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Two weeks after meeting with the solicitor, they received a letter from a long-lost aunt, announcing the existence of her great-nephew and expressing her sorrow for the loss of their father, her brother. In truth, the siblings had not spoken since Lord Comden’s marriage to aharlot of the stage. The girls’ mother had been a talented opera singer, giving up a promising career to marry the handsome baron. He had been smitten at first sight,or first note,he had often joked.
Tia had inherited their mother’s pale beauty. Etta had her voice. But the shared traits of loving parents did little to assuage their grief.
*
Theclip clopof horse hooves echoed against the paved stones. Etta hurried to the parlor window to see the coach as it slowed to a stop in the courtyard. An unfamiliar gold crest shone against the black enamel as a footman hastened to open the door. A tall, slender man, his expensive greatcoat swirling around gleaming black boots, stepped out and surveyed the tidy surroundings. Riotous blond curls peeked out from beneath his beaver hat, and a wide smile lit his handsome face. He spoke to the driver, his breath forming white puffs in the cold afternoon air.
Etta peered out the window, chewing her bottom lip as they studied the viscount.
“He’s very fine.” Tia pushed up next to her and pulled back the drape.
“Stop! Mind your manners,” Etta scolded with a wagging finger.
“What manners?” laughed Tia. “He’s family. He has to love us.”
With a snort, Etta grabbed Tia by the shoulders and turned her toward the door. Apprehension knotted her stomach. Did their cousin know of Tia’s hearing loss? She had a vision of a kindly gentleman treating her sister as an invalid, and the fiery scene that would follow.
MacIntyre appeared, his ebony tailcoat and breeches immaculate. Their butler had been more a father figure the past few years than a servant. He had a quick smile, kind dark eyes, and a Scottish wit that could send the girls into a fit of giggles. His bushy, silver brows rose in question, his hand on the door handle, and Etta nodded.
With a deep breath, she smoothed her black bombazine dress and fiddled with the lace trim at the sleeves. Tia’s arm looped through hers as she dragged them both to the entry hall, her enthusiasm almost contagious. Her sister’s golden waves bounced across her shoulders, radiant against the coffee-colored dress. She refused to wear black, except for the ribbon at her waist and threaded through her locks, declaring there was no one to see them.
MacIntyre turned and put a finger to his lips. He tugged on his waistcoat, smoothed back his sparse gray hair, and opened the door. “Greetings, my lord,” he said in his most imperious tone.
Lord Turnsley stepped inside and handed the Scot his hat without making eye contact. He ran a hand through his wild mane while the butler assisted him with his greatcoat. Etta realized he was much younger than she’d supposed—late twenties, perhaps—with a strong chin and aquiline nose. His silver eyes narrowed and scanned the hall from the marble floor to the rich paneling to the crystal chandeliers.
He’s taking stock,she thought.
MacIntyre cleared his throat and sent a meaningful glance at Etta.
“My lord, how good it is to finally meet you,” she said, stepping forward. “I am Miss Henrietta Comden, and this is my younger sister, Miss Horatia.”
He bent over Etta’s hand, but his eyes were focused on her face. A smile curled his full lips. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Comden.”
He turned and greeted Tia in the same fashion. “My condolences on your loss. Though, it’s a shame such lovely ladies must wear blacks.” He gave them both a deep bow. “But rest assured, there will be plenty of merriment, regardless of our attire.”
Tia clapped her hands and switched from her sister’s arm to her cousin’s, steering him toward the parlor. “I told you not to worry,” she called over her shoulder.
“Would you like to see your quarters first or have some refreshment?” asked Etta. She followed the pair through the pocket doors and sent a desperate, silent plea to MacIntyre.
“I’ll have yer luggage sent to yer chamber, my lord. Would ye like a bath drawn?” MacIntyre motioned for two of the liveried footmen to carry the bags up the wide circular staircase, then joined the group the room.
“To be honest, I’m parched. Do you have any decent brandy in the house?” Turnsley tossed his gangly frame on a chaise longue, one arm sprawled across the back and a leg dangling over the side. He was quite the dandy in striped cream and Pomona breeches, a matching green waistcoat and tails, and an enormous ivory cravat.
It was barely one o’clock. Etta wondered at his imbibing of spirits so early in the day. Then again, she had little knowledge of theton.Perhaps it had been a long journey.
“We’ve brandy, my lord, but I canna guarantee its quality since I’ve no’ partaken.” MacIntyre bowed and left the room.
“Well, I must say I am pleasantly surprised,” began Turnsley as his eyes swept over the dated but expensive silk wallcoverings and heavy drapes. “I expected a couple of dowdy country girls and an estate in shambles. Instead, I find my luck has turned, and all my cards are trumps.”
Etta saw the polite smile curve Tia’s lips, a sign she hadn’t understood what had been said but would not admit it. But their cousin had a friendly demeanor and put them both at ease.
“I’m happy we have pleased you without much effort.” Etta perched on the chintz chair across from her cousin.
“You’ll find I’m quite accommodating. Though I admit I’m used to getting my way.” His well-manicured nails stroked his silk cravat. “Being the only male in my line, the family doesn’t often refuse me.”
Etta wasn’t sure what to think of such an admission. She moved on to another subject. “How was your journey?”
“Without mishap. But it’s a long road from Surrey to Northumberland. Detest the north, too cold.” Turnsley intercepted the butler, who had returned with a full decanter. He splashed some brandy into a crystal glass, tossed it back with a smack of his lips and a satisfied sigh, then refilled the cup before resuming his seat.
