Page 27 of Anastasia and the Duke
Without waiting for his answer, perhaps out of fear that his reply might be honest, Lady Darlington barrelled on with the same grace her daughters exerted upon the keys of the pianoforte.
"Have you been introduced to my daughters? This is Miss Priscilla Darlington; she's just come out. Then this is her older sister, Miss Margaret Darlington, who came out last year. And finally, Miss Darlington, my eldest."
As Lady Darlington did not deign to disclose just how long her eldest daughter had been out for, Oliver assumed that it was a point of shame for her. For her part, Miss Darlington looked equally ashamed of her mother, and appeared to be acutely aware that her matchmaking hopes were painfully obvious.
"Girls, this is the Duke of Hawkfield," Lady Darlington finished the introduction, smiling at her daughters with more than a hint of mania.
"A pleasure to meet you, ladies," Oliver offered the trio a sweeping bow, more to hide his smile than out of a desire for pageantry.
Oliver coaxed a few polite exchanges from the three awkward chits, before their mama declared that they must prepare their instruments for their guests.
"Priscilla is going to perform an aria," she confided, as she ushered the girls away.
"Wonderful," Oliver lied, "Er, is there any where a chap might partake in a cheroot? I'm afraid it's a two-hourly indulgence."
"Of course, your Grace," Lady Darlington simpered, "If you make your way to the library, you'll find a set of double doors which leads to the gardens."
"My thanks," Oliver dipped his head, for he could not quite meet the eyes of the three ladies whose performance he was about to abandon.
Out in the hallway, Oliver gave up the pretence that he was going for a cheroot, and bid the footman fetch his carriage.
"I have urgent matters to attend to," Oliver found himself explaining his departure unnecessarily.
"You're not the first this evening, to have an urgent matter pop up, your Grace," the footman replied, somehow managing to remain solemn despite the obvious.
Oliver waited impatiently at the door for his carriage and when it arrived, he lunged down the steps, as though he were running a race, afraid that somehow, he might be dragged back inside.
"White's," Oliver instructed his driver, before clambering inside with a sigh of relief.
Within minutes, he was safely ensconced in the drawing room of the club, with only the sounds of young-bloods braying to trouble him.
Oliver sat for a few minutes, staring broodingly out the window as he pondered Miss Blackmore's absence over a glass of brandy. He had never had to chase a woman about before--usually they came to him--so he was not accustomed to this strange feeling he was now sitting with--disappointment.
His soul felt so flat that he could not even bring himself to feel embarrassed for the obviousness of his pursuit.
"I hope no one is dead," Lord Hunter commented, as he appeared by Oliver's side.
"Just my dignity," Oliver replied mournfully.
"That's been dead five years at my count," the earl offered him a wolfish smile, as he slipped into the seat opposite, "Don't you recall Pickering Place? That night when we drank thepoitÃnKit won off that Scottish laird. I seem to remember you were wearing a kilt, and then somehow..."
"Have you ever heard of the phrase 'kicking a man while he's down'?" Oliver interrupted, as he winced at the memory, "Because that's what you're doing, Blunter."
The earl threw his hands up in surrender, as Oliver deployed the nickname that had been bestowed on him in Eton.
"No need to trot out that old moniker," Hunter sniffed, still aggrieved by it decades later.
"Forgive me," Oliver said, as he waved down a footman, "Shall we toast to peace?"
Hunter nodded and lifted the generous measure the footman had poured him high into the air, "Let us pray that peace shall prevail."
Oliver frowned at his friend's unusual solemnity.
"Excuse the gravity," Hunter gave a slight grin, "We captured a sizable arsenal of guns, destined for the North this evening. It was jarring to see how well funded these groups are."
"The French?" Oliver guessed, for enemies of the Crown were always keen to fund trouble.
"No," Oliver shook his head, and pushed back a lock of chestnut-brown hair that momentarily fell into his eyes, "It's a local criminal element, I'm afraid. The two chaps guarding the warehouse were killed while trying to escape and by the time my agent realised just how important his informer was, it was too late to find out what else he might know."
