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Neither the erudite Lady Joan or the beautiful and talkative -but rather irritating- Miss Smith could drive the image of Miss Wyre from his mind.
Rosaline.
Benedict closed his eyes momentarily.
“Are you sleeping, Your Grace?” Mrs. Smith said waspishly. Benedict’s eyes flew open.
Miss Smith was pouting, her perfectly shaped bottom lip protruding out, making her look like a disgruntled bulldog. Benedict stared at her, wondering what on earth her suitors found to admire in her, besides her symmetrical face and blonde locks.
“Aren’t youlistening, Your Grace?” she complained. Her voice was high pitched and unbearably whiny. “I was telling you about the gown I wore at Lady Susan’s supper party last night. It was much admired; I can tell you that. Lord Finn said that it was the most darling gown he had ever seen and suited me perfectly. Now, Mr. Everett said…”
“Excuse me for just a moment.” Benedict said abruptly. He rose, ignoring the outraged looks from both mother and daughter. He hurried through the tearoom, catching the proprietor by the arm and hastily settling their bill.
What he was about to do was the height of rudeness, but Benedict really couldn’t bear another minute in the company of the Smith ladies. They’d barely been here an hour, and already he hoped never to see them again.
“What should I say to your guests, Your Grace?” the proprietor asked, eyeing the handful of coins that Benedict had given her, far more than was needed to pay the bill.
Benedict stared down at the woman. Every moment he spent in here was another moment that the Smiths could come with an excuse to make him stay. They’d already dropped hints that he should have supper with them that very night.
The woman wilted. “Shall I say you were called away on urgent business?” she stammered.
“You might as well. Good day.”
Benedict stepped out of the teashop, breathing in deep lungfuls of air. He didn’t allow himself long to revel in his freedom, however. Both Lady Joan and Miss Smith had convinced him – albeit in different ways – that he was not going to find what he searched for here in London’s Society.
He began to walk purposefully. People eyed him nervously, stepping out of the way of the tall, well-built gentleman with the hard eyes and impeccable clothes, but Benedict barely noticed.
If his memory served him correctly – and it always did – Benedict was looking for a place called Wisteria Road.
Wisteria Road was not a particularly nice part of London. Of course, it was still better than most of London. It was a row of townhouses that had evidently once been very nice but had grown rather ramshackle of late. The streets were dirty, with rubbish being to pile up in some corners. Benedict could not think of one member of thetonthat lived here.
With one exception, of course.
He found the door he was looking for and rapped smartly upon it. A tall, cadaverous butler opened the door, wearing threadbare livery and shoes that were not as shiny as they should be. The man looked tired, and too old to still be working as a butler.
“May I help you, sir?” he asked, his voice sonorous. He eyed Benedict suspiciously.
“Iam His Grace the Duke of Keswick.” Benedict bluntly, watching the color drain from the man’s face. “Are any of the Wyre family at home? I should like to have an audience with them.”
The butler blustered something and gestured for him to step inside. He closed the door and hurried towards a half-open door further down the hall. Benedict could hear murmured voices from inside.
He took a moment to look around. The house had clearly been very grand once. There were high ceilings now clogged with cobwebs, and a faint musty smell stole through the hallway. The carpet beneath his feet was threadbare, completely worn through in some places. There were cracks in the wooden paneling, sections of paint peeling away, and a vain attempt had been made to make some wallpaper stick back to the wall.
There was a bookcase near the door, set in the hall as a decoration piece. The books were all old volumes, designed to be looked and admired rather than read. Unable to help himself, Benedict ran a fingertip along a shelf, and it came up thick with dust.
The musty smell in the house was replaced by another smell, a cooking smell that was wafting up from the kitchen. Benedict wrinkled his nose, trying to place it.
Ah, yes. Tripe. They were cooking tripe, vile stuff that it was.
“Your Grace?”
Benedict turned from his inspect of the bookshelves, raising his eyebrows at the butler.
The man gestured for Benedict to walk into the room, so he did.
It was a morning-room, he thought, full of faded velvet sofas, peeling wallpaper, and a profusion of dust. He could see where there had been an attempt to dust some of the cabinets and furniture, but it was too little, too late. There were cobwebs on the old chandelier too, which rather dominated the room.
Three people stood up to greet him when he entered. There was a short man, very thin, with a snubby, pig-like nose and eyes alight with greed and interest. He darted forward, grasping Benedict’s hand in a wet, weak handshake.
