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‘I say, Miss Carstairs,’ said Hugo. ‘I think I am beginning to like you.’
It was all she could do to resist the urge to poke out her tongue at him. He was the kind of boy who dragged everyone down to his level.
Fortunately Lady Mixby took her arm before she could poke out her tongue, or hurl any dishes, or slap anyone’s face.
‘I know you recall the way to the morning room, but let me get you settled into a comfortable chair—not too close to the fire, but out of any draught,’ she said, leading her across the hall and into the reception room she’d been in earlier that day.
It was no longer flooded with light. The sun had moved round to shine through the windows in a different part of the house, leaving the whole room rather gloomy, in spite of the fire crackling in the grate. She wondered that the ladies chose to withdraw to this room in the evenings, and why they called it the morning room if it was used at other times of the day.
‘Rather than have you all bombarding me with questions,’ said Gregory, once they’d all taken seats in various parts of the room that Prudence thought ought more properly to be called the...the sitting room. Or the ladies’ parlour. Or something that actually described the fact that ladies used it at many times of the day. ‘I have decided it would be better for me to relate my story in my own words.’
Typical. Everything had to be his own way.
‘But before I begin it occurs to me that it would be rather ungentlemanly of us to sit here drinking our port while you ladies go without refreshment. So I wonder if you would care to join us. Just this once? While we are dispensing with tradition?’
‘Oh!’ Lady Mixby’s face lit up. ‘How novel. Yes, I should love to try a glass of port.’
‘Miss Benderby?’
‘I’ll not refuse, Your Grace.’
He opened his mouth, as though to ask Prudence if she’d like a glass of port, and then paused. Was he recalling her objection to him calling her Miss Carstairs in that odious manner? Was it too much to hope he was actually considering her feelings?
She turned to Lady Mixby. ‘I have never tried it, either, Lady Mixby,’ she said, ‘and I’m not sure if I should.’
‘I am sure it cannot be wrong, since His Grace has suggested it,’ said Lady Mixby, making Prudence grind her teeth.
‘You can have tea, if you would prefer it,’ said His Grace. ‘I shall have to ring for more glasses anyway. I can easily ask them to bring a pot and cups while they’re at it.’
‘I will light the candles while we’re waiting,’ said Benderby, getting to her feet. ‘Then the servants will have no excuse to come knocking on the door without us sending for them.’
‘Oh, what a good idea,’ said Lady Mixby. ‘This room is always so gloomy in the afternoons. It will look so much more cheerful with some light.’
So why do you sit here, then? Prudence wanted to ask, but didn’t. It would only show her up as someone who didn’t understand the way the upper classes lived and made use of their houses.
As Benderby went round lighting the candles and drawing the curtains Prudence succumbed to the temptation to try a glass of port. She had a feeling that a cup of tea wasn’t going to be enough to sustain her through the rest of the evening. She was going to have to sit and listen to Gregory explaining away the reasons he’d allowed an impertinent nobody to inveigle him into a betrothal. Oh, why hadn’t she asked to speak to him in private earlier? They could now be explaining that it had all been a mistake. That she’d had no idea who he was when she’d proposed. That she was doing her best to put things right.
Perkins arrived, and Gregory ordered him to bring three more glasses.
‘And will that be all, Your Grace?’ Perkins glanced round the room, his eyes resting briefly on the lit candles, the drawn curtains, and the full coal scuttle sitting on the hearth by the blazing fire.
‘We shall ring if we require anything else,’ said Gregory firmly.
Which left Perkins in no doubt that he had better not return to this room without that summons.
‘I shall begin by explaining,’ said Gregory to Prudence as he brought her a glass and poured just half an inch of the rich blood-red liquid into it from his decanter, ‘why I told you my name is Willingale and not about my title.’ He paused, his lips tightening for a second. ‘I suspect that by now you have worked out that some of what I have been doing over this past week is on account of a wager I made with Hugo.’
Prudence nodded. Her feelings were so turbulent she couldn’t have formed a sensible response even had she wanted to.
