Page 98 of My Own True Duchess
“Language, Jonathan. You can’t pay a call on Mrs. Haviland in your present condition.”
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sideboard. “Ye flying imps of hell.” A ghoul stared back at him, cheeks unshaven, hair in wild disarray, shadows beneath sunken eyes.
Lady Della set about closing drawers, hanging up coats, and otherwise tidying the chaos Jonathan’s search had created. She had the look of a woman preparing to exert dominion over a space, to arrange it to her liking.
“If you’d excuse me,” Jonathan said, “I’ll join you downstairs when I’m more presentable.”
She passed him his favorite burgundy morning coat. “Don’t tarry over your toilette on my account, though I suppose the charwoman shouldn’t be needlessly frightened. Adolphus and Mr. Dorning have been touring the premises, prying into cupboards and trying to look knowledgeable. I suspect you will find them in the wine cellars.”
She was leaving Jonathan a moment to collect his wits, which was more than he deserved where she was concerned.
“Thank you, Lady Della.”
“For?”
“For joining the women last night, for being here today.” For not giving up on me.
Her expression said she did not want his thanks.
Jonathan tried again. “You look like him, you know.”
Her bravado faltered, revealing a very young and uncertain woman. “I haven’t a likeness. I was hoping… never mind. I’ll have the kitchen make you a tray.”
She turned to leave on a soft rustle of skirts, and though Jonathan felt eight kinds of urgency to quit the premises, this moment mattered as well.
“A portrait of him—of Papa—hangs in a room off the library in Quimbey House,” Jonathan said, sitting to pull on his boots. “He posed for it when he was a few years younger than you are now. The resemblance to you is uncanny. I will ask Quimbey to give you the painting.”
She stared at the cluttered blotter, smiling at nothing Jonathan could divine.
“You walk like our papa,” he went on, getting to his feet and searching his memory. “You have his flair for making an impression. Did you know his second middle name was Delacourt?”
Della wiped at her cheek. “I was named for my grandmother—for the Marchioness of Warne.”
“I suspect if you look at the parish registry, you were baptized Delacourt Haddonfield, or you at least have that for a middle name. Lady Warne’s nickname was doubtless a convenient afterthought. We can have a look sometime. Nobody need know of such an errand.”
“I’d like that.” She seized him in a tight hug, then whirled from the room when Jonathan would have offered more: Their father had been ferociously good at billiards, possessed of a fine baritone singing voice, and had been unusually patient with the elderly.
He’d been a poor father and a vexatious husband, but not a complete wastrel. Not even an entirely bad man, given the nature of the union he’d found himself in.
“Papa would have enjoyed last night,” Jonathan informed the empty room. “He might even have been pleased for me.” Jonathan had enjoyed last night, had enjoyed glancing up to see Theo amid her friends, Theo sipping champagne at the table by the stairs, Theo watching him.
Theo, who was departing for damned Hampshire.
Jonathan washed and shaved, found a clean shirt and cravat, and brushed his hair, all the while trying to recall what, exactly, Theo had said to him before she’d slipped away on the arm of Sycamore Dorning.
Perhaps Dorning had some insights to offer. Jonathan found his guest looking all too well rested and counting the bottles of claret.
“You’ve a fortune in wine alone,” Dorning said, holding a bottle up to the lit sconce.
“What have you done with Lady Della?”
“She dragged Mr. Haddonfield off in the direction of the nearest milliner’s. Said you would not be tarrying on the premises when you have a call to pay. This is an expensive vintage, and you must have two hundred bottles on hand.”
“Two hundred forty-three.”
Dorning tossed the bottle into the air and caught it. “Two hundred forty-two. What are the odds this call you’re paying is on an attractive widow bound for Hampshire?”
“The odds coincide with absolute certainty. Come with me.”
