Page 23 of A Delicate Deception
“Carter obliged me by writing out the invitations. All you’ll need to do tomorrow is wear serviceable clothing and greet your guests.”
When Sydney was dry, he returned to the hall.
“The time has come,” Lex said, “for me to divulge to you my scheme. My ulterior motive in coming to Pelham Hall.”
“Oh no,” Sydney groaned.
“Oh yes. I’ve been corresponding with an amateur—decidedlyamateur—historian who lives near Heatherby. I wish to make her acquaintance and persuade her of the error of her ways. I’d be grateful if you’d oblige me by reading aloud her latest missive so I can devote my attention to disproving its every thesis.”
As far as schemes went, this was not as bad as Sydney had expected. “Who usually reads and writes your letters?” he asked.
“My secretary,” Lex said. “But he stayed in London because, frankly, he’s used to better accommodations. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Sydney said dryly. Well, reading aloud a letter hardly seemed an onerous task. He cleared his throat and got to work.
An hour later he regretted it. He had a headache, a scowling duke, and a child who had stopped playing with the clock in favor of casting intrigued glances at Lex every time he swore. He also had acquired more dubious knowledge about English history than he had ever wanted. Sydney was no student of history, but he was fairly certain that both Lex and his correspondent had the most fanciful notions of what constituted a fact. He would need to ask Amelia the next time he saw her.
He also had the niggling sense that Lex’s correspondent was mocking him. Lex had always been prone to wild eccentricity, and Sydney didn’t like the way this Miss Russell seemed to be laughing at Lex. He felt certain that this woman wouldn’t have been quite as bold had she known she was corresponding with a duke.
“Read it again,” Lex demanded when Sydney finished reading the letter.
“Absolutely not.” There was a good deal Sydney would do for his friend, but spending an entire afternoon reading and rereading that piece of moonshine wasn’t on the list.
Sydney exchanged a glance with the duke’s valet, who had appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray of sandwiches. He gestured for Carter to put the tray on the footstool beside Lex.
“Are we certain these are edible?” Lex asked, sniffing the plate. “Yesterday’s sandwiches consisted of candlewax and tomatoes. The day before her biscuits contained laundry soap. The cook and I continue to have our little disagreements.”
“Is your disagreement over what constitutes food?” Sydney asked.
“She wants a new range, but I can’t purchase her one, because that would be giving in to her demands. But I also can’t sack her, because Carter shamelessly lured her away from the Earl of Stafford and one can’t steal a servant and then send her packing. I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.”
Sydney would remember to walk into the village and purchase something edible for supper. Meanwhile, with the spirit of a man throwing himself into the breach, he took a bite of the sandwich. “Tastes like food,” he declared.
“They must have been made by one of the kitchen maids,” Lex declared. “At least one is a double agent.” He nibbled at the edges of the sandwich in distaste. “Anyway, how is your lady love? Or is it a gentleman?”
“She—what, no, Lex, stop it.”
“I knew it!” Lex crowed.
“There’s nothing to know.” Sydney’s face was hot. Of course it was.
“I knew it was time for you to settle down. Your mother and I will be so proud of you.”
“You think you’re hilarious,” Sydney said, rolling his eyes. He started to smile, but then sternly reminded himself that he could not indulge this sort of fanciful imagining, not without speaking seriously to Amelia. His thoughts insisted on drifting to a hazy future with her. He caught himself wondering whether she would like the house he had engaged in Manchester, considering whether he ought to hire painters or wait for Amelia to choose colors and furnishings that might please her. He was being wildly presumptuous and he knew it. Sydney had gone about this—love affair, or whatever it was—with a recklessness that was entirely new to him. Falling in love with a near stranger and simply hoping for the best was the sort of thing Andrew would have done. It was, in fact, exactly what Andrewhaddone when he met Penny, and the fact that Sydney only now was realizing that he was in a comparable situation was proof that he was not thinking clearly.
He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He would need to talk to Amelia, that was all. Tomorrow, on their walk, he’d explain the regrettable state of his heart and ask if she felt the same. That was—well, it was terrifying. But fear was better than uncertainty, and he felt immeasurably better now that he had a plan.
Amelia held the invitation as if it were about to explode.
“You truly don’t need to go,” Georgiana said for perhaps the fifth time.
“It’s addressed to both of us,” Amelia said. That had been a shock, but it shouldn’t have been. Everyone in the village knew that Miss Russell and Miss Allenby lived at Crossbrook Cottage. It was hardly unexpected for a newcomer to familiarize himself with his nearest neighbors; a duke would be conversant enough with the rules of etiquette to understand that an invitation must be extended to all ladies living under a roof.
“Yes, my dear, but you don’t need to go. You may decline the invitation. I’m hardly of an age that I require a chaperone.”
“I’m not worried about you needing a chaperone,” Amelia said. “I’m worried about the fact that we don’t know this man or what his intentions are. As far as he knows, you’re an unmarried woman who has been carrying on a shockingly improper correspondence with him. And even if he doesn’t intend to harm you, he might wish to harm your reputation. We both know that I’m good at heading those sorts of things off at the pass.”
Georgiana gazed at her levelly. “How long was I your governess? You think that after so many years under the same roof as Portia Allenby I don’t know a thing or two about putting overbearing aristocrats in their place?”
