Page 16 of My Own True Duchess
“Open that compartment to your left.”
She left off staring into the night long enough to flip down a panel built into the side of the coach.
“Sustenance,” Casriel said. “We’re in a ducal conveyance, after all.”
Bread, cheese, two oranges, a pair of boiled eggs, and a few bites of shortbread, all prettily wrapped in a wicker basket and ready to be laid out on the tray latched to the inner side of the panel.
“Wine is not a good idea right now,” the countess said. “But I will fight you for a fresh orange.”
“I’ve had supper. Help yourself to the lot of it.” This was a lie, but a man with eight younger siblings knew the restorative power of food when tempers were high and spirits low.
Her ladyship managed to create a cheese sandwich in a moving conveyance without making a mess.
“Shall I tell you a secret?” Casriel asked when her ladyship had peeled the orange and eaten half of it.
“I am not fond of secrets and confidences,” she said. “I am very fond of this orange.”
“This is a cheering sort of secret. Mr. Tresham can ruin Davington so thoroughly that his lordship dare not return from Paris without Tresham’s permission. Tresham has connections all over the Continent, and Davington will be watched.”
“Thankless job,” her ladyship muttered, wiping her hands on the monogrammed linen provided for that purpose. “But as I said, the issue is not Davington himself. He’s merely one of a horde of men who parade about in gentleman’s clothing while behaving awfully. If one is too skilled at eluding them, then one is coldhearted, superior, and arrogant. If one is not sufficiently skilled…” She tore the skin from the remaining half of the orange. “I shall cultivate Mr. Tresham’s acquaintance so that I might borrow this coach.”
“If ever you need a coach, please consider my own at your disposal.” The words were out, little more than a platitude, and yet, Casriel meant them. Lady Canmore had substance he’d missed when observing her from across a ballroom.
“Thank you, but your coach is crested. That too would start talk. Tell me more of Mr. Tresham. He’s taken an interest in Theodosia—Mrs. Haviland—something nobody else has dared.”
No wonder Lady Canmore contemplated ownership of a smelly ferret. Even the way she licked her fingers was delicate and graceful.
“Tresham is exactly as he seems to be: a ducal heir prepared to marry for the sake of duty, one who has not been idling about since he came down from Cambridge.”
“Not idling about London, you mean. Cambridge is an unusual choice for a ducal heir.”
Rolling through Town with Lady Canmore was not the dull ride Casriel had contemplated. She had a lively mind, a righteous temper, and she paid attention.
Did Casriel want her attention for himself? The question was pointless. He must marry for money, and if Lady Canmore had substantial means, Davington would never have bothered her.
“Tresham and his papa had a predictable falling out,” Casriel said. “Tresham refused to go to Oxford, and thus he was educated at Cambridge. Tell me of Mrs. Haviland. She seems a loyal friend.”
A pretty, loyal friend. Her looks were understated, and she did not dress to call attention to herself. Casriel liked that in a woman. A man spoke his vows with a flesh and blood woman, not with a dressmaker’s manikin or a milliner’s artwork.
“Theodosia is very loyal, and she has contended with significant challenges. Any man would be lucky to win her notice.” She tucked the second orange and a cheese sandwich into her beaded bag as coolly as if secreting foodstuffs was the stated purpose of reticules.
“I’m sure Mrs. Haviland is a lovely woman,” Casriel said, “though she strikes me as formidable. Tresham does well with long odds and risky ventures, thrives on them, in fact. She could do much worse.”
Her ladyship wrapped the shortbread in ducal linen and stashed that in her handbag as well. “Mr. Tresham has no chance at all with Theodosia, then, which is a shame. She disdains the company of idiots who thrive on needless risk or delight in stupid wagers. If Mr. Tresham enjoys that sort of diversion, she’ll have no time for him whatsoever.”
“Take the wine,” Casriel said. “The vintage will be excellent, and you’ve had a trying evening.”
She looked torn, so Casriel reached across her, extricated the bottle, and handed it to her.
“Tresham is not reckless,” he said. “He’s enormously wealthy because he understands risk better than any man I know. He seems to grasp the inner workings of chance as a veterinarian knows the insides of a horse. Everybody else climbs aboard and sends the beast cantering off toward a destination. The veterinarian reads horse dung like tea leaves and diagnoses a poorly fitting saddle from the minutest unevenness of the footfalls.”
The lady was giving him that look. The one that said he’d lapsed into a country squire’s musings when he was supposed to be an earl.
“My land is in Dorset,” Casriel said, hoping to God his blush was not evident in the dark interior. “Our fortunes rise and fall with our flocks.”
The carriage, mercifully, came to a halt.
Lady Canmore was smiling. Not a great, beaming grin, but a little quirk of amusement. That too, emphasized her beauty, though she could likely wear the rags she’d alluded to and carry the ferret and make even that ensemble alluring.
