That was the first thought that crossed Oliver Quincy’s mind as he alighted from his hired carriage and glanced about the palatial country estate of the Duke of Ravensworth.
Why in the name of all that was right and proper had His Grace turned this grand monument to his and England’s glory over to a parcel of artists of unknown parentage?
But then, the Duke had improvidently married a Windermere, so the curious workings of the Duke’s mind would ever remain opaque to him.
Quincy quite conveniently put it from his mind that he himself had, in fact, proposed marriage to Lady Delilah Windermere—more than once.
A young laughing fellow dressed as a donkey pressed a leaflet into his hand. Emblazoned in bold lettering wasWarrior of Earth and Skyeby The Right Honorable Viscountess Kilmuir. He squinted and kept reading only to find the music had been composed by Lord and Lady Archer, both of whom would be performing it, as well. The set design and painted backdrops had been created by the Duke and Duchess of Ripon. And in the lead role of the maiden warrior Scáthach would be none other than the Duchess of Ravensworth.
A mild frisson of shock traced through Quincy. He’d hoped now that the Windermeres were illustriously married and titled, they would’ve settled a bit. But it was clear for all to see the Windermeres were still very much the Windermeres. Shocking, indeed, but not altogether surprising.
Along with scores of other guests possessed of the low look of local villagers—not a single silk dress or proper accent amongst the lot—Quincy followed the indicated granite path, all manner of colorful bunting and streamers flapping riotously about. This was precisely why one didn’t leave the running of a grand estate to artists. All dignity and sense of station flew out the window.
He sniffed and pulled himself up to his fullest height. Still, it was a duke’s estate, and Quincy’s invited presence here said something about his rising status in Society—local villagers in attendance notwithstanding. One must placate the locals. As a duke, Ravensworth would understand as much.
The granite path ended, and Quincy stepped onto the top landing of the amphitheater that everyone was talking about. A summons to view a performance at Wimberley Hill was one of the most highly sought-after invitations in theton.
Of course, he’d received one.
His gaze cast about, on the prowl for other Society luminaries such as himself. A few rows down, mingled amongst the commoners—truly, there might be more commoners than nobles—he struck gold. There stood a statuesque lord and lady of middling-to-late years whose graying hair picked up the pinks and purples of the sunset in the distance. Or…were they wearing dyed wigs? One wouldn’t put such a thing past the Earl and Countess of Cumberland if the fancy took them. After all, their progeny had inherited their wild, scandalous ways from someone.
Seeing no one else in the crowd he recognized, Quincy sidled closer to the Earl and Countess, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded at every conversational pause as if he had the slightest understanding of what they were on about. Something about theater structures.
Truly, these Windermeres.
*
Lord Francis Windermere,the Earl of Cumberland, watched his countess Augusta give the unfamiliar young-ish gentleman who had quite unaccountably joined them a cursory once-over before continuing. “I’m simply saying that I’m not sure we can call this theater a true amphitheater. It does have the sloping seating and is built into the side of a hill, but it doesn’t fully encircle the stage, like the one at Pompeii.”
“Ah, Pompeii,” said the strange gentleman on a knowing nod. The man appeared quite settled in.
“I would posit,” continued Augusta, “that this stage is actually more similar to an English one from the era of Queen Elizabeth.”
“A mongrel stage, if you will,” said Francis with a mischievous smile. He ever flashed his wife that smile when she rode on her purist high horse.
She swatted his arm playfully. “Oh, Francis, you’re having me on.”
“A bit,” he conceded. Someone had to guide his countess into the forest when she was lost amongst the trees.
A high-pitched laugh sounded at their side. As one, Francis and Augusta shifted their attention toward the gentleman who seemed to have barnacled himself onto them. “And who might you be?” she asked, ever direct with a point. Francis loved that about his countess.
Self-satisfied, the gentleman rocked from heel to toe. “You’ll know me as Mr. Oliver Quincy, of course.”
A confused beat of time ticked past. “Who?” asked Augusta.
Again, Mr. Quincy laughed. “No one will doubt where Lord Archer gets his sense of humor.”
Vague recollection came to Francis. “You’re the fellow who proposed marriage to Delilah.”
Augusta’s brow crinkled. “Two…or was it three times?”
“Ah, the japes of youth,” said Mr. Quincy, utterly unabashed.
Undecided as to how to manage this curious social interaction—truly, it was a first—Francis offered Mr. Quincy a shallow bow, which the gentleman accepted as his due with a gracious nod of the head. “Now if you will excuse us,” began Francis, “we must—”
He’d never been any good at delivering an untruth. It was a fine thing he ever had his countess with him. “We must go stand over there,” she said, pointing toward a patch of ground twenty feet away.
Well, she wasn’t much more skilled at it.
