Page 58 of Counting on Love

Jeanette shrugged. “Non. But for certain Lieutenant Taverston would not bring a spy to his home.”

“If he knows,” Alice said, pressing her point despite its absurdity.

“I do not believe Lieutenant Taverston is anyone’s fool,” Jeanette said. “Now let me prepare you, or you will be unacceptably late for dinner.”

Jeanette dressed them both. For Alice, she chose a beautiful lavender gown, light in shade, suitable for a girl who had only recently come out. It was a much better choice than Georgiana’s violet-colored gown for a house party that was essentially a vigil.

“Are we ready?” Georgiana asked, peering at the figure in the mirror as she pulled on her dinner gloves. The silver pendant dipped down between her breasts. In the candlelight, the luster of the pearls would draw attention to her red-gold hair. But her shoulders were bare, and she had gooseflesh. At least no one would ever suspect that figure of pondering mathematics.

“Ready and eager.”

“Then let’s go down.”

*

Reginald was the first to arrive in the drawing room. When Crispin showed up a few minutes later, Reginald sniffed a laugh. They were both dressed as if they were expecting a momentous event: Crispin in uniform, starched and polished, and Reginald in his best cutaway jacket and fawn pantaloons. Barclay had even given him a second shave and put an intricate knot in his neckcloth.

Crispin sat down on the davenport beside him and clenched his hands on his knees.

“No Jasper?”

Reginald shook his head. “Mr. Tibury is gone, however. I do know that much.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t expect Mother to invite him to dinner.”

“I hope he didn’t upset Father.”

“If he did, it’s Father’s fault for summoning him. The poor fellow clearly wished he were elsewhere.”

“Hmm.”

Jasper strode into the room, dressed like a pink and wearing a scowl.

“That,” he said, “was intolerable.”

“Enlighten us,” Crispin replied.

Jasper went over to the sideboard and poured himself a sherry. “Reg?”

“Will I need it?” he joked.

“Yes.”

Reginald swallowed hard and stood. He went to take the drink from his brother. Jasper said nothing more, so Reginald took a gulp, then gave him a look that said: Now?

“Mr. Tibury is a curate in Ipswich.”

“A curate!” Crispin let out an exaggerated whistle as if awed. When no one laughed, he said, “I wasn’t expecting that, but he looks it. And what, pray, does the Earl want with an Ipswich curate?”

“To give him the livings in Fremont and Bellwether.”

Neither Reginald nor Crispin had any immediate response, not a spoken one at any rate. A thousand jumbled contradictory thoughts crashed through Reginald’s brain so that he could not have spoken if he tried.

Jasper went on. “Mr. Tibury was flabbergasted as well.”

“Start from the beginning, please,” Crispin said.

“That is the beginning. Close to it. The interview was short. Father doesn’t have words to waste.” Jasper drummed his fingers on the mantel. “Taking him up there, Tibury was as indignant as he seemed when he invaded us at tea. He didn’t say much, just exuded indignation. He did say he had never intended to intrude upon—” Jasper’s lip curled. “—the lords of Iversley. He sneered it, just like that.”