“No, we know,” Valor said. She could not contain her laughter longer and neither could Felicity. Fortunately, this set Lord Tramondeley laughing too.
They eventually settled themselves and it was just in time for Thomas hurrying into the room with a very elaborate wrapped package.
“Lady Valor, this was just delivered. It is addressed to you.”
Lord Tramondeley looked suspiciously at the box with its blue satin ribbon which confirmed in Valor’s mind that whoever it was from, it was not from him. The count, perhaps?
“As Papa is not here,” Felicity said, “and as a young lady ought not receive presents that have not been looked over and approved, perhaps I ought to open it.”
“Do, Felicity,” Valor said. She had not the first idea of what it was, and she could not say she much cared. Lord Tramondeley’s irritation over it was far more interesting.
Felicity read aloud the note that had come tucked beneath the silk ribbon.
Lady Valor—
Enclosed are a biscotto called Susamelle. I hope you find this traditional item pleasing.
Count di Compressio
Lord Tramondeley’s expression had grown very dark indeed. “Biscotto?Susamelle?” he said. It was said in such a tone that one might have thought the count had sent a dead pigeon.
Felicity opened the box to reveal brown biscuits shaped in anSand coated with a sugar glaze.
“And look, it’s shaped in anSin case anybody forgets what it is,” Lord Tramondeley said derisively.
“It’s a spiced biscuit, if I recall correctly,” Mrs. Right said. “Cinnamon, honey, nutmeg, that sort of thing.”
“It sounds terrible,” Lord Tramondeley said. “It looks terrible too. It’s very brown.”
Valor was positively delighted with the lord’s disdain over the count’s gift. She determinedly picked up a biscotto and bit into it. Then she frowned and said, “Oh dear, I do not care for these.”
“I knew it,” Lord Tramondeley said, appearing supremely satisfied.
In truth, she liked it very much, but she would never, ever admit to it. It made Lord Tramondeley too happy that the count had not succeeded in impressing. He’d brought marigolds and despised the count’s gift—it was exceedingly uplifting.
*
Mrs. Right didnot view herself as a lady prone to becoming a victim of flattery. She was well able to stand up to it when a tradesman trundled out some ridiculous compliment about her superior taste or hinted that she was a fine-looking woman.
If those fellows had anything more on their mind than selling theirwares, it was to find a wife. Or more accurately called a cook, nurse, and housekeeper, for their household. They would name that person a wife and all sorts of nonsense would be said in the church, but that wife would be no better than a lowly servant of one. She had been lucky with her husband, but she’d seen time and time again what most men of that station expected.
Those gentlemen who occasionally tried it on were very dense. Why on earth would she consider it when she had all the comforts of the duke’s household? When the duke’s girls were her girls? When she lived in grand houses and her duties were rather light? When she had such a comfortable relationship, more of a friendship these days, with the duke? To give all that up for a man who did not bathe as often as he should and could only provide her a small dwelling, no freedom, and onerous duties.
Of course, men generally thought very highly of themselves so it would not have occurred to them to think about what might be in it for her.
They might flatter until their last breath and get nowhere.
And yet, she could not help but to be flattered by Lord Tramondeley. To think, he’d invited her to the Cornwall party. That was a compliment that really struck home. Of course, there were a few other inducements that caused her to like him. He was the duke’s heir and might come to live in the Dales. He had a certain charm about him, turning up to London without knowing how to dance or understanding the meaning of flowers. Heaven only knew what else he’d not heard of. There was something very endearing about it. He was not the suave and sophisticated London gentleman. Mrs. Right did not think that sort would suit Valor.
That sort might be summed up by the count. He was the suave and sophisticated type. Furthermore, the duke was right about him. This idea of living in Hertfordshire forevermore was nonsense. Sooner or later, he would wish to return to Sardinia. He would take his bridewith him. The very idea of her poppet surrounded by foreigners…
Mrs. Right got the idea that the quiet of Hertfordshire had been the big draw for Valor. Now that idea had been upended.
She began to wonder if there could be a way to solidify the direction things seemed to be going. It would be well if she could drive that count back to Sardinia this instant.
How to do it though? She’d been thinking about it for days. What would drive a continental count to pack up and go home?
Just now, she peered into the dining room. Charlie was giving a last polish to the silver as Mr. Huberville looked on. She supposed all the bacon grease had been gotten off it. The ersatz butler reached for a crystal goblet and then pulled his hand back. Mrs. Right was fairly certain he worried about dropping it and breaking yet another item in the duke’s household. He would be right to worry.
