Page 10 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
Fortescue inclined his head in acknowledgement but said nothing.
Snowy continued. “I know my mother was last seen in Society shortly after I disappeared, and that no one has heard of or seen her in at least a decade. Snowden has acted as proxy for his uncle for the past eight years, and no one had seen my grandfather for five of those years, until a doctor was summoned eighteen months ago when he died. Snowden has claimed the viscountcy, but it cannot be confirmed nor can he be called to Lords until I have been declared dead.”
“These are all facts,” Fortescue agreed.
Snowy took a cup from Lily, not because he wanted tea but because he wanted something to do with his hands. “What can you add to that, Mr. Fortescue? What happened to my mother? Why has Snowden escaped responsibility for his crimes for so long? If I chose to take up my name and my heritage, what barriers will I face?”
*
Ten days hadpassed since Mistress Lily had asked Margaret to be ready to do Mr. White a favor if he asked. She had given up expecting to hear from him. On the two occasions she had brought herbal remedies to the House of Blossoms, she’d looked for his stern face but he did not put in an appearance. Perhaps he was in his office poring over his books. Wasn’t that what bookkeepers did?
No doubt he was aware of her visits—the man seemed to have his finger on the pulse of the place. He was, she was convinced, far more than a mere bookkeeper. She refused to think about the man and yet she thought about him all the time. She was far too fascinated for her own comfort—and by a man from a completely different world. One who despised her, at that.
Then, one morning, in with her mail but showing the signs of being hand-delivered, was a note from Mr. White. It was very short. Written in a neat but attractive hand, it said simply:
Dear Madam,
The undersigned begs the privilege of calling on you at a convenient time to discuss the matter proposed by Mistress L. My messenger awaits your reply.
It was signed with a large flourishing S, but it could be from no one else.
Margaret appointed the time of one o’clock that afternoon, when Aunt Aurelia would almost certainly be having what she called, “a little lie down, just to rest my eyes.”
She wanted to hear whatever Mr. White had to say before she decided whether to tell her great aunt, who was sure to disapprove of being seen with a man from a brothel.
As one o’clock approached, she hovered on the half-way landing, watching out the window for a carriage. A couple of minutes before the appointed time, an umbrella swerved from the scattered trickle of pedestrians and mounted the steps to disappear under the porch. She heard the door knocker and retreated back up to the drawing room to wait.
She had told her butler to bring Mr. White straight up, and Bowen announced him as the clock on the mantel chimed the hour. He was nothing if not punctual, Margaret decided.
“I will fetch the tea, my lady,” Bowen said, with a bow.
“Thank you, Bowen.”
The butler departed, leaving the door ajar.
“Mr. White, please be seated.” Margaret had chosen chairs on the far side of the room from the door so their conversation would be private while propriety was observed at the same time.
Today, Mr. White was dressed like a Society gentleman, his coat a piece of sartorial magnificence, his cravat perfectly tied. Margaret could not take her eyes off his hair, where a streak of white adorned one temple. Had that been there before? She couldn’t remember, though surely such a distinctive trait would have stood out and be easily recalled.
He took the indicated chair. “Thank you for receiving me, my lady.”
“You’ve dyed your hair,” she blurted.Good Lord. I just said that out loud. How rude.Her cheeks heated. “I beg your pardon. That was a very personal remark. It is just—I know another person with a streak of white in the same place.” The resemblance to Mr. Snowden was remarkable.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the tea tray, which Bowen put on the table next to Margaret. He hovered for a moment.
“Thank you, Bowen. That will be all.”
Bowen appeared embarrassed but spoke anyway. “Should I send a maid to sit with you, my lady, since Miss Denning is not awake?”
“Leave the door open,” Margaret told him, touched at his concern. “I shall be perfectly well.”
The creases at the outside edges of Mr. White’s gray eyes deepened. He showed no other signs, but clearly the exchange with the butler had amused him. He waited until Bowen had left the room, pausing on the threshold to glare at Mr. White, before pushing the door slightly wider than it had been.
Margaret expected Mr. White to comment on the butler’s concern or her insistence on seeing her visitor alone. Instead, he addressed her previous comment. “I have been dyeing my white streak to hide it every week since I was a boy,” he told her. “I stopped a fortnight ago. The roots are coming through white, but I had one of the girls bleach out the dye on the ends.”
She wanted to ask him if he was a Snowden by-blow and, if so, why he’d felt the need to hide the evidence, but she swallowed the impertinent question and instead asked him how he took his tea.
He accepted the prepared cup before he said, “Lily says she asked you if you will allow me to escort you to a few Society engagements. She said you agreed.” The same crinkles lightened his expression, and this time his lips quirked at the corners. “Knowing Lily, she probably coerced you by saying you owe me a favor. Please, put that out of your mind. If there was any debt at all, you have repaid it with your herbal knowledge.”
