Page 26 of His Lordship's True Lady
She’d faced many challenges and survived. Spending time with Grampion was simply one more torment added to a list that was as long as Lily’s memory, and as near as her own name.
Chapter Six
Hessian left the library door ajar, not to let the spring breezes waft through his house, but because with the door open, he could hear activity in the foyer and thus avoid an ambush if callers disrupted his day. In Cumberland, one visited back and forth with the neighbors, and that was all very pleasant, but in London, socializing was a more portentous undertaking.
Politicians’ wives held dinner parties that decided every bit as much legislation as did parliamentary committee meetings.
A conversation over cards might put a complicated investment scheme in motion.
Ladies sharing a cabriolet for the Fashionable Hour could plan a match between their grown children.
If Worth came sauntering by, or one of Jacaranda’s host of brothers dropped around, Hessian wanted even the few minutes’ notice that he gained by leaving the library door open.
Monday arrived, and well before the appointed hour for Lily Ferguson’s visit, somebody gave the front door knocker a stout rap. Hessian rose from his desk and donned his jacket. Perhaps the lady was as eager as the children—and Hessian—for this call to begin.
“When last Miss Ferguson called, I did not quite make a cake of myself,” he informed his reflection in the mirror over the library’s sideboard. “Neither did I inspire the lady into rapturous enthusiasms.”
Butterflies were shy creatures and so were certain northern earls. Hessian was rehearsing a gracious smile—charming was beyond him—when a feminine voice came from the direction of the foyer.
Not Miss Ferguson.Whoever had presumed on Hessian’s morning was unknown to him and lacked Lily’s gracious, ladylike tone. Hessian was back at his desk—for he’d got halfway across the room at the tap of the knocker—no smile in evidence, when the butler brought in a card on a silver tray.
“Mrs. Braithwaite has come to call, with her companion Miss Smythe.” Hochman’s tone—utterly correct—suggested the caller hadn’t impressed him.
Hessian took the card, plain black script on vellum. Daisy’s aunt… Drat the luck. “Show the ladies to the guest parlor and let the kitchen know we’ll need a tea tray, please.”
“Very good, my lord. Should I notify the nursery as well?”
God, no.“No, thank you. If anybody asks, the child is resting from a trying weekend.” Daisy had tried the patience of every member of the household, waking three times each night in some peculiar state of somnolent terror.
“Let’s use the good silver, Hochman, and if Miss Ferguson arrives while I’m entertaining Mrs. Braithwaite, please put the library to use. Miss Ferguson might entertain herself and the children by reading them a story on the mezzanine.”
“I understand, my lord.” Hochman bowed and withdrew, the silver tray winking in his gloved hand.
Mrs. Braithwaite was much as Hessian recalled her. Her figure was fuller and her use of henna more in evidence. She was handsome rather than pretty, and her gray walking dress sported a dizzying abundance of lace.
Mourning garb, this was not.
At her side was a lovely, willowy blonde in sprigged muslin, one of those pale, quiet creatures who belonged in some enchanted forest with a book of spells rather than swilling tea in Mayfair.
When the bowing and curtseying had been dispensed with, Hessian led the ladies to the formal parlor and ploughed onward to the civilities.
“Mrs. Braithwaite, please accept my sincere condolences on the loss of your sister. Lady Evers was much loved by all the neighbors, and we will miss her dearly.”
Had Hessian loved Belinda, Lady Evers? He’d made love with her on three slightly awkward, mostly forgettable occasions. She’d affectionately pronounced him a failure at dalliance—which he absolutely had been—but he’d liked her and had never questioned her devotion to her children.
“You are so kind to say so, my lord,” Mrs. Braithwaite replied. “I know Belinda could be headstrong, which often happens when a pretty child is overindulged. She was fortunate to find an older husband, because mature men can be so tolerant. This is a lovely town house.”
One did not speak ill of the dead, and yet, Mrs. Braithwaite had just called her own departed sister headstrong and spoiled.
“My brother found this property for me,” Hessian said. “I’m quite comfortable here.” Hehad beenquite comfortable here, before Daisy had arrived.
“So much room for one man,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, taking a seat on the sofa. “Though I adore French silk on the walls. So elegant, but not the least fussy.”
Hessian was not prepared to discourse on the topic of French silk wallpaper—if that’s what it was. “The premises are near my brother’s residence and allow me to entertain modestly. I do hope the weather continues mild.”
He also hoped Mrs. Braithwaite had no plans to overstay the thirty minutes prescribed for most social calls. Miss Smythe had settled beside her on the sofa, so Hessian allowed himself to take a wing chair.
“We can never be certain about the weather,” Mrs. Braithwaite replied, “and I came here to discuss with you another topic entirely. I’m told my dearest niece Amy Marguerite is in your keeping.”
