Aunt Matilda was still clutching the vinaigrette, but she was not pressing it upon her mother. Rather, she was pressing it to her bosom. “There is a likeness,” she said. “I ought to have seen it. Without the scar surely I would have. He was a strikingly handsome man.”
“And a rake, Matilda,” Aunt Mildred said. “He was not the sort of friend one would have wished Humphrey to have. He was not the sort of friend one would have wished uponanyone. But then, our brother was not either.”
“We definitely need a plan,” Aunt Louise said. “We need to put our heads together. That young man may not want our acquaintance or our help, but he is married to Abigail and he must be given no choice.”
Uncle Thomas groaned and Colin grinned.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, smiling and clapping her hands together as she got to her feet, “the campaign can be postponed until another time. We invited everyone here to celebrate Abigail’s marriage even though her husband cannot be with us. Let us celebrate from this moment on. Tea will be awaiting us in the dining room. Colin, will you escort Abigail there while the rest of us follow?”
“It will be my pleasure,” he said, smiling kindly upon Abigail as he approached and offered her his arm again. “Camille mentioned in a letter to Elizabeth that Joel hasbought young Robbie a new dog and he is a far happier child for it. And the idea came from your husband. You must tell me more.”
“Oh yes,” Abigail said as they led the way to the dining room. “Apparently Robbie chose a collie and they are inseparable. But do let me tell you about Beauty—Gil’s dog—and my first encounter with her.”
There was a banquet spread upon the table.
•••
Fortunately the Dowager Countess of Riverdale was already lying down for her nap when young Bertrand arrived at the house the following afternoon. Lady Matilda Westcott had been ready with an explanation should one be needed, but she was very glad it was not. She had been unable to invent anything that would sound convincing.
Matilda was ready to leave the house—she had chosen her very best outfit, a dark green dress and pelisse and bonnet she usually reserved for the occasional garden party she attended with her mother—and hurried downstairs to the hall before the butler could bring her a message.
“Good afternoon, Bertrand,” she said briskly, pulling on her gloves before extending her right hand for a firm handshake. “You are very prompt. I like that in a young man.”
He was twenty-one years old and tall and lean and dark and handsome and must already have a whole army of young ladies in a flutter. And he would only improve with age, just as his father had done. The Marquess of Dorchester must be approaching his middle forties by now, but he and Viola still made an extraordinarily handsome couple.
Bertrand was bowing and wishing her a good afternoon and flushing and looking as mystified as he had yesterday when she had taken him briefly aside after tea at Elizabeth’sand asked if he would be so kind as to offer her his escort this afternoon. He must have thought she had taken leave of her senses, fallen off the cliff into senility. But the poor boy was a gentleman through and through and had assured her that it would be his pleasure. He was also a smooth liar. He had looked even more mystified and perhaps slightly alarmed when she had asked him not to tell anyone. He had assured her he would not. But why would he? A young gentleman surely did not boast of escorting his aging stepaunt about London.
But if that was so, he was not at least going to hide her inside a closed carriage with all the curtains drawn. From the step outside the house Matilda looked down upon a smart curricle and pair.
“Oh my!” she said.
“I hope you do not mind, ma’am,” he said. “I would have had to hire a chaise or ask my father—”
“Mind?”Matilda said. “My dear young man, I have not ridden in a curricle since I do not know when. But I am not in my dotage yet. Not even a twinge of the rheumatics.”
After he had assisted her into the curricle and taken his place beside her and gathered the ribbons into his hands, he looked at her inquiringly. “And where may I have the pleasure of taking you, ma’am?” he asked.
“I thought,” she said, “you might enjoy calling upon your Oxford friend Mr. Sawyer. I do not know his first name.”
He looked blankly at her. “Sawyer?” he said. “AdrianSawyer?”
“If that is his name, yes,” Matilda said. “Son of Viscount Dirkson.Legitimateson, that is.”
The blank look continued for a moment, to be replaced by a hint of a smile. “Lady Matilda,” he asked, “what are you up to?”
“Oh dear,” she said. “Do you not know him well?”
“Actually,” he said, “I knew him quite well before he came down, a year ahead of me. I have not seen him since, though someone did mention seeing him in town a few weeks ago.”
“Then perhaps,” she said, “it is time you became reacquainted. I knew his father, Bertrand. A long time ago, when he was a friend of Humphrey’s. My brother,” she added by way of explanation. “I cannot call upon him alone. It is not done, you know. Even a maid would not lend me sufficient respectability.”
One of his horses snorted, apparently impatient to be moving.
“So I am to call upon an old university friend I have not seen in a year, bringing my stepsister’s aunt along with me for company, am I?” he asked.
“I suppose,” she said, “I will be a great embarrassment to you.”
He regarded her in silence for a moment while the other horse snorted and the first tossed its head.
