Page 55 of Counting on Love

He pursed his lips, then nodded. At that point, Reginald could not help noting he’d taken no biscuits. Had he put anything in his tea? Was he living on air?

In part, Reginald understood their mother’s concern. Throughout Crispin’s youth, the many physicians they had brought in had told her she must make her son eat. Yet now, he seemed to be taking this Adam’s advice as gospel, and Mother clearly thought he was starving himself. But though he appeared thinner, he looked better. Mother must see that. Crispin was seeing to his own health in his own way.

Well, whatever she was thinking, Mother had learned not to argue with Crispin in public over his physical state. “We hoped we might have music tonight,” she said, shifting her focus to Georgiana.

“That would be delightful,” Georgiana replied. Then, a little mischievously, she added, “I hear Lieutenant Taverston plays the piano.”

“In fact, he is a very nice accompanist. If you—”

They were interrupted by Peters.

“My lady, my lord,” he announced, “there is a Mr. Tibury calling.”

Mother held up her hand and he brought forth a card. She scanned it. It seemed to Reginald that she grew pale.

“I don’t know a Mr. Tibury. Do you, Jasper?”

He shook his head.

“My lady,” Peters said, “he says he was summoned by the Earl.”

Jasper frowned. “The Earl is not receiving. If he wishes, I will see him in my…in the study.”

“Very well, my lord.” The butler retreated.

Mother said, “I don’t think you should receive him. You have guests. And we don’t know his intentions.”

“Well, we won’t know if we send him away.”

Crispin said, “Maybe just see him in the small parlor.”

“What would that help?”

Crispin shrugged. Jasper closed his eyes a moment, then opened them and said coldly, “What will I be sitting on?”

“A stack of Bibles.”

Jasper glared at him. “Put the chair back. And stop.”

It had, perhaps, gone on too long. Reginald stood and said, “I’ll move it all back.” He felt Georgiana’s eyes upon him, and the childishness of the prank seemed all the more pronounced.

Peters returned. “My lady, he has a letter. From the Earl. Who wishes to see him.”

Mother stood. Flustered, she said, “Yes, well then. Take him up. I’ll come as well.”

Jasper said, “Mother, you needn’t.”

A man, a stranger, stepped into the room. The butler’s eyes flew wide.

“Sir! You have not been admitted!”

“No. I have not.” Mr. Tibury stood before them, all affronted dignity. He was soberly attired. Rather cheaply. But his gloves were immaculate, and he had removed his hat. He was heavy set, square-jawed, with nondescript brown hair but striking blue eyes. About Reginald’s own age, he guessed. And he looked familiar, though Reginald was certain he’d never seen him before.

Jasper rose. “You understand, Mr. Tibury, that you are intruding upon a family gathering, and that my father is quite ill.”

“I do understand that.” The man’s lip curled. “And if he hadn’t sent for me, believe me, I would not be here.”

“Come then.” Jasper went toward the door. “Mother, you needn’t trouble yourself.”