One
It took a merenine days for the 11th Viscount Orton to arrive at his sister’s London house after her urgent summons.
“What was it this time, Jack?” she asked, her look of scolding reproach failing to produce anything but the blandest of smiles. “A horse race you couldn’t miss? A shooting party?”
He paused halfway across the room, catching his reflection in the gilt-framed mirror over the pink marble fireplace. “Shooting?” He made a minute adjustment to his coat cuff. “In March? You were closer with horses, Nell. Sedgewick had a hunter for sale. Went up to see it.”
Taking a seat, he crossed his legs, pleased with the gleam of his Hessians. He was trying a new boot maker and from the several compliments he’d received on the walk to his sister’s house, felt fairly sure he’d succeeded in starting a trend.
“You went all the way to Derbyshire to look at ahorse?”
“Such tireless diligence, I know. Never fear, I managed to mixsomepleasure in with my business.” He’d planned to mix in more, but Sedgewick’s sister hadn’t been at home. “Some of thechaps were around. Pennington, Leighton, that set. Ended up having an enjoyable little house party of sorts.”
After a quick glance at his nails, he raised his head to survey the rest of the room. Lord, it was even more crowded than his last visit, which was a feat, given the size of the room. No commitment, that was Nell’s problem. You could be classical or the new Egyptian, but you couldn’t be both. And was that monstrosity of a clock in the cornerGothic?
“Well! I’m glad you’ve been enjoying yourself, brother. Heaven forbid anything should interfere with that. Whereas the rest of us are half out of our minds with the cares put upon us.”
Jack eyed his sister’s scowling agitation with amusement, selecting a hot-house orange from the silver bowl at his elbow. He knew his eldest sister’s character just as well as she knew his, and if there’d been the slightest chance her summons had indeed been urgent, he would’ve come straight away. Probably she couldn’t decide between a pink satin or a yellow. Or her milliner had sent her a shockingly incorrect bill—byherreckoning. Had she lost money at cards? More than her pin money could cover? It wouldn’t be the first time. But why she turned to him rather than her husband, he had no idea. They’d only been married a year, and while Lord Ashburton was as dull as a rusty shovel, he was a usefully compliant husband and still doted on his pretty little wife.
“Go on then, Nell,” he said, digging a strong but languid thumb under the bright peel of the orange. “Spit it out.”
Predictably, she opted to look affronted at this direct approach. An hour building up to it would’ve given it a sense of drama and occasion. But there were approximately a hundred things he’d rather be doing than taking tea with his sister.
“Well…” she began. “You know Mother is sick?”
Idly, he pulled a long curl of peel free, appreciating the fresh scent it raised. “I was aware, yes.”
“And Nora is coming out this season?”
He feigned confusion. “Gosh, who?”
“Jack! Your sister!”
“Nell, I do happen to have some awareness of the major happenings in my own family. Being, as you know, its head and all.”
She flashed him a scowl. “Is it any wonder I sometimes doubt youdoremember that?”
He chuckled, dropping the peel onto the rosewood table by his chair and pulling an orange segment free. “It is a wonder, yes. Everything runs smoothly, doesn’t it? All our ledger columns are in the black. No scandal has ever come near us. What can you possibly reproach me for, dearest sister?”
“The way… The way you carry on. It is hardly respectable!”
He opened wide and apparently innocent eyes. “What do I do that any other young man does not?”
“Those outrageous friends of yours!”
“George Simmons?” he protested laughingly. “What has poor George done to earn your censure? I didn’t know he had it in him.”
“Of course I don’t mean George. No one could ever criticise dear little George.”
“He might finddear littlecriticism enough.”
“Oh, Jack.” Nell threw up her hands. “Forget George!”
“But,” he said, cheerfully admonishing her with the segment of orange he held as though it were a pointing finger, “youwere the one who brought him into it.”
The hideous Gothic clock chimed the hour. And against oriental wallpaper too. But was it really that time already? He was due at Jackson’s. Or was it Angelo’s? He was due somewhere anyway. He always was.
But his sister was still fretting, and though she enjoyed doing that almost as much as shopping, he waited, eating his orange.Maybe she’d get to the point by the time he finished it. If one of his friends had been present, he might have put a wager on it.
