“I have no need of a new gown, Gran,” she said, looking at the shop front they’d stopped before as if it were the gates of hell. “I brought a formal gown that will do quite well for the ball.”
“And yet I still ask your indulgence in this,” Lady Tesh said archly, “for I find I’ve become quite selfish in my old age.” She shooed the younger women in the direction of the shop.
Miss Hartley sent Peter a pained look before she released his arm and disappeared inside. It warmed him, that glance, proof of their new camaraderie, something he had not expected with her. He had the mad urge to rescue her. Instead he squared his shoulders and made to follow, prepared to lend his silent support if that was what was needed. As he was about to step over the threshold, however, Lady Tesh turned to him.
“You may scurry yourself over to the tailor’s, Peter. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the deplorable state of your own wardrobe. I’ll not have you walking into the assembly rooms dressed in those rags you call clothes.”
Behind him he heard Quincy stifle a snort of laughter. He might have laughed himself if he wasn’t so offended at the woman’s effrontery.
“There’s nothing wrong with my wardrobe, madam.”
The viscountess made a rude sound. “The only place your clothes are good for is the rubbish heap. I’ve been indulgent thus far, but you will not embarrass these young women by walking into the assembly rooms dressed as you were for my dinner party. Now off with you, and be back here within the hour.” So saying, she slammed the door in his face.
Peter stood outside the shop for a moment, stunned. Quincy let out a hearty laugh. “By God, I love that woman,” he proclaimed, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Let’s be off then. No time to waste.”
Peter turned incredulous eyes on his friend. “If you think I’ll be browbeaten into dressing up in some dandy’s frock, you’re sorely mistaken. That woman has forced me to do much I have no wish to do; dressing up to please her will not be one of them.”
“Come now, she isn’t asking much. Only some formal wear.”
“I won’t renege on our bargain. But I will not dress myself in some society costume to appease her. Even I have my limits.” He turned to storm off. And came face-to-face with the Ladies Clara and Phoebe Ashford.
“Oh! Good day, Mr. Ashford, Mr. Nesbitt,” the elder of the two said. Her eyes lingered on Quincy a moment before she flushed and turned her attention to Peter. “How fortuitous to run into you. I’d thought to seek you out at Seacliff later, but now may save myself a trip.”
He blinked. Surely he was hearing wrong. Dane must have said something to his daughters after their confrontation at Danesford. Peter should be the last person she would want to see.
But the woman was all smiles. “Well, you and Miss Hartley. Lady Tesh has told us of her commission of Miss Hartley to paint the important places about the Isle, and that you were just learning of our family history. At Danesford we have a small piece of jewelry that may interest you. It’s said to have been worn by Synne herself.”
A current sizzled through Peter. Something survived of his ancestor besides the ghost of a foundation? Something she had touched with her own hands?
In the next moment, he shook off his excitement. It was of no interest to him. The family history stopped cold with him; after centuries it would wither on the vine. He had no need—nay, no desire—to view a thousand-year-old relic that would have no meaning after his death.
“I thank you for the invitation but I must decline,” he said, chill dripping from each word.
The smile fell from Lady Clara’s lips. She looked to her sister, who appeared equally distressed. In the next moment, the older woman dredged up a smile, but it was a mere shadow of what it had been. “I do hope you reconsider. Our father was most adamant about seeing you again; I know it would give him great pleasure to have you return.”
“Your father wishes me back?” Peter asked sharply.
She nodded vigorously, no doubt seeing in his question a ray of hope that his refusal of her invitation would be reconsidered. “He’s quite anxious to see you.”
Why would the man wish him to return? Peter had left no opening for further discourse. He’d threatened the man’s home and heritage. If the duke was in his right mind, he would never wish to see Peter again.
Quincy spoke before he could give the woman a firm letdown. “Thank you, Mr. Ashford will let you know when he’s available. And if you wish to extend your kind invitation to Miss Hartley, she’s currently within.” He motioned to the modiste shop.
Lady Clara thanked him profusely, her eyes once more lingering on him. Then, seeming to recall herself, she flushed and, shooting Peter a wary glance, ushered her sister along and disappeared into the building.
Peter rounded on Quincy. “You had no right,” he growled.
“I had every right,” Quincy shot back in a rare show of anger. “Since we’ve arrived and I’ve gotten to know some of these people whose lives you’ll be affecting with this mad scheme of yours, I can’t help but think you’re making a grave mistake.”
“A mistake?” he sputtered. He was vaguely aware that people were slowing around them on the sidewalk, giving them curious glances. At the moment, he didn’t give a damn.
Quincy took hold of his arm, dragging him to the side of the walkway. When he spoke, his voice was low and tense with frustration. “You can’t see past the haze of your anger that your revenge against this man will throw everything out of balance. You won’t just be affecting him, but everyone from his tenants to his servants to those two very sweet and very innocent women in there. I know,” he said, holding up a hand when Peter meant to interrupt, “that you mean to take care of each and every person who would be affected. Yet you cannot deny that it won’t be as easy as that. For in all your planning and plotting you didn’t take into consideration one very important thing: that His Grace is loved by those around him.”
Bitter gall rose in Peter’s throat as his mother’s ravaged face swam up in his mind. “And what do you expect me to do?” he rasped. “Do you think I should turn my cheek, to forget what he’s done?”
Quincy stared at him mournfully. “I don’t think you’re capable of it. As much as I wish you were, you will never be able to let it go. And in the end, it will be your downfall.” With that, he turned and walked away.
Peter could only stare after his friend, beyond words. They had fought in the past, but never like this. Regret settled heavily in his chest.
