Page 38 of The Best-Kept Secrets
“Good heavens,” Nia whispered, looking around with an expression of overawe that matched what Eve felt. “Do you suppose Colm realizes that most of the Huntresses live uncomfortably near to the cliff of poverty?”
“Either he does, and he likes us anyway, or once he discovers the truth, we’ll learn a few things about him that we might rather not know.”
The awe in Nia’s eyes shifted to something closer to mortification. Neither of them had ever loved that their finances didn’t bear scrutiny, but they’d not felt embarrassed by their meager finances whilst with the Huntresses. Eve was feeling a little overwhelmed at how much worse their situation was now. But Nia wasn’t aware of that change. What, then, had her suddenly conscious of their indigence?
They followed Duke to where Colm stood beside a couple of the same generation as the Huntresses’ and Pack’s parents. These, obviously, were his. He bore a striking resemblance to both of them. And the combination was inarguably handsome. He and Scott Sarvol, who had married Gillian, another of the Huntresses, were the sort who constantly turned heads, the sort of handsome that seemed almost impossible.
“Welcome to Fairfield,” Mr. Greenberry said. “We’re pleased you’ve arrived.”
They all exchanged bows and curtsies.
Mrs. Greenberry smiled at her newly arrived family members. Her expression was a little strained but not surprised. “Mother. Duke. ’Tis good to see you both.” She was Irish; it was woven subtly in every syllable she spoke.
“His name is Dubhán,” Mrs. Seymour said tightly.
“I call him by the name he has asked me to use.” The explanation was calm, no sharpness present, yet no one could miss the tension in her explanation.
Duke jumped in, addressing Colm. “Thank you for convincing your parents to host this. I hope you have adequately warned them about the chaos they have invited.”
“Chaos is always more fun when it is unexpected.” Colm grinned, which would have been enough to render a few young ladies in London incapable of speech for several long minutes. “Mother, Father, these lovely young ladies are the O’Doyle sisters.” He motioned to Eve. “Miss Aoife O’Doyle and”—he motioned to Nia—“Miss Niamh O’Doyle.”
Their Irish names, and perfectly pronounced. That seldom happened in England. Eve enjoyed hearing it, but it hadn’t nearly the impact Duke’s whispering of her name had had.
“Miss O’Doyle is generally called Eve,” Colm added, “and Miss Niamh is known as Nia.”
“Irish girls.” Mrs. Greenberry could hardly have looked more pleased. “I’ve not been back to Ireland in far too long.”
“’Tis a place that calls to the heart no matter how far away that heart resides,” Eve said.
“My wife’s accent grows heavier when she’s in company with other Irish people,” Mr. Greenberry said with a happy warning. “By the end of this house party, I will not be able to understand her at all.”
Though Mrs. Greenberry and Colm laughed, Mrs. Seymour did not appear at all amused. But, then, she never did. She looked as if she meant to say something, and that something was unlikely to infuse additional happiness into the exchange.
Duke spoke before she could. “Aunt Penelope, have you heard from my father? He was supposed to meet us at the Wren and Badger in Epsom, but he and Mother had already departed when we arrived, and the innkeeper didn’t know where they’d gone.”
She looked at her nephew with empathy in her eyes. “They are here. I didn’t realize they hadn’t left instructions that you be told of their location, otherwise we would have sent word to the inn.”
“Where is Liam?” Mrs. Seymour demanded.
“I believe he is in the drawing room with the other guests,” Mrs. Greenberry said.
“Guests?” Mrs. Seymour scoffed. “You relegate your only brother to a mereguest?”
“I believe, Grandmother,” Duke said, “she used the wordotheron account of the O’Doyle sisters being guests.”
Whether or not that was true, it was a rather ingenious bit of placating. Duke truly was an expert at this, which made Eve feel a little sad.
“Colm,” Mr. Greenberry said, “accompany the O’Doyles to the drawing room.”
“I suspect there is a ‘with all possible haste’ hidden in that request,” Colm said.
“If you have such a suspicion,” Mr. Greenberry said, “I wonder that you have not snapped to.” When Mr. Greenberry smiled, his resemblance to his son grew.
Colm responded to his father with a perfectly executed salute. His years in the army were obvious in that moment. With an elegant grace that had likely been terribly out of place during his time fighting in the war against Napoleon, Colm stepped over to where Eve and Nia stood. He offered them each an arm.
“Ought we to run?” Eve asked under her breath with a feigned air of worry.
“Likely,” he said, “but that would ruin the effect, do you not think?”
