“Havell,” Uncle Quentin said suddenly, slapping a hand flat on the table and causing some of Uncle James’s coffee to slosh into his saucer. “Sir Everard Havell, the one everyone called the beautiful boy on account of his smile. He had a mouthful of perfect white teeth.”
“I remember,” Uncle James said. “The ladies used to swoon at one smile from him.”
“He was forced to rusticate when he ran low on funds,” Uncle Quentin continued. “Went to stay with some doddering uncle or other who might or might not leave him everything. Went to butter up the old boy, I suppose. And it wasLancashire. I am sure of that. I thought, poor fellow, having to be incarcerated somewhere in Lancashire, of all the godforsaken places.”
“He was not to be envied,” Uncle James agreed.
“He ran off with someone’s wife, and her husband divorced her, and Havell got cut off without a penny.” Uncle Quentin looked triumphantly across the table at Flavian. “That was it. Must be. I can’t remember the husband’s name, but it was about twenty years ago, and it was Lancashire. It would be too much of a coincidence if there had been two such elopements and two such divorces.”
“But does Lady Ponsonby notknow,Flave?” Desmond asked.
“She chooses not to talk of it,” Flavian said, sitting back in his chair. “She does not even know the name of the man with whom her mother ran away.”
“She is not going to be able to hide her head in the sand for much longer, though, is she?” Desmond was frowning. “It will not take the tabbies long to find out the details, Flave. If Uncle Quent remembers, other people will too. It could bode trouble for Lady Ponsonby. And for you.”
“We are a big enough family, heaven knows,” Uncle James said. “And your family on your mother’s side is almost as large.”
“And families stand together,” Uncle Quentin said.
“Heaven help us,” Desmond murmured.
“What happened after the divorce?” Flavian asked.
“Eh?” Uncle James said.
“Havell did the decent thing and married the lady,” Uncle Quentin said. “Apparently she was a beauty, even though she was no spring chicken, and older than he, if I remember rightly. They were given the cut direct by the whole of the beau monde, though.”
“Is either of them still living?” Flavian asked. “And where did or do they live?”
Uncle Quentin tapped his teeth again, and Uncle James rubbed his chin with one hand.
“Damned if I know,” Uncle James said. “You, Quent?”
Uncle Quentin shook his head. “But you might ask Jenkins,” he said. “Peter Jenkins. He is related in some way to Havell—second cousin once removed or some such thing. He may know.”
“First,” Uncle James said. “First cousin twice removed.”
Peter Jenkins happened to be dining at White’s with friends. Flavian had to wait all of an hour and a half to catch him alone.
***
Agnes was exhausted. Not that the evening had been a busy one. It had been rather pleasant, in fact. She had donned one of the least fancy of her evening gowns and had dined with Flavian and his mother, then sat in the drawing room with them afterward. While she worked at some tatting and her mother-in-law drew up her embroidery frame, Flavian had read to them from Mr. Fielding’sJoseph Andrews, an amusing spoof on Samuel Richardson’sPamela, which Agnes had read and not particularly enjoyed a few years ago.
He had read well and with very little stammering. And when he finally closed the book and set it on the table beside him, he had propped the side of his face on one hand and watched Agnes work, with an expression that might have been contentment or fondness or mere tiredness. He had not slept last night, after all, and she doubted he had slept this morning.
They were invited to Lord Shields’s house the following evening for an impromptu party with family and friends. Flavian explained that some of his relatives had arrived in town and were eager to meet her. Agnes was a little wary of the wordpartythat appeared in Marianne’s invitation, but the dowager reminded her that town was still really rather sparse of company this early in the year. Anyway, if she was to stay with Flavian—and shewas goingto stay—she must meet thetonsooner or later.
She would allow Madeline to choose the most suitable of her evening gowns.
She was dressed now in a new nightgown. It was not nearly as daring and revealing as some she might have chosen. It covered her shoulders and upper arms and all but a modest expanse of bosom, and, despite the fineness of the linen, it was opaque. It did tend to cling a bit, though, according to Madeline, that was what it was supposed to do in order to show off her lovely figure.
She was not at all sure anyone but Madeline would see her in the nightgown. When Agnes had agreed this morning to give their marriage a week, they had not discussed what the nature of the marriage would be during that week. She did not know whether Flavian would come to her, and she did not know whether she would go and seek him out tonight as she had done last night—if he did not come, that was.
She ought not to want him to come. She had been very angry indeed with him. Not angry in the way that a good quarrel might solve, but angry in a way that could not be mended, angry from the feeling she had been cruellyusedand that sheer lust had made her into a willing victim. The fact that she was in love with him had been quite irrelevant. Indeed, that very fact had only made her more determined to exert some control over her life, to act with her head instead of her heart—or the cravings of her body.
But she had done a lot of thinking in the course of the day. And a lot of remembering.
She was sitting on the side of the bed when he came. He tapped on the door, waited a moment—she did not call to him—and came inside. He stood there in his dressing gown, which was tightly belted about his waist, looking gorgeous with his blond hair slightly tousled. She felt a tightening in her breasts and hoped that in the dim candlelight he could not see the evidence of that fact through her nightgown.
