Page 27 of His Spirited Lady
“Thank you, Mr. Raymond.”
It was going to be a long four days.
*
“Good evening, Mr.Ferrand. The party is in the drawing room.” Oakdale Manor’s butler swept his hand to the right of the hall.
The man looked very much like Lionel, Oliver’s butler. Richard wondered if they were related, or if Parliament had passed a law as to the necessary characteristics of butlers.
“Thank you…” He kept eye contact as he trailed off in a question, hoping austere man would catch on. He hated not knowing people’s names.
“Simms, sir.” His nod was quick, his smile quicker. He handed Richard’s topcoat and hat to a waiting footman. Conversation floated into the hall, echoing from another room like a river through a forest. One young lady had an unfortunate laugh. It sounded like a heron crying at dusk.
“I don’t believe you’ll have trouble finding them,” Simms said. “But would you like me to introduce you to the room?”
“I’ll be fine, Simms.” It seemed too pretentious, especially for a group in a drawing room. It also didn’t allow Richard a chance to be anonymous and gauge the crowd of strangers, something he’d learned from his father.
“Listen more than you speak, my boy. And watch more than you listen. People’s actions will always betray their motives.”
It was how Richard had determined Oliver Hawkins, who he’d found moping at an alehouse near the docks, would be a solid business partner and a good friend.
Following his usual practice, Richard slipped into the room and stood at the back, unnoticed. The drawing room was like the rest of the house, and the family in it. The wallpaper was white on white, and the glossy pattern flickered in the twin glow from the lamps and the fire. The group was standing around a table near the windows, arguing playfully over a stack of board games and which set would be used by what pair of competitors.
One man stood at the edge of the cabal, a glass held as though he didn’t mind whether it spilled. Tall, broad, and blond, he looked very much like a young Augustus Chitester. The resemblance marked him as Jasper Warren, whom Oliver had said was Augustus’s nephew and heir.
Amelia was easy to spot, and not simply because she was in the middle of the fray. Her yellow dress was the same one she’d worn to the market, and it made her look like a beam of sunshine had landed center stage in the shadowy room. It reminded him of how she’d looked in the loft, watching the wheat as she raked it—as though it could predict her future.
Ethan Raymond was standing behind her, close enough that when she snatched an inlaid case, her elbow collided with his gut, bending him slightly as he stepped backward.
“Oh, Mr. Raymond!” Amelia clutched the case to her chest. “I didn’t see you there. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
Richard covered his laugh. She was no sorrier than he was that Raymond was now clear of her. The man’s wordless nod didn’t match with the set to his jaw and the color flushing to his face. Amelia wasn’t the only one lying.
“Am I too late to choose a team?” Richard asked as he stepped forward.
Every head turned to him, but Amelia’s smile was his focus. She left the crowd and came toward him, one hand outstretched as though they were old friends, not simply business partners.
“Mr. Ferrand. I am so happy you could join us.” She tucked her fingers into his elbow. “Please come meet the rest of our merry band. Mr. Raymond you’ve met, but this is my cousin Jasper Warren, and this is…”
The names and titles, so popular in society, meant nothing to him. Amelia carried the same scent of apples and cinnamon that clung to his clothes after he left the distillery. It was as hard to reconcile the distiller with the young lady on his arm as it was to believe she made whiskey in the first place. But she did, and she worked diligently at it.
As diligently as she worked at being a hostess for a party she hadn’t wanted to happen. “All, this is Mr. Richard Ferrand, brother-in-law and business partner to the Duke of Rushford.” She put her other hand on his bicep, her fingers curving to his arm in a way he found reassuring. “He’s visiting his family and has graciously agreed to round out our numbers for the weekend.”
Jasper Warren offered him a glass. “Drink, Ferrand?”
Richard took it with a nod. Mint tickled his nose a moment before pear teased his tongue, carried on a whiskey so smooth it might have been water. The warmth spreading through him almost matched what he’d felt when he’d had hands on Amelia in the loft.
Amelia had likely smelled like this a few months earlier.
“Richard?”
He knew that voice. After taking another sip of his whiskey, he turned toward the young lady who had just entered the room. “Hello, Miss Allen. What on earth are you doing in Norfolk?” He placed his hand over Amelia’s and squeezed, pleading with her to stay beside him.
She looked up at him, a quirk of a smile across her lips. “You two know each other?”
“We came across the Channel together,” Fiona said.
“On the same ship,” Richard corrected.
