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He very nearly smiled as his mother frowned at him, her act slipping just a trifle. But almost instantly, her face resumed its normal pleasant, albeit blank, expression. Frowning, after all, was so unattractive and gave one lines.
“As I was saying, that silly”—at a glance from Luc she corrected herself—“that man refuses to give me an advance. How am I to possibly manage?”
“At the risk of stating the obvious, you could purchase fewer dresses.”
Beatrice looked truly appalled—the first genuine emotion she had shown so far. “He suggested a similar thing! And that I should purchase less costly ones! As if I could possibly do that! As it is, I am buying only the barest essentials. I don’t expect him to understand, but you should.” She cast an eye over her son’s attire; unlike her young companion, she recognized quality when she saw it. “That coat is from Weston’s if I am not mistaken. He isn’t cheap.”
Beatrice resumed fanning herself vigorously. “Why, next the two of you will be suggesting I wear the same gowns twice! I have a reputation to uphold. People look to me to lead fashion.”
“You sent Banbridge out to pick up a hat for you. How many hats do you already have, mother?”
“The number is beside the point. I bought a new blue silk walking dress, and of course I need a hat to match.”
“And the ruby necklace?”
His mother gave him a coy smile. “I doubt the account for that will be sent to me. Andrew is such a dear boy.”
He watched the expressions flit across her face. Beatrice was nothing if not predictable—to him, at least. Years of watching her try to manipulate his father when he was growing up had made him an expert in his mother’s ploys.
“I really do need an advance. I have horrid tradesmen dunning me. How dare they? The audacity. They are actually demanding I pay them!” His mother looked genuinely shocked at the actions of the tradesmen.
There was a knock on the door, and his butler appeared carrying a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Cynically, he saw it was one of the best his cellar contained.
Seeing him looking at it, Beatrice responded to his unspoken question. “I took the liberty of asking Evans to bring us wine.” She picked up a glass from the tray proffered by the butler. “I am sure you don’t have any objection to your mother refreshing herself.”
He merely looked at her, so she continued, “Actually I was thinking”—she paused and took a sip of wine—“it seems silly for us to have two households. I believe I should live here and act as your hostess.”
Luc was surprised. Not by the offer but that it had taken her so long to make it. His father had been dead for a few years. It had taken her longer than he’d thought to realize this was a way to avoid paying for the upkeep of her own expensive establishment.
His residence was larger, had more well-trained servants to be at her beck and call, and—he took a sip of the twelve-year-old claret Evans handed him—more expensive wine.
And it wouldn’t cramp her style since she’d got into the habit of conducting her affaires at the lodgings of her lovers and continued to do so after the death of her husband.
He often wondered why his father set things up the way he had, with their solicitor taking care of her finances rather than Luc and with Beatrice having a townhouse of her own in London. Perhaps his father had been protecting him. His lips twisted. Unlikely, but that left the question. Why?
With a slight smile, he told her, “Of course, it would also mean you could spend more money at your modistes.”
Beatrice looked at him, her expression horrified, “That never crossed my mind. All I was thinking of was you in this large house on your own without a hostess. Plus I can help in other ways.”
She gestured at the room with her fan. “Take this room, for instance. It is looking distressingly out of date. I would not expect you to notice the faded wallpaper, but a woman sees these things.”
He looked around the room. The Chinese hand-painted wallpaper with its design of flowers and birds on a green background looked as clear and vivid as the day it had been hung. He raised an eyebrow at his mother.
Beatrice fanned herself. “I would have thought you would welcome your mother with open arms. Is it really so hard to believe I am thinking of you? I am, after all, your mother.”
If his mother hadn’t been an aristocrat, she could have gone on the stage—and would have been a great success. Come to think of it, Beatrice and actresses had a lot in common.
Luc drawled, “I find myself wondering where all this maternal feeling has come from. You are, after all, the one who called her baby Lucifer. Scarcely the act of a doting mother.”
Beatrice waved her hand in the air. Airily dismissing the act, he thought sardonically, that had helped make his childhood, appropriately enough, hell.
“I wasn’t myself. Childbirth was difficult for me, and I wasn’t thinking properly.”
The most surprising thing to Luc about this latest encounter with his mother was how little it bothered him. He recognized her for what she was and did not care. She no longer had power over him. A tide of relief swept over him and when it receded left behind a lightness of spirit.
It was because of Ria. And the ladies at the manor. He bit his lip to stop himself from smiling.
In the past few weeks, they had made him part of their family. He now had people to care for and look after. People who seemed to be genuinely fond of him. People who were not interested merely in what he could give them.
