“Dines in the nursery as yet, with her governess, ma’am.”
“Then there will be no dinner laid?”
“There will be, ma’am, if you choose to dine downstairs, but if Mr. Beckham does not return, you would be dining alone.”
Patience eyed the clock, disliking that prospect.
“When he means to dine at home, ma’am, he is always here by seven.”
It was seven thirty.
She was to dine alone or have a tray in her room on her wedding night. Patience was not a demanding individual, but that seemed a little odd to her.
“You must not mind her, ma’am,” Gellis said, clearly sharing her view. “Her ladyship does not like when Mr. Beckham dines at his club, though she never tells him as much. She changed her mind about dinner when he left.” The maid smiled. “Shall I bring you a tray?”
“I suppose you had best do as much,” Patience said, forcing a smile and Gellis left upon her errant. The situation was not the maid’s fault and there was no cause to be unkind.
Patience refused to feel sorry for herself. She had her books and a fire on the hearth. There were plenty in this city with less advantage on any given night.
In that moment, when her spirits were low, Patience felt the weight of another gaze upon her. She knew without turning that it was not the sleeping cat, and glanced over her shoulder to find Arthur’s younger sister peeking around the door to the corridor. How had the girl opened the door so silently? It was clear there were feats Patience had to learn in this house. She smiled a welcome and Amelia came into the room. Her hair was brushed out and in a long plait already, and she wore a plainer dress than she had worn at the wedding.
A black cat wound around Amelia’s legs and slipped into the room at the same time. Its hair was as dark as midnight and shorter than that of the one that still slept by the fire, as well as glossy with good health. It had one white paw and its eyes were yellow when it turned to survey Patience.
It jumped onto the other chair before the fire and curled up to sleep, the mirror image of the first one.
“Now you’ve met both of Arthur’s cats,” Amelia said, coming to stand beside Patience. She angled her head to read the titles on the books, such a sure sign of an avid reader that Patience smiled.
She also found herself taking a step to be between Amelia and the bookcase, the better that she might not glimpse the book with a secret.
“Are they the pair brought home from Venice?” she asked, diverting the girl’s attention.
Amelia nodded. “Tar and Feathers.”
“Maybe we should translate their names to Italian, given that they came from Venice,” Patience suggested and her companion’s eyes lit at the very idea.
“Catrame e Piume,” she mused.
Patience nodded. “Much better.”
“I agree. We will call them that and confound Arthur.” The younger girl smiled at the prospect, then eyed the bookcase. “I told Arthur you could not possibly have enough books to fill it, but it looks as if you might.”
“There will be a little space left, I believe.”
“You said I might borrow that second volume from you,” the girl reminded her shyly. “I have finished the first but Carruthers & Carruthers will not be open until Monday.”
If there was one thing Patience could understand, it was the need to finish a story once begun. She retrieved the volume and handed it to Amelia, who smiled and retreated, leaving Patience alone with the two dozing cats. She placed the last of her books upon the shelves, then impulsively chose the third volume of the novel she had just loaned to Amelia.
* * *
Arthur might have thoughthis errand done for the night after his discussion with Mr. Fanshawe, which had concluded well for the moment. He felt there was promise in an association there, but the funds might provide the difficulty. He considered his choices and went to his club rather than returning home. He had already missed dinner, for Lady Beckham was utterly inflexible about her schedule and he knew she would not have waited the meal for him. He would dine at his club, then return to the house.
Once at the club, he was invited to a game. He declined, but learned that the Earl of Queenston had arrived in town and would be playing. That man lost more routinely than Arthur’s uncle, so he sensed that once again, opportunity knocked.
And he was right.
The cards could not have been more in Arthur’s favor. Indeed, he had only to think of what card he needed to win, and it came to his hand. He knew better than to ignore such a flight of luck. He played all evening and into the night, then into the following morning, his purse becoming fatter by the moment. Others left the table, their funds exhausted for the moment, until the last game was played, just before the dawn. He had just picked up his cards when he smelled a lady’s sweet perfume in close proximity.
He did not so much as glance her way. He fixed his attention on the cards, on his opponent, on what had appeared and what had not. The lady did not speak, but watched the play in silence. Arthur took a calculated risk, won, and gathered his winnings before he saw that it was Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne who stood by his side. She wore a gown the color of claret wine, which seemed to make her eyes appear more vibrantly green.
