Page 73 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord
“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted quietly. There existed no perfect set of words that she could put to paper that would bring her what she wanted. That would bring Ben and Hannah home to her at last. “He said he would write when they settled,” she said. “He said he would, but—”
“The mail can be slow,” Marcus said. “Letters are lost frequently. Has Rafe made any progress?”
Diana shook her head. “He found Ben by chance last time,” she said. Still he had not revealed his sources, though he’d been apologetic about it. Since Ben and Hannah had left the area, they’d been careful to avoid notice. Not even Rafe’s formidable reserves of information could produce a man and child who had seemingly disappeared into thin air.
“Chin up,” Marcus said. “Stiff upper lip, and all that rot. You’ve worked too hard to give up hope now.”
She had; she knew she had. She could have written pages and pages of every bit of progress she had made. That theyallhad made, because it hadbeen such a family effort. She could have written that Marcus had sent off workmen to begin clearing away the weeds and the rubble from Ben’s family estate, that they would soon set their efforts to the east wing of the manor, the familywing. That if there were not too many delays, at least that part of the manor would be fit for habitation by Christmas.
She could have written that she and the marquess had engrossed themselves in creating a thorough accounting of what remained of the estate—the vacant farmsteads, and the ones that were still occupied. That they had discovered more than a few that had been lackadaisical regarding the payments of their rents ever since the marquess had let go his land agent some years ago. There would be maintenance and repairs to make before they could again collect those rents, but once they had situated new tenants in the vacant properties and set it all to rights, it would provide a tidy income. Not a grand one, not yet—butenough. A small start toward the financial security that had been shaken so long ago. But with someone else at the helm, and without the drain of the marquess’ gambling expenses, it would grow. Year by year, it would grow.
She might have written of the delight that she had taken in burning those letters, that she and his father had sat side by side at the fire, feeding the flames with them. That he had cried when they had done with it, cried for the son he had cast aside and for the cruelty he’d inflicted. Cried with relief that he had been saved from himself, that he might yet earn the opportunity to make amends.
She could have written a novel, a treatise, an epic, and still she would find it insufficient. She only wanted to have it done, to have the perfect words laid out beneath her pen, ready to be folded and sealed and sent off the moment, the verymomentshe had an address to which to send them.
Therightwords. Theperfectwords. Words that were worth the sacrifice of the modest life they had always wanted. How was she meant to compete with it?Couldshe compete with it?
Marcus glanced down at the page beneath the tip of her pen, the splotch that had bloomed upon it from yet another ink droplet. He set his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Write what’s important,” he advised. “Write what’smostimportant.”
“Yes.” Diana blinked back a wash of tears as she set her pen down for a moment, crumpled up the ruined page and pulled a fresh one from the drawer.
And then she picked up her pen again, dipped the nib into the inkwell,and the words flowed fluidly across the new page.
I love you both. It’s safe. Please come home.
∞∞∞
More than a decade had passed since last Ben had set foot within the city proper. He hadn’t loved it, even when he’d been a boy—he had always preferred the quiet of the countryside to the rattle and clamor of carriages in the streets, the shrill shouts of merchants at market. The air wasn’t as fresh here, the streets weren’t as clean.
Hannah found it fascinating. They arrived in late evening, and she pressed her face right up against the glass window of their hired carriage, marveling at the streets as they passed. Of course she wanted to go straight to Diana, and he couldn’t blame her for her impatience. More than a month, now, since they’d last seen her, and she’d endured far more carriage journeys than any child of eight could be reasonably expected to.
“We can’t call upon her in the dead of night,” he told her. “She likely won’t even be home. Ladies have evening engagements—balls and dinner parties and such. And we’re not at our best, besides.” They both needed a good rest and a proper bath. A change of clothes so that they did not present themselves rumpled and bedraggled by so much travel. “We want to look presentable,” he said. “And to make a good impression upon her family.”
Hannah gave a great groan of aggravation, flopping down over her seat with a level of dramatics rivaled only by professional actors. “But Imissher.”
“I know,” he said. “So do I. But there’s certain formalities that ought to be observed. One makes proper morning calls in the afternoon, and—blast, I haven’t even got calling cards.” He hadn’t required them in so long that he’d quite forgotten they were a necessity here in proper society.
“What’s a calling card?” Hannah asked, popping up to peer out the window once again, her eyes wide as she surveyed the streets, busy even at this hour.
“It’s a bit of paper that you present when you arrive at someone’s house to pay a call,” he said. “It’s got your name on it, so the person you are calling upon knows who wishes to visit.”
“But couldn’t whoever answers the door just say?”
“Yes,” he said. “But you have also got to have the card. It’s what’sproper.”
“That’s silly.” Hannah tipped her nose up, and Ben chuckled.
“It is,” he said. “But you’ll have to have them someday, so you might as well grow accustomed to them.” It would take time to have them printed up, time he didn’t want to waste. “I haven’t got a proper coat, either,” he said. He did have a cravat somewhere buried in his trunk, but it was an old ratty thing. And his trousers—they’d long begun to fray at the hem. “We can’t visit as we are,” he said. “We’ll need to wait until the shops are open. We need clothing a bit more refined than this to make ourselves presentable, or the butler might cast us straight out again.” They wouldn’t be expected, after all. Once they had made their decision to come to London, they had wasted no time.
“I want to wear my blue dress,” Hannah declared.
Diana would like that, he supposed. “You can wear your blue dress, but I haven’t got anything half as nice as it is. I’ve got to have a coat and a cravat and a new pair of trousers at the very least.” Probably they could find things ready-made in his size, or near enough to it to require little alteration. They didn’t have to be of the finest quality; they only had to be presentable. “But—that’s not all we need,” he said. “When a man proposes marriage, he does it with a ring.”
“A ring?” Hannah managed to pull her gaze from the window.
“Probably flowers, too,” Ben said. “I’m not certain. I’ve never proposed marriage before.”
“Can I help pick them?” Hannah asked, crawling across her seat. “Can I?”
