And what was he talking about to name a trip to London an interminable journey? These people were not even traveling outside of their own country. “Ah now I see,” Damiano said, though he did not see in the least, “Your Grace enjoys a jest.”
“Yes, why not,” the duke said. “Passes the time.”
As this conversation was unfolding, the waiters’ looks were getting very dark. Damiano presumed they’d been the previous victims of Captain Cook Day.
“Eh, boys?” the duke said to them. “Remember Grassington Hambac?”
Damiano did not have the first idea of what Grassington Hambac might be, but noting the ever darkening looks of the waitstaff, he presumed they did. It did not seem as if they had fond memories of it.
To move the conversation past the duke’s eccentricities, and frankly annoying jests, he said, “I rather like traveling in England. There areso many quiet and peaceful byways.” He was certain that Lady Valor was perhaps less than valorous and would find favor in the idea.
Which she did. He spent the next half hour hearing all about the peace of the Dales and pretending to be charmed by it. Apparently, one could see for miles. As the view described was one of farmer’s fields divided by stone walls, he was rather at a loss as to why anybody would want to. Nevertheless, he took the proverbial stage at Drury Lane and playacted that he was mightily intrigued.
All in all, he’d made a good effort. He was to locate and woo a duke’s daughter and he’d found a very likely candidate. She seemed to like him, her father was a fool, she was well-funded, she was pretty, and she would certainly be easy to manage. He did not suppose he could do better than that.
*
Weston had justreturned to the house. He’d decided that morning that since he was forced into attending a London season he might as well do some things he actually liked. He’d gone to Lackington & Allen and acquired a pile of books for Lord Ledderbey’s library. He would not necessarily have known which books to choose but Mr. Lackington had been very helpful in assisting him. Then he went on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horseflesh on offer, which was something he understood far better.
Now he sat in the drawing room with his boots up on a table. Lord Ledderbey was examining the books he’d returned with, clearly delighted with the unexpected additions to his collection and wondering how he’d known just what to choose.
Malberry entered with a letter on a salver.
“If it’s more invitations,” Weston said, “just add them to the pile in the hall. I’m hoping Lady Marchfield will come and sort through them.”
“My lord, this appears to be a letter from that very lady.”
“See, she responds promptly,” Lord Ledderbey said. “Must be a good sign.”
Weston took the letter and unfolded it.
My dear Tramondeley—
I will admit to being surprised at hearing from you and finding the wording of your letter so pleasant. I have always constrained myself to only sending a Christmas card on account of the duke claiming you did not wish to hear from us. (I now wonder if that was ever true.)
In any case, I would be delighted to assist you in navigating the treacherous landscape of London society. I will attend you at two o’clock this very day.
Your Aunt Penelope,
Countess of Marchfield
Weston passed the note to Lord Ledderbey. “That duke really is a devil,” he said. “It was not enough that he never gets in touch, but he goes so far as to trick my own aunt into ignoring me.”
“Why has he done it, though,” Lord Ledderbey said thoughtfully. “He might be eleven eggs short of a dozen, but I suspect he had a reason.” The lord paused. “Gad, she says two o’clock, that is in five minutes time!”
Both of their gazes drifted to the clock. It was even less than five minutes. Weston heard the distinctive sound of carriage wheels rolling to a stop.
He got his boots off the table and brushed off the dried mud that had been deposited there. “Malberry, meet Lady Marchfield and escort her in and then get something from the kitchens. What should we have for a lady? Not brandy, I imagine.”
“A tea tray, my lord,” Malberry said gravely.
“Yes, yes, you’ll know what to do,” Weston said.
Malberry turned and stalked out. Weston could see out the drawingroom windows a very prepossessing matron descending from her carriage. So that was his aunt.
The butler had the door open and the lady was inside in a trice. He led her into the drawing room.
“Lady Marchfield,” Weston said, bowing.
