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“I do not think Beatrice will countenance violence,” she said. “In fact, I know she will not. I am not apprised of the details, but I can say with confidence her first marriage was not harmonious.”
“I have no doubt it was not.” He knew only too well what marriage to Castleton would have entailed for the unlucky wife.
“If she were wed to such as he without being any the wiser…” Felicity worried her eggs with her fork.
“Humans have unknowingly wed Shifters and remained in ignorance for the whole of their lives,” Alfred said. “I am certain the new duchess is informed regarding our kind, however. As you are now aware, one can tell if one knows what to look for. She held herself aloof to all and sundry, but when sundry wasversipellis, she was very much on her guard.”
He perused the rest of the letter. “Ah. Yes, here, Bates was likely required as a witness, for they were indeed wed directly after we were, in Carlton House.”
“Oh! But—” Felicity rose before a footman or three could pull out her chair. “This has every hallmark of an unwanted alliance. I shall write to her straightaway.” She threw her napkin down and then picked it up and folded it. How like her, ever striving to make less work for the staff. “Have you their direction?”
Arthur rose and took hisvera amorum’s hand. “I suspect they have taken up residence in Arcadia, the Humphries homeplace.”
“Arcadia. How beautiful it sounds,” said Felicity as she ran her hand along his arm to stroke his biceps.
Alfred shrugged. “If it has been uninhabited since his father’s time,” he said as they left the room, “I suspect it is in a state far less beautiful than its name.”
***
“…and after the roof, we shall see to the securing and the cleaning of the glasshouse,” Beatrice said. “Although I do not know if there are any present able to take it in hand immediately.” Despite Osborn’s strictures, Beatrice intended to see the glasshouse firsthand. The sky was clear, and she needed exercise, but there was so much to accomplish indoors, not the least of which was writing a letter to Miss Templeton. No, she must address her as “Your Grace” now.
She turned to Mr. Todd. “I shall revise the schedule and plan for at least ten footmen from Lowell Hall.”
“Ten!” The duke left off his morose inspection of the bookcases.
“Too few, Your Grace?” Beatrice asked and was answered with an apoplectic glare. She turned back to Mr. Todd. “I shall require delivery of a letter to the Duchess of Lowell as soon as I have the writing of it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mr. Todd ran a finger along the edge of a bookcase much in the same way a smitten swain tickled his intended’s palm. “I will take it myself as I am able for this terrain and will be unremarkable as the night draws in.”
“Carrying it in your mouth like a lapdog?” Osborn sniped.
“I trust Mr. Todd will contrive to preserve his dignity.” Whatever species the prince’s factotum was, he was not making it known to her. Beatrice supposed he trusted her as reluctantly as she trusted him, but Mr. Todd was proving more of an ally in the resuscitation of Arcadia than was the duke, and she suspected she had a reward he would appreciate. Mr. Todd may know more than his fair share about flora, but it was here, at the heart of household order, he wished to be at home. “Please take the time to familiarize yourself with this room, the books and such, and perhaps begin going through the pigeonholes,” she said.
Osborn was muttering aboutcats that were not cats set amongst the pigeonswhen the clatter of a carriage sounded from the drive.
“Are you expecting visitors, Your Grace?” Who in the world would be calling upon them? Good Lord, she was as filthy as a chimney sweep and in no way disposed to greet guests.
Osborn shoved his way to the window. He cursed at what he saw and strode out of the room.
Beatrice and Mr. Todd followed him through the house and out to the forecourt as an aged coach rocked to a stop, an oversubscribed baggage cart halting behind.
There were no postillions; the coachman leaned over to spit in the gravel and made no move to descend from his seat. The door popped open, and a lanky man emerged. He beamed at Osborn, and a small woman, of a height and figure to Beatrice, although brunette rather than blonde, appeared in the doorway. The man swept her down to the ground with a spin and a flourish, which inspired Osborn to make one of his noises, this one akin to coal rattling around in a scuttle.
“Your drive could do with a good raking,” called the lady.
“What would you know about a good raking?” The man laughed and pinched her cheek, kissed her, and gave her his arm. Three small children tumbled out of the carriage and raced around in circles, exuberant in their freedom.
“Not that sort, you ridiculous beast,” the lady laughed.
“Brother,” said the man, voice full of emotion. He embraced Osborn, who returned it with reluctance. Now that Beatrice looked more closely, she could see the resemblance, despite the younger Humphries being leaner in body, brighter in aspect and minus the formidable coiffing of his elder. He laughed with joy as Osborn gave in and turned his face into his brother’s neck.
“Sister!” exclaimed the lady, and Beatrice found herself enfolded with surprising strength and rocked side to side. She wormed her way out of the embrace and stood, fingers locked together at her waist to hide her shaking hands. The children joined them and gaped at her with awe, as if she was a foreigner from an exotic land.
“Your Grace,” Osborn growled, once he was free from his brother’s grasp. “May I make known to you my brother, Garben, and his wife, Charlotte, who have deigned to surprise us with a visit.” Charlotte bobbed a belated curtsy, and one of the girls looked mortified.
“Call me Ben,” said her brother-in-law; he bowed and then leaned in to buss her on the cheek.
“You are beautiful,” Charlotte pronounced. “And your figure is delightful.”
