Page 25 of Wit, Wiles and Courtship

“How unfortunate that the drawing room is full,” he said, leaning in as though he were saying something of a private nature. “Although I suppose I should have expected it.”

Camilla made some light reply, then indicated a chair that was free. Tilly was hovering by the tea tray, obviously wishing to prepare it, so she handed her the tea, then took the seat by Mr. Laverock. If Pembroke felt any jealousy, he did not show it and went back to speak to Evo, laughing and joking with him in the way he had sometimes done with her in the past. Lady Milton, unable to resist the pull of boasting an eligible earl as one of the party, made some pointed and awkward suggestions about the young people improving their friendship by enjoying a quiet evening of cards in her home. And how would this Thursday do?

Camilla murmured some half promise, feeling Mr. Laverock’s regard at her side. She turned, a question in her eyes, wondering at his focused attention.

“I am waiting for some pearls of wisdom to fall from your lips.”

“From my lips?” Surprise made her reply louder than intended, and Pembroke turned their way with a frown. After a belated moment, she understood his meaning. “Sir, you must not think that because I dressed as Minerva once, that I embody her character.” She certainly hoped he was playing his part in good fun and was not simply odd. He was a little odd, for all that. But it helped that he was a handsome man and, for whatever reason, had decided to give her his attention.

“From all I have seen, you have a ready answer whenever anyone speaks to you,” he explained, leaning in so far she felt a desire to pull back. “Should I aspire to an exchange of wit, you are not likely to disappoint.”

“Oh, but I⁠—”

“It is only when Lady Camilla is fully at ease with a person that she distributes her pearls of wisdom.” Lord Pembroke had been following their conversation, and she brought her eyes to him in surprise. “If you try to force her to it, she will thwart your desire.”

“You seem to know Lady Camilla well.”

“I do.” Meeting her gaze, he added, “I know all of the family well, having the honor to be frequently in their company.”

“Lord Pembroke, this reminds me of a bone I wish to pick with you.” Evo stood to make his point, rigid with indignation whether conjured or true, his voice carrying. “You accompanied my sisters to Astley’s without waiting for my return. How could you play such a mean trick?”

Pembroke sent Evo a conciliatory look. “I wasn’t intending to tell you about it until I had arranged to bring you at another moment. Weatherby, did you betray me?”

“It was I,” Tilly said from her seat, flushed and smiling. “I knew he would be green with jealousy, and I could not wait to spring it on him.”

“Tilly.” The cold voice of Lady Poole carried a warning, and Camilla knew exactly what the warning was. Her youngest daughter must not betray any hints of unladylike behavior or these unbecoming flashes of personality she had shown of late. But then, Camilla thought, disgruntled, it was perfectly natural for her son to crow his displeasure from the other side of the room.

“Tilly must be sent back to the nursery, Mama,” Evo called out.

“Poole, come here.” Her brother walked to Pembroke’s side, a mix of confidence and wariness. Pembroke put his hand firmly on Evo’s shoulder. “If you are going to betray an unbecoming, vulgar side by raising your voice in the drawing room, even your own drawing room, I shall have no choice but to give you the cut direct next time I see you in public.”

“You would not,” the young earl said, his voice rippling with doubt. Lord Pembroke sent him a pointed look with only a faint upward tick to his lips to soften it.

Evo frowned, and Camilla could see the words had hit home. She might not want Lord Pembroke for a romantic suitor—he did not know his mind and likely never would—but she had to be grateful he had taken her brother under his wing, for Evo needed the lessons in conduct. Surely in the history of time, there had never before existed a young man more stubborn than Everard Poole. Only a gentleman he admired could have any hopes of inspiring him to reform his ways.

Lord Pembroke did that excellently, and for that alone she must be beholden to him.

One benefit Rowe had in owning a house in London was that his mother would not arrive for a visit without his learning of it in advance. Even before he became the earl, he had purchased a little pied-à-terre in London with only two rooms for when he needed to be away from his mother—and the inevitable visits of his sister whenever she grew bored with her husband. Unsurprisingly, this occurred on a regular basis.

It was therefore with a sense of the inevitable that he returned from visiting Poole’s house and found a letter waiting for him with his mother’s handwriting. He cracked the seal and apprised himself of the news that she intended to arrive in London on Thursday and hoped to have the pleasure of expecting his welcome at his London house. This was all a formality, for it was out of the question that he should turn her away. He remembered Lady Milton’s promised invitation to her card party, and although he had not intended to go, suddenly bethought himself of a need to accept the invitation. If his friends and Camilla were present, it would be a tolerable evening. He would leave his mother very comfortably situated in the room she liked to occupy and would put every thought to her comfort. Then he would express his regrets that he had already made plans to go out that evening.

His mother always stayed in the countess’s bedchamber. He hadn’t previously given the matter much thought. After all, she was accustomed to her role as mistress of his house. Besides, the two rooms were separated by a small connecting space that served as a sort of wardrobe or washroom, and each room could be locked with a key. For the first time since inheriting the earldom, however, it was driven home to him that she was occupying the room intended for whichever wife he chose—if he should take that irreversible step. If he married, his mother would have to take the next-best room, and on a different floor. That was an advantage worth thinking about. But then, one couldn’t get riveted just to force one’s mother to occupy a room on a different floor of the house.

He penned a quick reply, franked it, and called for a servant to put it with the outgoing post. Then he cast about for what he might do that evening and settled on White’s. He had boxed yesterday and had ridden that morning in Hyde Park. An afternoon at the club wouldn’t go amiss.

When he arrived, there was no one he knew well enough to invite himself to their table. He was about to take a table by himself, but Thomas Crosby sat alone and glanced up, then gestured to the chair beside him.

“Pembroke. If you are not meeting anyone, why not join me? We might get up a rubber of piquet.”

“Very well.” Rowe could not help but think that this might be his chance to gain a more intimate glimpse into the life of an inveterate bachelor. “I’ve come without any particular purpose in mind, so that suits me.” He sat and looked about the comfortable room, wishing he could shake whatever this feeling of dissatisfaction was that had taken hold of him.

Crosby was in his late fifties and still in excellent shape, not shying away from any sporting endeavor despite his age. He was also charming, as evidenced by the constant stream of inamoratas on his arm at social events. His income exceeded eight thousand a year, it was said, and as he was not addicted to gambling, he more than lived within his means. What was more to the point was that Crosby had succeeded in holding out against the pressure to give up his freedom and take a wife.

He called the servant over for a deck of piquet cards and counters, and Rowe ordered a glass of Burgundy.

“Not at Westminster today, I take it?” Crosby said as he shuffled the cards and dealt.

“No. I intend to follow the committee on turnpike roads out of Warwick as soon as they are formed. There is little else that interests me at present.”