Page 32 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Their mutual admiration was paused for a moment as a female servant came in carrying a tea tray.

“Jenkins, where is my grandmother?”

The maid put the heavy tray down and bobbed a curtsey. “She’s having a nap, miss, but she knows you’re back. She said to tell you not to eat all the biscuits, as she would join you in a little while.”

Della laughed and handed the plate to Angel. “She knows me too well. Thank you, Jenkins, that will be all.”

Once they were alone, Della poured the tea, handing a cup to Angel.

“So,” Angel said nonchalantly. “About Lord Sheringham.”

Della pulled a face. “There’s not much to say, except that I’m an idiot. He’s been my brother’s friend for as long as I can remember, and for most of that time I fancied myself in love with him. Hardly an original story, is it?”

Angel sipped her tea, setting the cup down gently as she regarded Della. “He’s very handsome, I imagine he can be charming when he wants.”

“And an absolute viper when he doesn’t,” Della said bitterly. Colour rose to her cheeks, and she stared down into her teacup. “It was my own fault. I tried… I tried to tell him and—”

She swallowed and Angel reached out a hand, covering Della’s. “I’ll never tell another soul. Upon my honour.”

Della made a soft sound that might have been a laugh, though it had a bitter quality to it. “He asked if I had lost my mind, or if I believed he had. Why in the name of everything holy would he risk his friendship with Hawkney for a ‘silly spoiled chit just out of the schoolroom?’ He said to go away and grow up, ‘or try your charms on a man with more hair than wit—except his words were rather less kind than those, but I shan’t repeat the whole.’”

Angel winced, her heart aching for Della, who told the story lightly, but that it had hurt her deeply was beyond doubt.

“He was right, of course. I should thank him really, for he’s set me free. All these years I’ve pined for a man who never looked at me twice. I have been silly and childish, and it’s time I grew up. All the same, I felt I deserved to be treated rather kindlier than that.”

There was a mixture of regret and defiance in the words and Angel nodded, squeezing her fingers.

“Men can be wretched creatures, but there are good ones out there too. You deserve to find a man who will value you, who will look at you and think himself the luckiest man on God’s green earth because you have deigned to smile upon him.”

Della laughed, looking far more cheerful. “There, I felt sure you would understand. And now you have listened to my shameful secret, I beg you will share one of your own. I will take it to my grave, of that you may be assured.”

Angel patted Della’s hand and reached for her tea. She did not know Della well enough to be certain that the revelation of her bloodline would not be a terrible shock to her. She did not appear to be a snob, but her brother was known for being high in the instep. Besides, Angel did not think it was the kind of confession Della wanted. “I believe you, but at present I have no dark secret to share with you, though I am hopeful I will find one dreadful enough to please you in due time.”

She winked at Della, who regarded her with interest.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I believe you will.”

They looked up as the door opened and a grand old lady walked in. She was still straight and elegant and wore a gown of deep royal blue. A magnificent sapphire and diamond necklace glittered at her throat, and many bracelets adored her wrists. Angel shot to her feet and performed a deep curtsey.

When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly deep and somewhat crackly. “Get up, child, I’m not the queen.”

Angel darted a glance at Della, who returned a rueful smile.

“Grandmama, this is my friend, Miss Angelica Everdene. Miss Everdene, my grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney.”

“Well, come here, gel, where I can see you.”

Angel obligingly moved closer so the dowager could look her over. Blue eyes, faded with age but shrewdly interested, examined her. “Lovely. Got foreign blood, have you? All that jetty hair and them dark eyes are unusual. Nearly black.”

“I believe my grandmother was Spanish, my lady,” Angel replied, hoping that would suffice, for she really did not know more. Her father’s pedigree was excellent, and entirely British, but Black Jack knew little of his heritage, save a few vague memories before he’d run away to sea as a child, stowing away and landing a job as a cabin boy.

The dowager seemed to consider this as she settled herself in the chair with the cushions. Della hurried over to help her, arranging them to her satisfaction. “Everdene, you say? Ah, ain’t your pa Cecil Everdene? Youngest son of Viscount Crowley? He built that flashy house on the far side of the village?”

“Gee-Gee!” Della exclaimed, straightening up to glare at her outspoken relation.

“Well, it is flashy,” the old woman objected. “But then Cecil was always something of a dandy, as I recall.”

Angel choked back a laugh. Oh, she could not wait to tell Black Jack about this meeting, even if he was the one responsible for the flashy design and not her father.