Page 67 of My Own True Duchess
“Isn’t Mrs. Jones the owner?”
Dorning tore a bite off his roll. “She wants to be. She looks at this place the way my sister looks at her infant. Part worry, part love, but without an air of ownership. This is excellent wine.”
“That is my wine, Mr. Dorning.”
“Whoever the owner is, his problems just grew more complicated.”
Dorning made an elegant picture, the wineglass cradled in a long-finger hand. Was he marking Jonathan’s cards? Playing some deep game? Watching the proceedings with a covetous eye?
“A randomly marked deck of cards is not a significant problem.” It was a disaster, given that Jonathan had thought this problem solved.
“Perhaps not, but Lady Della Haddonfield and her brother Adolphus have joined the proceedings. If Bellefonte gets word that his baby brother has taken his baby sister to a gambling house, The Coventry’s owner will need a good set of Mantons and excellent aim—whoever that owner might be.”
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
“I’m in the mood for some adventure,” Bea said as the orchestra took up a lively ecossaise.
“Such as having your toes mashed?” Theo replied. The entire room reverberated with the dancers’ exertions, and the scent of warm bodies blended with the beeswax smoke from the chandeliers. The combination was familiar and unappealing, and Theo wished she’d had Jonathan take her home after all.
“The joy of mashed toes has befallen me more times than I count.” Bea edged back among the ferns and beckoned Theo to follow. “Along with torn hems. On one memorable occasion, a flying slipper nearly struck me in the face, the scent of which was enough to chase me to the nearest window. The gentlemen don’t worship at our literal feet for good reason.”
They emerged into the cool and quiet of a corridor, the dancing creating a reverberation like distant thunder.
“What manner of adventure calls to you at this hour?” Theo asked.
Bea led her through a door that opened onto the buffet, abandoned now by all save the servants who were tidying up the remains of the meal and collecting half-empty plates.
Such a waste. Such a terrible, pointless waste.
“That is a very severe expression, Theodosia. I saw Mr. Tresham spiriting you away at the supper break. Did he transgress—or fail to transgress?”
“We discussed Mr. Tresham’s social calendar.” Upon which a wedding would soon figure. “I’m hungry.” Perhaps that accounted for Theo’s unhappy frame of mind, or perhaps Archie had left her incapable of trusting that any positive development could be the lovely news it seemed to be.
“I enjoyed a good meal,” Bea replied. “Try the fish remoulade.”
Cold fish sounded ghastly. “I’m in the mood for cheese.” And in the mood to go home and consider the evening’s developments. The pleasure of the time spent with Jonathan was trickling away, leaving doubts and questions in its wake.
“The dessert table is this way.” Bea strode across the room like Wellington on the way to a parade inspection, while Theo was abruptly tired.
“When you referred to an adventure, were you intent on adventuring with anybody in particular?” Theo asked.
No clean plates graced the dessert table, though a stack of folded table napkins remained. Theo used one to assemble three cheeses—a bleu, a cheddar, and something pale laced with tarragon—and two slices of bread.
“That is hardly enough to sustain a bird, Theo. The Coventry has a very good chef. You should come with us.”
Theo stepped closer, lest the nearest footman overhear her. “Beatitude, you are not suggesting that I visit a gaming hell, are you?”
“Yes, Theo. Yes, I am. Archie is gone. He wasted his money in hells, clubs, at private games, and God knows where else. That doesn’t mean you have to live like a nun for the rest of your life.”
The Earl of Casriel entered the room through a door at the far end of the buffet. When he spotted Bea and Theo, he pretended to become fascinated with the remains of the fish courses.
“Frequenting an illegal establishment,” Theo said, “where I can do nothing but lose money doesn’t strike me as an adventure, my lady.”
Bea plucked a bon-bon from a silver tray on the dessert table. “You might win, Theo. Somebody wins every hand, after all. Sooner or later, you should face the devil that haunted your marriage. See that The Coventry is merely a place to pass a diverting evening, not some den of iniquity.”
This conversation could not have been less appropriately timed, and Theo wanted to lecture Bea like an outraged chaperone.
