Elspeth nodded. “I know about all of them, and I have met them, danced with them, except for Lord Timothy Rydell. I cannot recall ever—”
Behind her Sinclair made an odd choking noise. Elspeth turned to see that her maid had her hand over her mouth, her face white, eyes wide. But she shook her head, and Elspeth went on. “I do know of his family. He is one of a large number of cousins to Ella’s husband.” She tapped both stacks. “Do they know that I am thirty, wish to travel, do not wish children?”
Setting her teacup back in its saucer, Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured at the dossiers. “Yes. Also your eye and hair color, general build, health status, and the specifications of your dowry. They also know the speed at which this is to occur and are waiting for word from me this morning.”
Ah. A hint to hurry.
Elspeth handed her the two dossiers on the right. “These are my choices to drop from the process. Hervey and Stuart. Apt candidates and fine gentlemen, but I think not the best options for me.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon slid them into a drawer without even a glance. “I would have to agree. Do you have any questions about the other three at this stage?”
“Do you mind if I share them with Sinclair?”
The room fell silent a moment as Mrs. Dove-Lyon abruptly peered over Elspeth shoulder as if she had forgotten Sinclair remained in the room. “You wish to share them with your maid.”
Elspeth nodded. Mrs. Dove-Lyon took a long sip of tea, then added more tea from the pot to her cup. She sniffed. “Very well.”
Snatching the three dossiers, Elspeth twisted in her chair and held them out toward Sinclair, who mouthed, “Are you sure?”
“Tell me what you think.”
Sinclair took the pages, her fingers shaking. She smoothed them in her lap, one finger drifting down the page as she read.
“I am looking,” Elspeth whispered, “for anything nefarious.”
Sinclair looked up at her, eyes wide again. “What?”
“Wicked. Underhanded. Disreputable.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon chuckled. “Ah. The servants’ gossip. Excellent idea.”
Elspeth turned to face Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “She is also a friend who knows me well.”
The room fell silent, then Mrs. Dove-Lyon straightened in her chair. “That speaks well of you both.”
“I know it is unusual—”
“Every woman needs someone in her life she can trust. Unfortunately, that is rarer than one might think.” She gestured at the papers in Sinclair’s hands. “Why these three?”
“Potential. Your dossiers as well as what I know of them. All three seem willing to take risk, have ambition, and do not restrictthemselves to the dictates of Society. They appear to respect the aristocracy but not be ruled by it.”
Another pause lingered as Mrs. Dove-Lyon added a bit of sugar to her tea, stirring slowly as her gaze appeared to move from Elspeth to Sinclair to the ceiling—although the veil covering her face made certainty about any of her expressions difficult, even the occasional smile.
Sinclair cleared her throat, and Elspeth shifted in her chair to look at her, as did Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Sinclair tapped the first page. “Nothing... wicked. Not exactly.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sniffed. “Tell us whatever you know or have heard.”
Sinclair swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.” She took a deep breath. “I know Lady Elspeth wishes to travel. To explore the world. Preferably with a man with a head for science. And what I know is strictly from the gossip between households. There may be little truth in it. It’s just what people are saying.”
“Understood.”
“According to the household gossip, Mr. Livingstone is currently in a pitched battle with his mother about his desire to be a missionary like his grandfather. She prefers he choose a vicarage, if he plans to work in the faith. She does not want him to leave the country. He is not very outspoken, except in this matter. He has given his valet notice, and the man has offered that as soon as Mr. Livingstone marries, he will flee the country, with or without his mother’s approval or funding. That he is looking for a wife solely as his mission companion and a source of income. He has, according to the story, contacted a missionary agency that will send him to one of their most far-flung posts. His goal is not to travel. He simply wishes to settle elsewhere to do as he wishes.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sipped her tea. “Please continue.”
“Sir David has a home in Bloomsbury but wishes to live in hiscastle, which is currently a ruin. His valet is most distraught about this and is considering putting in his notice. Such a move would most likely break up the household, so all the servants, upper and lower, are walking on eggshells. Two have already given notice. Sir David is putting most of his money into rebuilding and modernizing. His business concerns are handled by managers and solicitors. While some of those businesses have overseas locations, Sir David seldom travels there. They say he is looking for a wife because Scottish winters are brutally cold.” She hesitated, then smiled. “They say he is something of a romantic. His housekeeper says he ‘dreams of clouds and embraces the rain.’”
“Sounds like Ella,” Elspeth murmured, thinking of her friend’s recent letters. America had been hard, but her love for her Gordon glistened like fine lace in the sun.
