His lordship had accompanied her again that morning when she took George for a walk. When she had suggested that she would take a maid if he preferred to read his paper, he had assured her that he would enjoy the exercise. She had let him put the lead on George and take him along the street to the park. And indeed it did seem as if her pet behaved himself better with his lordship, as she had admitted to him when she knelt on the path inside the gate and detached the leather strap so that George could run free.
They had not talked a great deal, but she had enjoyed their stroll nevertheless. He had chosen quite freely to come. She must not feel guilty at taking him away from his breakfast.
“Did you enjoy your evening, Arabella?” he had asked.
“Oh, yes,” she had said. “Everyone sat and talked, my lord. There was no music and no dancing. And no cards either. There was a poet there whose latest volume recently created a stir, though I cannot recall his name at present or the name of the book. Frances found his poems quite affecting, but I must confess that I did not hear them. I talked with Lord Farraday.”
“Did you indeed?” he had said.
“Yes.” She had been smiling, watching George snuffling around the trees that were becoming familiar to him. “He told me many stories about university and the scrapes you and he and Mr. Hubbard got into. I have never laughed so hard in my life. It is amazing you never got into deep trouble, my lord.”
“I am glad you enjoyed yourself,” Lord Astor had said. “Would you care to take my arm, Arabella?”
She had done so and been reminded of her very inferior stature. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she had asked.
“I beg your pardon?” He had looked blankly down at her. “Oh, at my dinner? Yes, thank you, Arabella, well enough.”
They had said very little else. When they had arrived home, she had gone down to the kitchen herself to restore George to his new quarters rather than send him with a footman and hear him whine every step of the way. His lordship had handed her a letter when she returned to the breakfast room. He had been smiling. He knew how much she loved to receive news from home.
The letter had contained little beyond the ordinary, though she had devoured its contents with great eagerness. But there had been one thing, and when she had looked up flushed and eager, it was to discover that his lordship was sitting quietly watching her.
“What is it, Arabella?” he had asked, amusement in his voice. “Good news?”
“Theodore is coming,” she had said. “Sir Theodore Perrot, that is. He is coming to town, Mama writes. How splendid!”
“I met him,” Lord Astor had said. “He is the fair-haired and rather broad one?”
“Yes,” she had said, staring down at her letter, picturing Theodore coming to sweep Frances off her feet again. Dear, dependable Theodore, who would show Frances at a glance that he was twice the man Sir John Charlton was, or any of her other admirers. “Dear Theodore.”
Lord Astor’s eyebrows had risen. “And when may we expect his arrival?” he had asked.
“I think any day,” Arabella had said, clutching the letter to her bosom and looking across at her husband, stars in her eyes. “We may invite him here for dinner the day he appears? And we will take him to the theater with us and introduce him to our acquaintances and make sure he is invited everywhere? Please, my lord.” He had lifted his cup of coffee and swallowed a mouthful before answering. “It will be as you wish, Arabella,” he had said.
But her reaction had been calm in comparison with what Frances’ would be, Arabella reflected now, realizing that she had written only a sentence since she had last bent her head over her paper. She blanked all thoughts, exciting and depressing, from her mind, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and wrote.
Frances’ reaction to the news an hour later was not quite what Arabella had hoped.
“Theodore is coming?” she said blankly when Arabella ran forward, hugged her tight, and blurted out the news. “Here, Bella? But why now?”
“Perhaps to enjoy the Season, you goose,” Arabella said. “Perhaps to see you.”
“I do not see why he must come so soon,” Frances said. “We have been here only two weeks, Bella. And Theodore and I are not betrothed.”
“I thought you loved him,” Arabella said bleakly. Frances’ eyes filled with tears. “And so I do,” she said. “But I have never had a chance to meet other gentlemen, Bella. Am I to have no chance to make a more eligible match? You have his lordship, and Melinda Sawyer says that all her friends consider you the most fortunate of ladies. Theodore is . . . well, he is just Theodore. I am fond of him. Oh, of course I am fond of him. But . . . Oh, I do not know what I think.”
“Perhaps when you see him again you will be more sure of your feelings,” Arabella said hopefully.
“Oh, I do look forward to seeing him,” her sister said, drawing a handkerchief from her pocket. “Dear Theo. He is so faithful, Bella. How horrid and ungrateful of me to feel that I did not wish him to come.”
She hid her face behind the lace handkerchief and sank into the nearest chair.
A note was delivered to the house on Upper Grosvenor Street two mornings later asking if Sir Theodore Perrot might do himself the honor of calling on Lord Astor before luncheon. Arabella, who was in the breakfast room with her husband at the time, exacted a promise from him that he would bring Theodore up to her sitting room before he left, and flew from the room in high good spirits.
Lord Astor awaited his guest in his downstairs office. While he waited, he tried to make sense of certain estate documents sent him by his bailiff at Parkland. He was determined to understand and become familiar with the workings of his property, perhaps even to spend part of the summer months there.
He had been puzzled and made a little uneasy by Arabella’s enthusiastic reaction to the news that Perrot was on his way to London. He recalled the man as a friend of his wife’s family, someone he had characterized as a quiet, solid, dependable citizen. Although there had been no open sign of affection, he had drawn the conclusion for some reason that there was an attachment of sorts between the man and Frances.
And it seemed a reasonable assumption. She was the eldest daughter and the loveliest. He seemed to recall, though he could not be sure of the fact, that Arabella had told him at the time of their betrothal that her older sister was to marry someone else. There seemed to be no one else in the neighborhood with whom she was more likely to have an understanding. It was a natural assumption that if Perrot did have an attachment to Frances, he would follow her to London and pay his respects at the home where she was staying.
