibit.
“Unfortunately,” Conbatten said, “the Benningtons had been under the impression that they had come to view forest scenes or wood sprites.”
Lady Worthington nearly snorted with laughter. “Goodness, what a shock to be faced with dead royals instead.”
“That must have been a dark hour indeed,” Lady Hightower said, dabbing her napkin to her lips.
Rosalind did not answer, as she was not quite sure of their intent. Were they joking? Or making fun of her? She could not quite tell.
Whatever it was, she did not prefer it. Nor did she prefer Lord Cannerly’s overly narrow table. She would be quite satisfied if Lady Worthington would concern herself with entertaining Lord Mendover, or Darden on her other side.
There was no need to be talking across table to Conbatten.
