“My dear boy,” she said, rising and coming to his side.
“Aunt,” he said, by way of greeting.
He felt fairly transfixed where he stood. Lady Cordelia was staring at him as if he were a ghost. He rather wished he was a ghost and could float through one of the walls, making a speedy exit. This felt like some sort of trap.
Lady Rawley turned to her friends. “I have been holding this back as a surprise, but look who has come to assist us!”
Assist? What on earth was she talking about?
“My dear nephew, once apprised that we would be employing swords, could not but wish to provide instruction. I hardly needed to even ask.”
Hardly needed to even ask? She had not asked at all! His mind moved at a rapid pace. What did she mean? How to remove himself from whatever she meant? Instruction? With swords?
“Swords?” he said.
“Indeed,” Lady Rawley said cheerfully. “Othello and Iago kill each other, you see.”
He was afraid he did see. His aunt, as had been her habit, found herself dissatisfied with a Shakespeare ending and had taken to rewriting it. He could only suppose Desdemona somehow lived happily ever after. Another of Shakespeare’s greatest works was set to go spiraling down a drain in her drawing room.
“Now, Lady Agatha and Mrs. Robinson,” Lady Rawley barreled on, “come to where we will have the stage and let us block out that sword fight. Miss Mayton, you had best come too, since it will be your words that set off the fight. Lady Cordelia, if you would be so kind as to pour a cup of tea for my nephew and apprise him of the plot, that would be very helpful.”
It was a trap. But why? Why did his aunt wish him to assist her in butchering Shakespeare?
As he could not turn on his heel and run out of the room, though he would very much like to, he approached the table and sat down.
His aunt, Lady Agatha, Mrs. Robinson, and Miss Mayton had crossed the room and were heads together. Blocking out the sword fight, he supposed.
Lady Cordelia poured him a cup of tea and handed it over. “I am surprised, Lord Harveston, to find you wish to help your aunt with her play.”
That statement felt like a trap too. If he said he thought the whole enterprise ridiculous, which he did, she would be insulted.
“I am rather surprised myself,” he said, “as I have just found out about it.”
“I see,” she said.
It was a noncommittal statement, and Percival could not determine what she meant by it. Perhaps he could not work it out because he was spending too much of his thoughts on examining an escaped wisp of hair that rested very charmingly on her forehead. A very pretty color hair too, which prompted the outrageous thought of what it might look like if all the pins were to suddenly fall out of it.
What was wrong with him? He pinched the side of his leg to force himself back to the matter at hand.
He did feel that he had made strides the evening before to atone for his behavior at Almack’s. He did not wish to slide backward now.
“Lady Cordelia,” he said, wishing to get through the thing as quickly as possible, “I could not help but notice that I discomposed you at Almack’s. I must apologize for my behavior.”
“I was not at all discomposed,” Lady Cordelia said. “I merely pointed out that you were rude. Do you make a habit of it?”
“A habit…no, I do not believe so. Though, I must think I sometimes express myself badly—I did not intend to cast any aspersions on anybody.”
Lady Cordelia nodded and he got the feeling he’d got as far as he was going to get.
“I believe my aunt wished you to apprise me of the new plot?”
*
Cordelia felt she’dbeen left in a trap somehow. Lord Harveston had very unexpectedly turned up, at least, unexpected by her. Then, Lady Rawley had whisked everybody else to the other side of the drawing room, leaving them alone.
Miss Mayton had claimed that she thought Lady Rawley may have been imagining a match between her and Lord Harveston. Cordelia had dismissed it, but perhaps her aunt had been right all along?
But what an idea! How had Lady Rawley even thought of it? They were so ill-suited. Even his apology had been a bit of weak tea.
