Page 17 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
“I have been told my father had it,” he said. “I do not remember my father, but I recently met a man who was at university with him, and who says I look very much like him.” He looked deliberately at Snowden senior and smiled. “Perhaps the fellow glaring at me has noticed the same resemblance?”
“I have good reason not to trust him,” Ashby said. “And I am reserving judgement about whether I should trust you.”
Snowy was charmed. His experience with the gentry, gained mostly at Oxford, was that they covered what they actually intended to do with polite nothings that implied something quite different. But Lady Charmain had proved the exception and been honest with him from the beginning; her friends were apparently of the same ilk.
“Properly so,” he told Ashby. “You do not know me. It is true that I mean Lady Charmain no harm, but you have no reason to believe me. I am glad she has friends to support and protect her.”
“I am perfectly capable of protecting myself,” Lady Charmain insisted.
“You are a formidable woman, my lady,” Snowy agreed. “But it is always good to have the support of friends.”
Ashby lifted his glass in a salute. “I cannot argue with that.”
“Try the oyster tarts, Elijah,” said Mrs. Ashby. “They are particularly fine.”
The conversation moved to food and then to politics. Lord Arthur, whose brother was a duke, said the Prime Minister was predicting a general election. Snowy was impressed when he saw that all the ladies had a view on the key issues that would shape the election, and especially that the gentlemen listened to them.
Spending time with Lady Charmain’s friends was knocking gaping holes in his prejudices.
Chapter Seven
Acandle oneither side of the ornate mirror on the study wall lit Snowden’s face and upper body without relieving the gloom behind him. The black of his evening wear merged with the darkness, leaving the planes of his face and the folds of his white cravat to swim against the shadows.
“It cannot be him,” he told his reflection. “He’s dead. He died more than two decades ago. A boy of that age? A soft, spoiled brat like that? And a pretty one? He could never have survived.”
The dark eyes of the reflection stared back. He thought he saw an ironic twitch of the eyebrow.
“Curse Matt. He was meant to kill the little horror and throw the body somewhere it would be found.”
Snowden scowled and the reflection scowled back. The plan should have succeeded. It had worked once. And with a body to grieve over, Madeline would have recovered. Snowden could have charmed her into believing in him again. Instead, she’d insisted that the boy was still alive.
“She was meant to be mine.” He nodded his head once, decisively, and his reflection nodded back, agreeing with him. He had seen the pretty girl first, begun to court her. Then she’d met cursed Edmund. The man with everything. His uncle’s favorite. The golden boy.
Tonight’s imposter had looked just like Edmund. “It cannot be the boy. He’s a by-blow; that must be it. Perfect Edmund’s base-born brat.”
How he would like to tell Madeline that Edmund had been diddling someone else. His teeth flashed white in the candle light at the thought of her likely reaction.
His own pain, though, was greater. He had won her for such a short time, and then lost her. She blamed him for the boy’s disappearance, and in the end, he’d had to put her away where she could do no harm.
It wasn’t fair. Matt Deffew had ruined everything. The boy had ruined everything by biting his abductor’s hand, wriggling from his grasp, and running away to die anonymously in the mean streets.
Matt was dead and could not pay for his mistake. The boy, too, was dead. He must be. And Madeline, to his everlasting sorrow. There was no one alive to punish.
In the reflection, Richard raised an eyebrow. Of course. There was only one recourse. Richard was right. Snowden must take his revenge on the imposter.
Chapter Eight
As she satover breakfast the following morning, Margaret received a note from Arial asking if she could call. She returned an affirmative, knowing her friend would be full of questions about Mr. White.
By the time Arial arrived, with Regina in tow, Aunt Aurelia was up. Margaret had not expected to see her, since she normally breakfasted in bed, and she was still sulking about Mr. White. However, her maid must have mentioned that Margaret’s friend was expected, and so the four of them sat down for a polite cup of tea.
As Margaret poured the tea, Regina said, “I trust your cold is improved.”
Aunt Aurelia had the grace to look a little shame faced. “I am perfectly well today, thank you.”
Margaret could not resist a small poke of revenge. “Her Grace was pleased to meet Mr. White. She invited him to call on her.” She passed her aunt a cup of tea, made the way she preferred it.
Aunt Aurelia sniffed. “The Duchess of Winshire raised her first husband’s base-born daughters and married a Persian. One must respect her position and her breeding, of course, but not necessarily her judgement.”
