Page 30 of The Marquess's Final Fling
“I gather,” she said with an impish glee and urged him to sit near her in her salon, “you wish to speak privately.”
“I do.”
“What fun!” She clapped her hands, her little grey eyes twinkling amid all her finite wrinkles.
“I hope so. I am in need of assistance.”
“A project!” She leaned forward in her chair and cocked an ear. “And I can be useful. How delicious.”
“I would hope you would begin your winter tea parties again.”
“Hmmm. I’ve not held them in years. Five, to be exact.”
“I am aware.”
“Your mother always came. After she took ill to her bed six years ago, I had not as much joy in my little gatherings.”
“I know you were fond friends,” he commiserated.
“The very best. A fine woman, your mother. Never a sour word about anyone. If she didn’t care for someone, she didn’t have to mow them down. She’d simply cut them.” The lady ran a finger across her throat. “Gone.”
“I hoped you might make as much ado about your tea parties as ever you once did.”
“Ah. Yes. Cream of society. No fops or half-wits. No ladies of sour disposition.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Notes to the newspapers about who is invited. Who attends.”
“No notoriety. Just good tea and conversation with bright Englishmen and women.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed.
”Dare I hope we have an objective in mind?”
“We do.”
“Ah.” She nodded a few times, regarding him with benevolence. “You will attend, I assume?”
“Promptly. Each Wednesday at four.”
“A bit early, don’t you think?”
“I wish to be home to have dinner with my daughters.”
She extended a hand. “I cannot argue with that.”
“Thank you.”
“I would assume I am to invite a few of your friends.” She tapped a finger on her cheek. “Say…the Home Secretary. A few fellows in the foreign service.”
“That would be appropriate.”
“And our objective.” Her little grey eyes widened in merriment, then disappeared into her voluminous little wrinkles. “The lady you adore.”
He mentally applauded her perspicacity. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Always did like the gel.”
He rejoiced at that. “Many do.”
