Page 76 of My Own True Duchess
Bea made a face at her half-eaten tart. “We ran into his youngest brother last night. The moment was awkward. Sycamore has a talent for turning almost any moment awkward. He has limited funds, and yet, he was quite at home showing another young lady how to place her bets. He and Casriel were having one of those oblique arguments men have, all flaring nostrils and double meanings. Lord Casriel can be imposing. I would like to see more of that side of him, though not directed at me, of course.”
And the night had gone quite late. “Are you toying with his lordship, Bea?” Her ladyship had been in search of adventure last night. Perhaps she’d found it.
The countess rose and went to the window, which looked out on a little patch of greenery gone dreary in the rain.
“Casriel either doesn’t notice that I’m casting lures, or he’s too much of a gentleman to reject me outright. He needs heirs.”
That last was said softly as Bea finger-traced a raindrop trickling down the outside of the windowpane.
“Beatitude, at last count, there were seven Dorning brothers, all in good health. Casriel, of all the peers in England, does not need heirs. He probably needs friendship, affection, a woman to manage his households, and somebody to help him find matches for his brothers.”
Bea turned, her smile determined. “You are right, of course, which means the problem is not a lack of heirs. It’s that Casriel is not smitten. He was reluctant to escort me to The Coventry last night. If I’d known Mr. Tresham planned to go there, I would have imposed on him instead.”
When Bea’s words registered, Theo was taking another sip of her too hot, too weak tea. She nearly burned her tongue and almost dropped her tea cup.
“Mr. Tresham was at The Coventry?” Had asked permission to pay his addresses, made love with Theo, and then left for The Coventry?
“I’m almost sure I caught a glimpse of him, though he was leaving as we arrived. Whoever it was had his height and dark hair. Are you quite well, Theo?”
Theo set down her cup, for her hand had begun to shake. “Many men have dark hair and some height, Bea. Are you sure it was Mr. Tresham you glimpsed?”
Bea resumed tracing raindrops. “I am not sure. I was arguing with Casriel as we arrived, and the gentleman swept past me. He moved like Mr. Tresham, but I did not see his face clearly.” She crossed back to her spot on the sofa. “You should have some of this apple tart, lest I eat it all.”
“A small slice only. I must send Mr. Tresham’s coach back to him before the afternoon advances.”
Bea obliged and chattered on about somebody’s lapdog’s bad manners, while Theo murmured appropriate comments and choked down her apple tart. Bea was a friend, a true, kind friend, but Theo could not tell if Bea had been concocting a lie, examining her recollection, or something of both when she’d said Jonathan might not have been at The Coventry.
* * *
Several years ago, when Jonathan had bought The Coventry, he’d occasionally stopped by Frannie’s home. She’d had one infant then, a cheerful little creature who’d grabbed at Jonathan’s nose and smiled on all and sundry. As the child had matured into a squalling, demanding whirlwind, and as another child had followed, Jonathan had ceased calling on Frannie at home.
“If this is a bad time,” he said when she opened the door, “I can come back another day.” The rain was intensifying, dripping from his hat brim straight down onto his nape in a cold, steady trickle.
Frannie remained in the doorway, an infant perched on her hip, another child clinging to her skirts and sucking its thumb. She had the beautiful eyes of the tired mother, and usually those eyes were lit with humor.
Her gaze promised Jonathan a slow, painful death. “What on earth makes you think I’d let you into my home?” She moved to shut the door, but the toddler let go of her apron and reached for Jonathan.
“Up!” The child hopped, arms outstretched. “Up! Want up!”
“Delphie, come away from him.”
Jonathan hefted the child, a solid little person with Frannie’s big blue eyes. “I won’t stay long, and I think we need to talk.”
Frannie gave him a look that would have cindered a man who wasn’t sopping wet. “Five minutes, and then you leave and you do not come back. You can offer me all the money in the world, Jonathan, but after turning me off without a character, when you know my circumstances… I thought better of you.”
The child in Jonathan’s arms grabbed his hair. “Horsey.”
“I am not a horsey.”
“Horsey. Trot little horsey, don’t fall down.” The child bounced enthusiastically. “Trot little horsey, trot to town. Trot, trot, trot!”
“Delphie wants a piggyback ride. I want you out of my house. If you’ve come to apologize, then say your piece, assuage your conscience, and leave a bank draft if you must, but I’ll tear it up, and James will light the pieces on fire for me.”
James was her husband.
The child on Jonathan’s hip smacked him on the shoulder and yelled, “Tally ho, Thunder!”
With the would-be jockey affixed to his back, Jonathan followed Frannie down an unlit corridor to a small sitting room. Every surface held books, papers, ledgers, or an embroidered pillow of some sort, meaning that to take a seat, he’d have to clear clutter away first.
