Page 21 of My Own True Duchess
He possessed himself of her hand and brushed a kiss to her gloved knuckles—a Continental presumption—then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him.
“I might even be home to you,” Theo muttered, curtseying to the closed door, then dragging a chair near the fire.
Mr. Tresham had timed his appointment for an hour when polite society would still be abed. Prudent of him. But then, this whole undertaking was prudent on his part. Good decisions were made with all the details and possibilities in hand, a lesson Theo had learned only after she’d spoken her vows. She was not put off by Mr. Tresham’s prudence.
She sank into the chair, untied her slippers, and stuck her feet toward the fire. The heat on her toes was lovely, but an ache persisted in Theo’s heart. Mr. Tresham had noticed that she was in want of coin, though she worked hard to hide the state of her finances.
He had not noticed that she herself was among the women who would consider marriage to the right party under the right circumstances.
She nudged her slippers closer to the fire and tried not to feel angry.
* * *
Jonathan had neither a partner nor a mistress, but he had Moira Jones, and his regard for her eclipsed what either a partner or a mistress could have commanded. As he turned one of Her Grace of Quimbey’s legion of god-daughters down the room for the good-night waltz, he considered whether to share tonight’s developments with Moira.
“You are a very fine dancer, Mr. Tresham.” The young lady stared at Jonathan’s cravat pin while she offered that brilliant sally.
Jonathan dredged up the required riposte. “I am inspired by your example. Don’t you think people are also somewhat more relaxed about the final dance of the evening? We know a soft bed and a soothing cup of chamomile tea aren’t far off.”
The young lady put him in mind of Della Haddonfield, though Della was dark and Miss Fifteenth God-daughter was blond. Della was more petite than this lady, and far more bold.
“You fancy chamomile tea, Mr. Tresham?” A spark of interest came through, suggesting even this mouse was hoarding details about Jonathan to share in the women’s retiring room.
“At the end of the day, chamomile sometimes appeals. What is your favorite soothing tisane?” Even as he asked the question, he knew what her answer would be.
“Chamomile, of course. Nothing compares to it for restful slumber. I very much agree with your choice.”
She would agree with everything he said, did, thought, and failed to do. Mrs. Haviland’s words came to mind, about happiness being a luxury for polite society’s unmarried women.
“What of lavender?” Jonathan asked as they twirled past a tired legion of mamas and chaperones. “Do you enjoy it as a flavoring, say a lavender ice or lavender custard?”
She stole a glance at his face, the merest flicker of reconnaissance. “Lavender is a very useful herb, and a lavender border can be attractive along a garden wall.”
Somebody had schooled her well, because her answer neither committed to a position nor offended. In another life, she might make a skilled dealer for games of chance.
“Are there any young men whose company you particularly enjoy on the dance floor?” Jonathan asked as the world’s longest waltz one-two-three’d into another reprise of the opening theme.
“The young men I’ve met in Town have all been very agreeable.” She tried to bat her eyes, though the attempt came off much like a nervous affliction.
“Well, yes, we gentlemen try to be on good behavior in public,” Jonathan said, “but I find your waltzing particularly graceful. Miss Threadlebaum has a lovely laugh. Mrs. Haviland’s conversation is full of great good sense, and Lady Canmore exudes gracious poise. What of the young men?”
He should not have mentioned Mrs. Haviland, but she was on his mind. Thanks to her, his marital objective had become more attainable, success more likely.
“Mr. Sycamore Dorning is ever so dashing, but Mama says he isn’t suitable. The Dornings all have such lovely eyes, you know.”
Eyes that shaded from periwinkle to gentian to lavender. Casriel, older brother to the unsuitable parti, claimed those eyes were a curse rather than a blessing.
“Mr. Sycamore Dorning is young,” Jonathan said. “He’ll grow up.” Mr. Dorning would accumulate years, though whether he’d mature was another matter. “Who else?”
She regaled Jonathan with an increasingly enthusiastic list, until the waltz finally concluded and Jonathan could return his dancing partner to her chaperone. The next part was delicate. He must leave the gathering without being dragooned into accompanying any person or group to their next destination.
He did peer about for Mrs. Haviland, though, and saw no sign of her. That was a relief rather than a disappointment. Their bargain had pleased him enormously—she could have asked for ten times five hundred pounds and he would still have been pleased—but she’d seemed unhappy.
Then again, she’d had a trying evening. Jonathan’s evening was about to go from satisfying to delightful. He went on foot the three streets to St. James’s, the better to ensure his privacy and the better to give him time to ease away from the drudgery of wife hunting and into the invigorating business of owning a very lucrative enterprise.
He entered The Coventry Club by means of the establishment across the street from it, a once stately home broken up into bachelor apartments. Jonathan had a set of rooms here, though he also maintained rooms at The Albany.
He traversed the route through the kitchen to the pantries, to a small door that looked as if it opened onto yet another locked set of shelves or perhaps a wine cellar. In fact, it did open onto the wine cellar of The Coventry Club, a subterranean chamber that stretched for one hundred and fifty feet beneath both the street and buildings on either side.
