Page 6 of Libby's London Merchant
He looked back at his butler, who was controlling his expression through mighty effort and years of training. “And if you can locate a gig, Luster, do so at once, only do not trumpet it about.”
“Very well, your grace,” Luster replied as he ushered out the candy salesman and bowed himself from the room. “And should I procure a moleskin vest for you, perhaps?”
“You do and we part company, Luster. There are some lengths to which I will not go, not even for friendship!”
2
As much as she loved her cousin, Elizabeth Ames knew that when the carriage door shut, when the last instructions were shouted out of the window, and when the frantically waving handkerchief disappeared in a cloud of dust, she would go inside, kick off her shoes, and succumb to the bliss of a cup of tea in the middle of the day.
Such dissipation was rare. Elizabeth rarely found time for such luxury, but she knew she had earned it, especially now, as she helped Lydia pack, which meant her cousin stood by looking helpless.
“Libby, you are absolutely not attending.”
Elizabeth looked up from the sarcenet gown she was carefully wadding with tissue paper. “You are absolutely right,” she agreed, and flashed her sunny smile at her cousin, who was struggling with the strap of the portmanteau now. “Lydia dear, I remember all your instructions. I will water your plants, pet your cats, feed your canary, and revive any would-be suitors who droop on the doorstep.” She kissed her cousin. “That’s the best you can expect of me.”
Lydia hugged her cousin and gave the strap another halfhearted tug. “Oh, Libby, what a pickle this is.”
She took exception to Libby’s grin, which went from animated to roguish. “Don’t think for one minute that this is easy,” Lydia said. She flopped down on her bed and stared at the ceiling, her hands folded across her ample chest in unconscious imitation of vaulted ancestors. “I will miss Reginald.”
Lydia paused a moment, as if waiting for the tears to fell. When they did not, she sat up and watched her cousin, who continued to pack. “Libby, not that way! You’re wrinkling my gown. Here, let me show you,” Lydia explained. She took the offending item from her cousin, folding it inexpertly. “Like that.”
“Yes, Lydia.” Libby turned away so her cousin would not see that her smile had broadened. “As to Reginald, he will recover, and probably still be here in the autumn when you return, my dear.”
“I suppose you are right.” Lydia sighed and threw herself down again, her hands behind her head. “Oh, Libby, just suppose I meet someone special in Brighton—it happens, you know. I have it on the best authority—and suppose Reginald shows up.” She rolled her eyes. “Libby, there could be a duel. Imagine!”
“Yes, just imagine,” Libby agreed. “Blood everywhere.”
Lydia raised herself up on one elbow. “I don’t believe that a more practical human was born than you.”
“Likely not,” Libby agreed as she closed the trunk and sat upon it. She clasped her hands together and regarded her cousin seriously. “But that is not the issue. You know, my dear, it could be that Eustace Wiltmore is the very one for you. After all, your father has mentioned him and his family for years.”
Lydia groaned. “Eustace! What kind of romantical name is that? I would as likely marry Dr. Cook as someone named Eustace.”
The cousins giggled together.
“That would never do, Lydia,” said Libby. “Dr. Cook would probably fumble about for his glasses at the altar! No, I think Eustace—whatever he is like—would have a bit more address than our good doctor.”
Libby went to the dressing table and sorted through the jumble, throwing brushes and combs into a bag. “Dear cousin, do you really think Eustace is coming here this summer? You have not even had your come out yet.”
“I told you! Marcia Ravens wrote me from London that she overheard him at a party talking to that man, Duke something or other. Oh, you remember. The Waterloo hero.” Lydia sighed. “I suppose I will have to meet Eustace someday, but not before my come out this winter. Surely Papa will understand.”
Libby sniffed at Lydia’s favorite rose scent and dabbed a drop behind her ear. “Your papa will wonder why you have come to Brighton. You know he will.’’
Lydia made a face. “He will not! Papa is more absentminded than the king in his best moments.” She giggled. “He will wonder at the expense, as though he hadn’t more juice than a sirloin roast. No, the king is a regular paragon, compared to Papa, I declare.”
Both girls paused in silence for dear old mad George. Libby put her arm about her cousin. “Lydia, I do thank you for insisting that Mama go with you. It was a stroke of genius, and my uncle will be so pleased.”
Lydia returned the hug and then turned around. “Button me, there’s a dear. You know my papa requires his creature comforts, and Aunt Ames’s occasional jam tart.”
“Which is probably why he got gout in the first place,” teased Libby, her eyes dancing. “Hold still! How can I do this?” She finished the row of buttons and patted her cousin on the back. “Goodness knows how long it has been since Mama went on holiday.”
“And what better place than Brighton in June?” Lydia declared. “I only wish you were coming too, dear Elizabeth.”
Libby shook her head. “Who would watch over Joseph?”
“Who, indeed?” asked Lydia. She made a face. “At least with Papa gone, Dr. Cook will not come bumbling around.”
“You are entirely unfair,” Libby protested, and then laughed. “But I never did know anyone else to trip over a pattern in the carpet. He will be safer with Uncle away and tended by a Brighton doctor.”
