Just then, Valor spotted a rather marvelous looking man approach. He was tall and slender with thick dark hair and an aquiline nose. His clothes were usual, but somehow different. His coat’s lapels were the smallest bit wider, the buttons somehow more restrained, the material seeming a very fine wool. His waistcoat was more colorful than she was used to seeing, yet not loud or off-putting. His boots were impeccable, one might fix one’s hair in their shining reflection. His whole person gave off the idea of sophistication and elegance.
“Your Grace,” he said with an elegant bow. “Conte di Conpressio. Forgive me for overhearing. I understand you are experiencing trouble.”
The duke turned to him and looked him up and down. “I am, rather.”
“This cannot be permitted to proceed,” the count said. “A duke of England inconvenienced? It is too absurd. No, I will not allow it. You must have the room, I will insist on it.”
“Ah, there now, very good of you,” the duke said, seeming far more cheered. “All problems solved.”
“Most satisfactorily,” the count said. “I can easily take myself to…some charming corner…out here. It will be most pleasant, I’m sure.”
The duke looked the count over. “Here on your own, are you?”
The count nodded. “But for my valet. I arrive from Sardinia and travel to London to stay with my cousin, Lady Tallifer, and then see to my father’s estate in Hertfordshire.”
“Tallifer, you said?”
The count nodded. “She is a dear lady.”
“Yes, I suppose she is. She’s a good egg,” the duke said. “Well now, I can’t see a cousin of Lady Tallifer’s being kicked out of a dining room, even if you are a foreigner. As it’s just you, join us for dinner.”
“I am most obliged, Your Grace,” the count said.
There was a quiet self-assurance to the gentleman. There was a sense of calm about him. Perhaps all continental gentlemen were so? Valor did not know, as she’d not met any. She did note his English was rather perfect, which was surprising. She’d been told her French was middling at best and her accent hard on the ears. She spoke no Italian at all. She’d found it very hard to learn as much French as she had.
“This is Mrs. Right, and my daughter, Lady Valor Nicolet,” the duke said.
The count swept into an elegant bow. “Mrs. Right, charmed. LadyValor, my honor. May I say, that pug is clearly the result of excellent parentage. Rarely do I see a dog of that breed so well composed in form.”
“I have always thought so,” Valor said, much surprised by the comment. She was gratified that the gentleman perceived the worth of Sir Galahad. So few people ever did, despite her pointing it out.
“Ladies, until this evening,” the count said, before taking himself off.
Valor was a bit taken aback. Had anybody told her that a strange gentleman was to dine with them, she would have been very opposed. And yet, she was not so opposed. She began to wonder if perhaps the count collected rare books.
“Papa, the count seems very nice,” she said.
“Does he?” the duke said. “A bit delicate for my taste, but I suppose there is no harm in him.”
Delicate. Yes, perhaps that was why she felt comfortable in his presence. She supposed she did not mind a bit of Sardinian delicate.
“Come, love,” Mrs. Right said. “Let us proceed to our room and settle in before dinner.”
Valor nodded. Dinner was looking to be more interesting than she’d expected. She hoped her father was not planning on fooling everybody about the French spy he’d allegedly seen. It might startle a delicate gentleman like Count di Compressio.
Sir Galahad yawned in her arms. She gazed down at him. “You really are well composed,” she said to the chubby little dog. “Finally someone has noted it.”
*
As Lord Ledderbeytraveled with him, and as that lord was getting up in years, Weston saw to it that they accomplished the trip to London in easy stages. He was not sorry for it, as it turned out. They’d hadearly and leisurely dinners at the inns where they stopped and Weston had more conversation with his guardian than he’d had in a year.
He discovered that Lord Ledderbey had been rather fretful over Weston’s way of life. It was not so much the danger of sailing around in the darkness as it was how much of a young gentleman’s training had been somehow missed. His education in the usual subjects had not been formal but it was well enough, the lord having an extensive library. But the niceties of society had not been as successful. He brought up dancing specifically and regretted that he’d not hired a dancing master or encouraged Weston to attend the local assemblies.
Stockton, being more friend and accomplice than a valet, had attended these dinners. He’d nearly fallen off his chair when dancing was brought up.
Dancing. My God, was he expected to dance while in Town? According to Lord Ledderbey, he would be. They had not come to any conclusion about what ought to be done about his utter lack of the skill.
The carriage had made its way through the crowded streets of London. It wastoocrowded, in his opinion. Why did people not spread out more? Why jam themselves into one town like mackerel in a bucket? He’d just got here and found a distaste for it. It smelled, for one. The air did not feel clean, for another. And there were far too many people, for yet another.
