Page 13 of Hold Me Fast
Perhaps London ladies preferred the weedy creatures he’d passed on Oxford Street. What did Tamsyn prefer now? And there he was again, thinking of her.
“Shall we take a hackney, Bran?”
“Will we get dirtier catching one of those flea and stink traps, or walking?” Bran wondered.
They walked.
Chapter Five
The Winshire mansionwas in one of the older squares of Mayfair. The largest building of any in the vicinity, it was lit from basement to attic, and so many carriages were attempting to access the front steps that the traffic was queued as far as the eye could see down the streets in every direction.
They bypassed the carriages and joined a second instance of traffic congestion on the footpath, as guests waited to ascend the steps of the house. This queue was short and swiftly moving. They soon reached the front door, where they showed their invitations to a footman. The entry hall was large enough to swallow the drawing room at Inneford House. The stairs rose up through the house, lit by a great chandelier, but the house was twice as high as Inneford House. Jowan could just make out a ceiling lantern high above.
They ascended the stairs step by step in the queue to the reception line on what in any less elegant house would have been the landing. If one could call a space as large as four tenant cottages a landing.
At last, it was their turn to be greeted by their hostess. The butler took their invitations and announced them to the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The ducal couple were perhaps in their sixties but still vigorous. Jowan could see traces of Drew in the duke—or the other way around, he supposed. The duchess greeted them both with a smile. “You are Drew’s guests,” she said. “Go on into the drawing room, Sir Jowan, Mr. Hughes. Drew is waiting for you there.”
The drawing room carried on the theme of the house. Jowan had seen assembly halls that were smaller, though to think of assembly halls in the same context as this richly appointed and elegant room seemed like a form of blasphemy.
“I’m feeling like a country mouse,” whispered Bran.
“You are,” Jowan pointed out, keeping his own voice low, “and so am I.”
“There you are,” Drew greeted them. He had a lady on his arm. “Margaret, may I make you known to friends of mine from my time at Oxford? Sir Jowan Trethewey and Branoc Hughes. Gentlemen, this lovely lady is Lady Snowden, wife to Snowy, whom you met yesterday. He is around here somewhere.”
Lord Snowden came hurrying through the crowd, carrying an upright chair. “Here you are, my love,” he said. “Oh, I see you have met our Cornishmen. Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Hal,” Lady Snowden protested. “Wherever did you steal that chair?”
“You needed an upright chair, darling,” Lord Snowden said. “I found one.” He placed it next to the arm of a small sofa. “Now sit down, please.”
Lady Snowden laughed, but did as she was told, saying to Jowan and Bran, “I find it uncomfortable, at the moment, to use a low seat.” Lord Snowden sat on the sofa at her elbow.
The poor lady. Jowan hoped it was nothing serious. Lord Snowden must have seen his concern, for he explained, “My wife isenceinte.” His pride and affection warmed his voice, and sent a pang of jealousy through Jowan, even as his eyes registered that yes, the lady was not merely plump, as he had assumed, but rather more rotund than the flesh on her arms and face would suggest.
“Congratulations,” Bran said. “Your first?”
Had Jowan’s father and the Earl of Coombe not interfered, would he and Tamsyn have a house full of children by now? His mind’s eye could see them. Joyous imps with her dark curls and her wonderful voice.
He should make an effort to join Lord and Lady Snowden’s conversation with Bran. It moved from babies to Society’s expectation that pregnant women should be least in sight. Jowan couldn’t muster a single comment that did not touch on his own personal grief.
“I usually stay at home to avoid ruffling the feathers of the biddies,” Lady Snowden said, “but when I heard the name of the singer who is to perform for us tonight, I had to come.”
“Margaret had not yet come to London when the singer left to tour Europe,” Lord Snowden explained. “We had tickets for the operaFigaro, but the understudy took the part instead.”
“Then Aunt Eleanor sent a note saying she had secured Miss Lind for her musicale this evening,” Lady Snowden confided. “Of course, I had to come.”
Jowan struggled to believe his own ears. “Miss Tammie Lind?”
“Yes, the Devon Songbird, as they call her. Have you heard her sing, Sir Jowan? But no, you would not have been on the Town when she was last in London.”
“Not in London, and not for seven long years,” Jowan replied, hardly knowing what he was saying or where he was.
“She and Jowan grew up together,” Bran explained. “Her mother and our father were acquainted.” He took Jowan’s arm in a firm grip. “Jowan, do you need to sit down?”
There was not enough air in the room, but otherwise, Jowan was fine. He waved his brother off.
“You did not know the lady was singing tonight?” Drew guessed. “The news has flown around Town with the wind since my stepmother changed the program to accommodate Miss Lind.”
