Henry reappeared, red-faced and huffing for air as he emptied two more buckets into the tub.
“Henry.” Elias halted the lad as he grabbed up both buckets and started to dash back out. “Running is not necessary.”
“Not according to Mother.” With a knowing dip of his chin, the boy turned and ran for more.
Shaking his head, Elias settled down into the shallow water and started washing with a fresh bar of Pears soap. The clean scent of rosemary, thyme, and a slightly floral note filled the small room but failed to alleviate his tension as it usually did. Too much was at stake for him to relax. Once he reached the Whitfields’ and discovered whether Celia and her mother attended, his tense state would be easier managed. At least, he hoped so.
Henry continued toting water until it reached slightly above Elias’s waist. Taking pity on the winded lad, Elias told him, “That’ll do, Henry. If I need extra for rinsing, the kettles on the hearth will be just fine.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The young man bowed and quietly closed the door on his way out to keep the warmth in the room.
Elias finished bathing, scrubbed himself dry, then rubbed in his favorite blended oils of citrus, bergamot, and amber. Scents branded themselves upon one’s memories, and he wanted Celia to think of him any time she came across these. She had placed the same curse upon him. To his dying day, whenever he happened upon the fragrance of jasmine, he would think of her.
After dressing, he sat on the bench at the foot of the bed and secured the ties of his freshly polished black shoes. He preferred boots, but that simply would not do for a dinner party. He stood and eyed himself in the mirror, then laughed. Father had often insulted him by saying he looked like the Prince of Darkness himself whenever he wore black. The somber shade accentuated his black hair and the golden eyes he had inherited from his mother. His looks had made his father hate him even more.
“To the devil with you, Father.” He tipped a nod at his image and marched out, more determined than ever to make this evening a success. Monty had mentioned marriage before the month was out. If Elias had his way about it, the union would take place within a matter of days. With the knowledge of Celia’s true identity, there would be no questions impeding the issue of the special license.
Mrs. Camp met him at the bottom of the stair. “I’ve brushed your topper, and with the weather what it is, I thought your greatcoat would be in order.” Her ever-amiable expression hardened into a slightly scolding, motherly look. “You should have worn it this morning. Even with it being spring, a soaking rain could be the death of you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Camp.” He’d learned long ago not to argue with the housekeeper. She only had the best of intentions, and he found comfort in her caring nature.
“Shall I send Henry out to hire a coach?” She turned and frowned at the window as the rain sluiced down even harder across the panes. “The barouche won’t be protection enough on a night like this.”
Elias inwardly smiled. Mrs. Camp fretted about him drowning in the deluge but had no trouble tossing her son out into the storm for the sake of her employer. “That won’t be necessary. My brother should arrive soon in his coach.”
Mrs. Camp beamed the round-cheeked smile of a young girl hoping to be noticed by a lad. “His Grace is too kind.”
Elias tried not to roll his eyes. Monty had that effect on women, no matter their age, marital status, or social standing. “He is indeed.”
“I’ll have Henry watch for him. He knows His Grace’s coach.”
Before Elias could stop her, she’d hurried down the hallway bellowing her son’s name. He checked his timepiece, then donned his hat, greatcoat, and gloves before opening the door and squinting out into the weather. Monty always arrived early, and there came his coach around the corner. The battle was nigh.
Chapter Eleven
Elias subtly maneuveredaround until he stood with his back to the wall, behind a section of chairs arranged for the pleasure of the guests. From this prime spot, he could easily carry on a polite conversation while watching for Celia to arrive. Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention to Lady Whitfield flitting around the large room like a nervous butterfly, checking every detail before more guests appeared.
He and Montyhadarrived unfashionably early. While it was regrettable, Elias was glad they were the first of what looked to be a sizable gathering. Monty’s valet had guessed sixteen to twenty. From the lines of chairs arranged around the perimeter of the room and in sizable clusters in the center, a great deal more was expected.
The muffled rumbling of distant thunder concerned him. With the dowager duchess’s frailness, he wondered if she and Celia would venture out on such a night. While he wished the woman no ill will, he hoped they would still risk it.
“I believe we arrived a touch too early,” Monty remarked in a low tone. He subtly edged closer and nudged Elias. “You do realize you will need to move about the room and carry on at least a smattering of conversation with those in attendance?”
“I am aware.” Elias kept his gaze locked on the archway leading to the hall.
“Then stop watching the entrance like a leopard waiting to pounce.” Monty caught hold of his coat sleeve and tugged him into motion. “Elias,” he said loudly, then snorted with an obviously fake laugh. “You must be joking.”
Elias spared his brother a curious glare. “What the deuce is wrong with you?”
Monty cut his eyes to the side, subtly directing Elias’s attention to their host, who was blatantly staring at them with an irritated glower. The man was obviously not pleased about their early arrival.
Realizing they had noticed him, Lord Whitfield sprang into action and motioned for a servant just entering the room with a tray of drinks to serve Elias and Monty. “Your Grace, Lord Raines, I do apologize. You should have been offered drinks ages ago.”
“It is we who must apologize, Whitfield. I fear my penchant for timeliness made us arrive quite early.” Monty accepted a glass and turned to Elias. “I have always suffered from over-punctuality. Have I not, brother?”
“Indeed. Were my brother a condemned man, he would arrive early for his own hanging.” Elias accepted a glass, then almost snapped its stem as the Duchess of Hasterton and Celia entered the room. He attempted to recover and make idle chatter even though he kept his gaze locked on Celia. “Have you been quite well, Whitfield? It has been a while since last we spoke.”
Lord Whitfield turned to follow the line of his stare, then turned back to him with a smile. “Even illness has not diminished the dowager duchess’s beauty.” He cast another nonchalant glance their way as the rest of the Hasterton household joined them. “My Daphne says that the lovely young thing at Her Grace’s side is her companion, but the resemblance of the two is uncanny. Do you not agree? Surely, they must be relations.”
