“I would guess,” he said, “that this has to do with Lieutenant Colonel Bennington.”
“Well,” she said. “It does. And I suppose you are wondering why I have not sent Thomas to make the call. Or Alexander or Avery. Or even your papa.”
“What if neither Adrian nor Viscount Dirkson is at home?” he asked.
It was, of course, a distinct possibility. Indeed, it would be nothing short of a miracle if neither one was out. This was madness, but—
“I do not even know where he lives,” Bertrand said.
“I do,” Matilda told him.
Twenty
The miracle happened. By the time it did, however, and Viscount Dirkson’s butler had admitted Lady Matilda Westcott and Viscount Watley to a handsome visitors’ parlor leading off the hall while he went to see if his lordship and his son were at home—a euphemism for discovering whether they wished to see their visitors—Matilda was heartily wishing it hadnothappened. And from the look on his face, she guessed that Bertrand was wishing it too.
Perhaps this hadnotbeen a good idea after all.
In all of thirty-six years, Matilda had caught only the occasional glimpse of Viscount Dirkson. She had not come face-to-face with him in all that time. By design, of course. On both their parts, no doubt. She had never,everbeen such a bold hussy as to come to his house. It really was quite inexcusable even if shehadbrought Bertrand with her and made it seem that he was the caller in chief while she was just the inadvertent hanger-on.
Whoever was just a hanger-on with her twenty-one-year-old stepnephew? Was there even such a relationship?
If she could have crept out through a side door or dropped out of a window, she would cheerfully have done it. But the damage had already been done. The butler had borne her name upstairs and it was too much to hope that if she disappeared, Viscount Dirkson would believe his butler must have been having hallucinations.
Bertrand was looking rather as though he had tied his neckcloth too tightly. She could not abandon him now even if there were a window conveniently open.
Oh dear.
And then the door opened and they came in together—one older gentleman, one younger. They looked nothing alike, Matilda thought while there was still a coherent thought in her head. The older one was tall, a fine figure of a man, with a full head of hair, silvered at the temples, pepper and salt elsewhere. Mostly pepper, she decided. He did not look his age, which she knew was in the mid-fifties. Men were so fortunate. They aged far more slowly and gracefully than women did. The two of them had discovered once upon a time that he was precisely one month to the day older than she. The younger man was shorter, fair haired and fresh faced, and slightly on the stocky side. Like his late mother. He was looking pleased. His father was looking neither pleased nor displeased. He was looking directly at Matilda.
Oh dear.
“Bertrand!” the younger man exclaimed, striding forward, his right hand outstretched. “Itisyou. I wondered. You used not to use theViscount Watleypart of your name. How do you do? Thisisa pleasure.”
“How doyoudo?” Bertrand said. “It is just a courtesy title, you know. May I have the honor of presenting Lady Matilda Westcott? She is my stepmother’s sister-in-law.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Mr. Adrian Sawyer said, making an elegant bow. “Are you acquainted with my father? Areyou, Bertrand?”
And the moment had arrived. Actually, it had done that several moments ago. Matilda dipped into a curtsy and then wished she had merely inclined her head with grave dignity.
“Matilda,” Viscount Dirkson said, making her a bow but not proceeding farther into the room. He was looking at her, narrow eyed, as well he might. Whaton earthhad put it into her head to come here? For now he was ignoring Bertrand.
“Charles,” she said, and then could have bitten out her tongue. Oh dear, she was too old for this. Far too old. She had been poised and firm minded for years and years. This was no time to revert to girlhood dithers and blushes.
He had switched his attention to Bertrand and his son. “I believe we met once in Oxford, Watley,” he said. “I am sure my son is quite delighted by your call. The two of you must have much to say to each other and much reminiscing to do. You will doubtless feel more comfortable if Lady Matilda and I are not present to hear you, and no doubtwewill feel more comfortable too not to have to listen. Ma’am, may I show you the garden? There is a pretty display of flowers at present.”
Oh dear.
“Thank you,” she said, and was surprised and relieved to discover that her legs took her across the room toward him without tottering or folding under her.
He said nothing as he walked beside her through the hall and along a corridor that circled behind the staircase, hisboot heels clicking on the tiled floor. He led her out through a back door into a garden filled with the color and perfume of myriad flowers. There was a well-scythed lawn out there too and a wrought iron seat beneath a chestnut tree.
“Well, Matilda,” he said as he closed the door behind him.
“Charles,” she said, turning to look at him and clasping her hands firmly at her waist. His face was leaner than it had been when he was a young man. His cheekbones and features were more pronounced. But he still looked handsome and remarkably like his son—hisotherson—but without the scar. “I have come about your son.”
Gone already, then, was the pretense that she had come because Bertrand, who had happened to be escorting her—where?—had suddenly conceived a burning hankering to call upon an old university chum of his he had not seen in more than a year.
He gazed at her, his hands clasped behind his back. He had made no attempt to show her the garden or to lead her toward the seat. “I assume,” he said, “you are not talking about the son who is currently in conversation with your... stepnephew?”
