Page 35 of The Trouble with Tweed

Three of the other gentlemen were lords as well, which spoke well of the group as a whole. Lord Lane was blond, tall, and thin. With his height, and in his cream-colored suit, he gave Claire the impression of a spindly plant who’d been shaded out and was stretching desperately to reach the sunshine.

Then there was Lord Partridge and Lord Saunders—though seemingly unrelated, they were difficult to tell apart at first glance. They threatened to congeal in her mind due to their bland similarity. They both wore brown tweed suits, both had unremarkable brown hair, and like Lord Lane, both lacked any semblance of a tan to improve their unremarkable features. Only Lord Saunders had a slight bump to his nose that allowed her to distinguish him—a hook on which to hang her mental remembrance.

For several moments, the beginning pleasantries were exchanged, that dull introduction to every conversation. Just like every author’s note at the beginning of a book, Claire longed to skim through it as quickly as possible in order to get to more interesting things. Michael smiled down at her as if he could read her impatience in the slight shifting of her person.

“How do you find the weather, Miss Preston?” Lord Saunders finally asked.

In terms of opening parries, it was a slow one, easily batted away, but entirely acceptable.

Claire gave a warm smile. “It’s a lovely day for a carriage ride, especially when the company is excellent. May I ask what pursuit brings you gentlemen to the park?”

“We’re taking a walk,” Lord Partridge interjected.

Lord Saunders frowned at him, as if he believed Claire’s question was meant for him alone and Lord Partridge was interrupting rudely. Perhaps since he’d mustered the courage to address her first, he thought he ought to have several moments of her undivided attention.

“It’s a lovely day for walking as well.” She inclined her head graciously to each of them in turn.

“Am I mistaken, Lord Hart, or have you just returned from Ba-ath?” Michael said.

Claire blinked. Something about the way Michael had pronounced “Bath” struck her as odd, but she couldn’t ascertain why. She refocused and caught the tail end of the conversation—just in time, too.

“Have you ever visited Bath, Miss Preston?” Lord Saunders asked. When he smiled as engagingly as he did now, Claire thought the bump on his nose was barely noticeable.

“I haven’t had the opportunity, but I should dearly love to visit someday.”

“Mother says it’s excellent for one’s health,” Lord Lane said with all the gravitas of one handing down a royal decree. “And our physician agrees with her.”

As if his mother was the first one to have deduced as much, Claire thought. “Many educated persons say the same, or so I’ve heard.”

Michael grinned. “But have you noticed that physicians only encourage Ba-ath for specific periods of time? It’s always, ‘Ba-ath for six weeks, or two months.’ If it’s so healthy, it’s a wonder they don’t recommend a permanent relocation.”

Again, every time Michael said “Bath,” Claire had to resist the urge to narrow her eyes. He seemed to trip over the syllable just a half-second too long, so that the “a” sound in the word was drawn out nearly imperceptibly. She pressed her lips together instead of frowning. Claire knew Michael well enough to know he must have been doing it on purpose…but why?

“Whatever do you mean, Rutheridge?” Lord Hart asked.

“If Ba-ath were so healthy, and if physicians truly cared about the health of their patients above all else, there would be a stampede to move there, as doctors round the country prescribed it. However, it’s a rare physician who would send all of his patients away indefinitely—that would be counterproductive to making a living, you see.”

Lord Lane frowned as if Michael had just denigrated the entire profession and the man’s mother, besides.

Claire gave a little jerk at Michael’s words—not because she found them shocking, as she didn’t have a metaphorical horse in this particular conversational race—but because she’d just figured out what Michael was playing at when he said “Bath.”

Michael had referred to Tweeds as being sheep only minutes ago. Now, when he spoke to these men, every time he came to that particular “a” sound, he was drawing it out. “Bath” became “Baaahth,” “can” became “caaahn,” and so forth. He was baaa-ing in these gentleman’s faces, and they had no idea!

Though she found his clever put-down dreadfully—and regretfully—funny, Claire couldn’t burst out laughing as she might have done were they alone. Instead, she clamped down on the sudden urge, making a tiny strangled noise instead.

Michael turned to her, grinning like he’d won something. “I daresay, Claire. Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said, her voice wavering with her suppressed laughter.

Michael waggled his eyebrows, his smile growing wider. “Are you sure you aren’t in need of a trip to Ba-ath?”

She regained control and said primly, “Not at all. Pardon me—I thought I saw a bee.”

“A bee?” Lord Lane nearly shrieked, whipping around to look. “I knew we shouldn’t have dallied next to these flowers. Didn’t I tell you as much when we stopped, Partridge?”

Lord Saunders rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome to go on ahead.”

“If it helps, I was mistaken,” Claire added.