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“Why would I want one of your squalid trophies of conquest?” he queried, pushing the estate ledgers aside.
Hugh guffawed. “Sniff it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I’ll do it!” And Hugh drew the material to his nose, eyes closed. “Ah, a faint feminine lavender, a trace of tender tuberose, a hint of voluptuous vanilla, and…the unmistakable waft of masculine clove.” He winked and threw the petticoat to the desk once more. “There’s an oil stain all along the trim.”
Attempting not to show he was impressed, Rhys sniffed the item from afar. “Dare I ask?”
“How it came to be in my possession? Or whose room it was acquired from?” Hugh poured himself a coffee from the silver pot on the side table. “That is the scent from Miss Beaujeu’s flask, is it not?”
With a nod, Rhys steepled his fingers, waiting for Hugh to glug his beverage and make himself comfortable on the chaise.
Following Elen’s excursion to the mausoleum, the young ladies had spent the rest of the morning in the gardens and were now resting, but Rhys had been ignoring his ducal duties for too long and so had set aside this afternoon to sort through any problems, including efforts to keep the Welsh within Wales.
Over the past few years, winters had been bleak, the inland fields too frozen for too long to sow seed, and a slew of absent landlords had evicted their long-serving tenants and replaced them with sheep.
Not enough local work had prompted many a Welshman to seek for better in Liverpool or Manchester, or even further afield in America or Canada. In fifty years, it felt as though there would be nobody left.
“One of the maids found it stuffed under a mattress,” Hugh conceded at long last.
“I’d assumed you’d wandered the bedchambers last night whilst everyone was listening to the Famed Personage.”
“I considered it, but…” He leaned forward. “Grubbing around innocents’ drawers is a little seedy even for me.”
Rhys smirked. “And dallying with maids isn’t?”
“What do you take me for?” He appeared highly affronted. “I bribed her with a guinea. Anyhow, don’t you wish to know whose mattress it was under?”
He merely raised a ducal brow.
“Miss Pritchard’s,” Hugh stated. “Not too much of a surprise.”
Rhys slumped in his chair. “This is my fault, damn it.” He rubbed palms over his face. “But why her? Seems a pleasant girl.”
“My view… Miss Pritchard has had five Seasons with scant success and her father declared this was to be her last. He’s a disagreeable sort, to tell you the truth, and I heard gossip amongst the chaperones that if Miss P fails to haul you to the altar, he’s to offload her to an even more disagreeable aunt.” He sipped his coffee. “Your…partiality to the governess must have been noticed and under such pressure to marry, Miss Pritchard felt she had to warn off the competition.”
Rhys glared to the stucco plasterwork overhead. “It was a malicious deed, but I do not want her to suffer the wrath of her father either.”
Hugh swigged the last of his coffee and winced. “Gads, that was bitter. Well, if it were I, and Miss Beaujeu is agreeable, I would speak to Miss Pritchard and convince her to leave of her own accord. I am sure she can come up with an excuse – an ailment, perhaps? That way, she owes you a debt of gratitude for not revealing her perfidy to her unpleasant father yet is repentant for her wrongdoing and loses her chance to bag you.”
Grimacing, Rhys closed his eyes for a moment as a thought struck. “Have you seen Cousin Winifred of late?”
“In June. She was lamenting the end of the Season.”
“Still seeking a companion?”
“Ah, I see where you’re headed. And yes.”
Rhys pondered for a while. Cousin Winifred had been a widow for ten years now and enjoyed attending the London Season, but when they’d last spoken, she was a little melancholic at the lack of company in Wales over winter.
“Perhaps Winifred could sponsor Miss Pritchard, in some way? And in return, she would have a companion for as long as Miss Pritchard was content to do so. It would keep the young lady within the social whirl and yet independent of her father. I would have to arrange an introduction, of course, to see if they suit, but…”
“A fine idea.”
“Do you think Cousin Elen should be informed of all this?”
“Lud! And explain to her your presence in the governess’ room the other night. Rather you than me. She still lauds your heroics in the dove tale. How could you, by the by? I spent hours spinning that yarn of valiant rescue and then the dove expires in the middle of the night. Poor soul.”
