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For some reason, Percy appeared to look visibly uncomfortable. “Not that I know of, Your Grace.”
Joyce Alexandra Bolt was a wise woman, and she knew better than to pry into her son’s affairs. Whatever it was that was bothering him, she knew she would find out soon enough.
Besides, I might hear of it from the gossip mill sooner or later, she thought with no small amount of amusement.It is rather rare for them to be accurate, though.
Her son, in spite of his popularity in the ballrooms of London, kept a mostly private life, which was probably why the faintest whiff of gossip about him titillated the bored members of the elite.
That, and the fact that he was the heir to one of the oldest and noblest titles in England.
Joyce sighed and shook her head. Young ladies were willing to gamble away a lifetime of happiness for the chance to be a duchess. Heaven only knew what heartache came with that title. She would never wish it on even her oldest enemies.
But she supposed, she was rather charitable like that. She never dwelt on the ills of the past, even on the ones caused by her own dear departed husband.
She sat down in her usual seat as a maid dutifully appeared at her side.
“Would you like some tea, Your Grace?” the maid asked.
Joyce nodded and smiled. “I seem to recall we have that lovely one with the roses, yes?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very well, I shall have that.”
“Anything else, Your Grace?”
She turned her eyes towards the head of the table, the seat that Daniel usually occupied. She smiled softly and said, “Just some toast with butter and jam.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
As the maid scurried off to the kitchens to relay her orders, the Dowager Duchess sighed and looked around her with a slightly melancholy air. All around her, the grandeur and splendor of the Bolt family were in full display.
It seems that their ancestors liked to rub their wealth and power in the face of everyone who came to visit, she thought wryly.A pity that they could never take it with them to the afterlife.
The maid brought the tea she had requested, and the Dowager Duchess was in the process of pouring herself a cup when a cheerful voice called out, “Good morning, Aunt Joyce!”
She turned around to find her young niece, Melissa, walking into the dining room in a pale pink day dress. Her dark hair was bound into an elegant chignon at her nape, and several coils were left to frame her delicate features.
Melissa was the only child of her younger brother and his wife. She spent most of her childhood in France, but it was her brother’s dearest wish that she return to England to find a husband amongst the Ton, so Joyce had the young lady brought back to London.
“I shall be having those honey cakes, Matilda,” she smiled cheerfully. She turned towards her aunt and delicately arched her eyebrow when she saw that her cousin was not in attendance. “Has His Grace already left?”
“No,” the Dowager Duchess replied as she calmly buttered her toast. “He is still abed. I do worry that he might be ill.”
Melissa chortled and muttered something under her breath that the Duchess did not quite catch. The young lady reached out for the teapot and hastily poured herself a cup.
“I apologize, Aunt Joyce. I seem to have choked on something.”
Something is amiss, the Dowager Duchess realized. But as was her nature, she did not pry much into it. Somehow, things always managed to reveal themselves in due time.
“So…how are you finding London so far?” she asked her niece instead. “Have you set your sights on anyone?”
“No, not yet,” Melissa replied with a flush.
“Have you made new friends, then?”
The younger lady nodded and smiled. “I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Lady Emily Montgomery last night. She was rather nice.”
Joyce seemed to remember a painfully shy young lady with a glorious head of red-gold curls. In her memory, the said young lady was always dressed so poorly, and her heart ached for the girl. She knew that the Marchioness of Rutbridge died young, and the stepmother was not a kind woman.
