“Valentine Fairfax, sixth Duke of Eastleigh.” Koffi flapped his wings.
Mr. Middleton blinked. “Er… yes. And also Colehaven—”
“Caleb Sutton, fifth Duke of Colehaven,” Koffi squawked.
Mr. Middleton cut an astonished glance toward Priscilla.
Her cheeks heated. “He may have listened to the entirety of Debrett’s Peerage on multiple occasions.”
Priscilla often studied out loud. It was the only way to banish her home’s endless silence, even for a moment.
“Have you considered a novel?” Mr. Middleton asked politely. “If he’s going to repeat everything he hears, at least Koffi could say things like, ‘To the University of Oxford, I acknowledge no obligation,’ and then your guests can debate amongst themselves whether Koffi is casting aspersions upon that honored institution or jealous over being denied admission.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Is that from a novel?”
“Biography,” he admitted. “Edward Gibbon, compiled by Lord Sheffield. And to answer your next question… no, he was not a parrot.”
“Pity,” she said sadly. “If he were, I might’ve read his biography.”
“Do you not read them?” Mr. Middleton exclaimed in obvious horror. “You haven’t any clue what you’re missing. Good biographies are fascinating to read, even when the subject is an ordinary human.”
“Spoken like a man who does not have a pet,” Priscilla said with a sniff.
“I do, indeed.” He drew himself upright. “I have the fiercest, deadliest, six-week-old kitten London has ever seen. I’m told she’ll start murdering pigeons any day now. She would make an excellent biography.”
“She’s six weeks old,” Priscilla said with a laugh. “She hasn’t had enough life yet to start thinking about biographies. Besides, she and Koffi are doomed never to meet.”
Mr. Middleton gaped at her. “What— How can you— Romeo and Juliet never faced a villain so cruel!”
“She’s a cat,” Priscilla reminded him. “Koffi is a bird. Don’t you find that more than star-crossed?”
“My cat loves everyone,” he protested. “I’ve only had her for one day, but I’m certain she would treat Koffi with decorum and grace.”
“Koffi is unlikely to return the favor,” she informed him sadly. “He is an adventurer by blood, just like my father and grandfather.”
“Are they adventurers?” he asked with interest. “Those are among my favorite biographies.”
“Mine, too,” she admitted.
His mouth fell open. “You have read good books.”
“A couple.” She gestured to her bookshelves, which overflowed with tomes and atlases from around the world.
His eyes widened in appreciation. “Your father and grandfather must have marvelous stories.”
“They do,” she gushed at once, pushing away the tiny little voice reminding her she’d heard very few of them. “My grandfather fell in love with adventure during his Grand Tour when he was young. He said my grandmother’s beauty was the one thing capable of luring him from adventure.”
Mr. Middleton’s eyes brightened. “Is he here now?”
“N-no,” she admitted. “But he comes back… sometimes.”
Once, when she was nine. And once, when she was seventeen.
“And your father?” Mr. Middleton asked.
Present on those same two occasions, but not for her birth, her come-out, or any day after.
They were busy, Priscilla reminded herself. Africa wasn’t around the corner. As soon as she was a free woman, she could join them on their travels, and it would no longer matter how much time they had once spent apart.
