Page 62 of Hearts of Briarwall

Much, it occurred to him, in the same way Lydia felt that knowing how to drive a car would lend her legitimacy as an investor.

Sir Lawrence turned to his mother. “Her Majesty owns a Wolseley, Mother.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Piedmont snapped open a fan and created a breeze for herself. “Are you quite enamored?”

Spencer couldn’t help the tug of a smile at his lips. His car was an older, bare-bones model compared to the queen’s, but it did shine. “Quite, madame.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It’s yellow.” He winked.

Mrs. Piedmont giggled and swatted his arm with her fan. She clutched at her ample chest, threatening to wrinkle the many flowers sewn on the gown’s bodice. “You are a charmer.”

“You didn’t tell me you had your own car,” Lydia said.

“You did not ask,” he answered, still not daring to meet her gaze.

Sir Lawrence glanced between them, then cleared his throat. “Andrew said you came by locomotive.”

“I did indeed. Next to my passion for motorcars is a lifelong fascination with the railway. I find that traveling a stretch on the rails every now and again keeps me inspired.”

Sir Lawrence tipped his head. “You and I have much in common, Hayes.”

Spencer’s gaze automatically slid over to Lydia on the man’s arm, her steady look questioning, then back to Sir Lawrence. Spencer loosened his clenched jaw. “Well, let’s make that work to our mutual benefit, shall we?”

He may have made a fool of himself—or at least he had come very close to it—with Lydia Wooding, but he would not lose Sir Lawrence’s interest over it. He needed the man’s money, his name, and his influence.

Violet interjected. “I do find the railway trip romantic, don’t you, Mrs. Piedmont? Sharing a car with strangers all surging along the rails toward shared destinies.”

“I prefer a private cabin,” she said.

Violet leaned forward. “That, too, can be romantic?”

Mrs. Piedmont snapped open her fan, but nodded her agreement. “I suppose.”

Spencer’s mouth quirked again. “Lydia tells me you have a Rover, Violet.” He noted Sir Lawrence stiffen at his use of Christian names. “How do you like it?”

“I adore it.”

“She’s named it Edwin,” Lydia offered, “after her first love.”

His brow rose. “The relationship must have ended amicably, then?”

“Not at all. He pushed me into a puddle of mud, and I threw as much of the muck as I could at him until our nannies separated us and I was promptly returned to the nursery.” She sighed. “I never knew what became of him, the darling.”

Spencer chuckled as Andrew ran a long-suffering hand over his own face.

Violet continued. “I can say, ‘I’m taking my love for a drive in the country, Mama,’ and the dear woman has a moment of apoplexy every time before she realizes what I mean.”

“Poor soul,” Mrs. Piedmont said, tsking.

“You’d think,” said Sir Lawrence, “that Mrs. Whittemore would have little qualm with you driving any man about, as involved as she is in the suffrage.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Piedmont opened her fan again and flapped it like a wing of a pheasant, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of topic.

“Now, now, Sir Lawrence,” Violet said with an air of compassion. “We all know that mamas everywhere can be staunch in their causes, but when it comes to their children, they may have a different line of thinking altogether.”

“Rightfully so,” Mrs. Piedmont said, pulling herself taller—if one could call five feettaller.

“At least your mother allows you to drive a car,” Lydia muttered to Violet.

“Yourmother wears too much starch in his collars,” Violet murmured in return.

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