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"You may..." he began, sounding every bit as enthusiastic as a man of his position sentencing himself to hard labour. "...join us this afternoon, Your Grace."
Eliza's smile bloomed instantly.
"Provided," Arthur added, attempting to recover at least a fragment of authority, "that your own engagements permit it."
"They do!" she answered before he had even finished speaking, and then he watched as she glanced towards the clock upon the mantelpiece.
"Oh goodness... I mustn't be late for dancing."
Offering each gentleman a cheerful nod, she gathered her skirts, leaving a half-disturbed breakfast on her plate and swept from the room almost as quickly as she had entered it, the door swinging softly shut behind her.
Silence lingered for precisely three seconds. Arthur calmly picked up his knife.
Laurence continued buttering his toast.
Without a single word, Arthur threw it.
The blade buried itself in the oak panelling scarcely two inches from Laurence's shoulder with an accuracy born of significant military service.
Laurence looked at the knife. Then at Arthur and then calmly reached for the marmalade.
"I see that your aim has improved much since yesterday," he said, before continuing with his breakfast.
The Duke of Buckingham and Lord Benedict eventually migrated to the study. By the end of the parliamentary season they intended to force the House of Lords into a vote on military expenditure. It would require careful planning, patient persuasion, and, in several cases, considerable manipulation. Arthur had never objected to the latter where the interests of the country were concerned. As such, the pair were compiling a list of adversaries that they could approach for support.
"Lord Dover," asked Laurence.
"Yes.”
Laurence made a neat mark beside the name before his quill continued down the page.
"Lord Cunningham..." Laurence’s lips curled with quiet amusement. "He has only just recovered from the tongue-lashing you gave him at White's two winters ago. Let us put him down as... a perhaps."
Arthur allowed himself the faintest smile. He remembered Cunningham rather well.
The son of a prosperous family of glassmakers, the man had mistaken polite civility for friendship. He attempted to clap Arthur upon the shoulder during supper at their gentlemen's club, White's, speaking to him as though they had spent years hunting together.
Arthur had corrected that misunderstanding with admirable efficiency.
He still remembered Cunningham's expression as confidence gave way to panic, the shorter man stammering over his own words before retreating altogether. It remained one of the more sensible decisions Lord Cunningham had ever made.
The quiet rhythm of scratching quills resumed, broken only by the occasional turning of parchment or Laurence's thoughtful humming as another name found its place upon the list.
A faint knock at the study door disturbed the silence.
Arthur's hand stilled almost immediately.
He recognised that knock purely by its dissimilarity to all others.
"Enter."
Eliza appeared at the threshold exactly as he had expected. She wore a simple navy day dress, altogether plainer than those she favoured for dinner, though no less elegant in its simplicity. Her hair had once again been arranged into an elaborate knot, though strands had escaped whatever heroic attempt Vinnie had made to contain them that morning. A healthy flush still coloured her cheeks, almost certainly earned during another vigorous morning spent dancing, and beneath one arm she carried a sketchbook.
He noticed, too, without consciously meaning to, that she was barefoot once again.
She paused for the briefest moment as though ensuring she had not interrupted anything important before slipping quietly inside. Laurence acknowledged her with a courteous inclination of his head but never looked up from the correspondence before him, but Arthur did not miss the slight upward twitch at the corner of his friend's mouth.
He knew Laurence well enough to recognise satisfaction when he saw it.
