There was a lull of general disbelief as the assembled guests and a few of the servants looked around in confusion at the exchange.
“You’re apologizing to me?” Beck demanded, clearly affronted by the gall.
“Well, yes,” said Freddy, blinking at him with all the polite earnestness of a choirboy. “I punched you.”
“You didwhat?!” his wife exclaimed.
Everyone else just stared in naked disbelief while the long, incredulous silence stretched out between the two men.
Ambrose couldn’t be certain, but he imagined they were all having the same confused mental theater he himself was experiencing, wherein Freddy, who was a full foot shorter and several stone lighter than Thaddeus Beck, threw a punch that must have landed with all the fury of a dove flying into a portcullis.
Still, Beck looked positively sick about it. Maybe Freddy had more strength in his swing than anyone realized.
“I deserved it,” Beck finally said. “It is forgotten.”
“Excellent,” said Freddy, smacking his lips together. “Does anyone want croissants?”
Ambrose opened his mouth to respond, but Vix sliced him a look sharp enough that he suspected if he said anything, his tongue would fall out, and so he closed it again, and simply filed in with everyone else to partake of pastry.
It was actually the elder sister who said what everyone was thinking, glancing at Freddy, then over her shoulder at Beck, then back at her sister, frowning, and saying in the gentlest, most polite voice, “I have several questions.”
“That is just too bad, Millie,” her sister snapped, in exactly the same tone as Vix’s narrow-eyed glare.
Freddy was grinning like he’d just announced his victory over an entire battalion of enemy soldiers, whistling to himself as he led the charge into the sitting room.
Ambrose was not sure if he was much changed or entirely the same.
They were ordered around a series of tasteful seating arrangements, served tea and croissants and jam, and then subjected to the specifics of charitable-donation management and ball logistics with all the intensity of a war table.
“We’ve a dedicated ledger, of course,” Hannah said at one point, while spreading blueberry preserves on a bit of flaky dough. “If there had been more time, we ought to have included an auction on top of the donation scheme. Perhaps next year.”
“Next year,” Vix echoed dreamily. “There is still the matter of choosing a student to sponsor, of course.”
“I had a thought about that,” Beck put in, drawing surprised heads around to where he was perched on a chaise altogether too delicate for his hulking build. “There are several young ladies who have used the clinic in Clerkenwell and have volunteered there as well, over the last year. I think we should offer the opportunity to them first.”
“Oh,” said Hannah, in a tone like a fresh debutante who’d just been given her first bouquet of flowers. “Yes! Oh, Thaddeus!”
Beck gave her a little smile, a faint tinge of pink flushing his cheeks, and Vix immediately cleared her throat in horror.
“How old is the ideal girl?” Ambrose asked, reaching out to steady his wife from such a flagrant display of affection toward her brother. “How young do they start at this school?”
“I started when I was eleven,” Vix said, still throwing one more glare at her sibling for good measure before turning to her husband. “Which is about the usual age, though some start muchearlier. I wouldn’t like to send a small child, though. I think our girl should be old enough to have found some independence if she is going to go off to live in a new city by herself.”
“Eleven is reasonable,” Claire agreed. “I would never send my children any younger than that.”
“Nor I,” said Freddy, tossing her a look of open fondness. “I’d rather not board Oliver at all, when the time comes.”
Claire blinked at him and reached out to touch his knuckles, a little wistful smile flickering over her face.
Vix cleared her throat again. Louder.
Hannah caught Ambrose’s eye and folded her lips inward, raising her eyebrows with shared observational amusement.
He swallowed his own desire to snort.
“My lady,” came a maid’s voice, the hard soles of her shoes tap-tap-tapping into the room as she hurried in, looking distressed. “My lord. I am sorry to impose. There is a woman at the door.”
“A woman?” Claire prompted, glancing up. “One of the artisans?”
