There’s a cigar burn on the crushed red velvet siding of their carriage. Bobby stares at the spot as they trundle along, heading to the Kingsmans’ for the first tea of the season. He feels his eyes start to go fuzzy and blinks, moving his gaze higher up, only to find another burn.
“I’ll make a note to have the interior replaced,” Albie says gruffly.
Bobby looks across the cabin at his brother, sitting stiffly in his navy frock coat. Albie messes with his bow tie, frowning. Everything about him is taut these days. Bobby practically had to drag him out of the house to attend this tea.
“Will Cunningham be there?” Bobby asks.
“I believe so,” Albie says, fiddling with his cuffs next. “Be good if he were, I can ask about his stepmother’s attending physician when she broke her leg.”
“Right,” Bobby says, looking back at the window. There’s a piece of velvet missing along the edging, like maybe a drunken viscount pulled it off.
“Hopefully Lord Bletchle will be there as well. We have Father’s debt left to settle there, and if I can find Lord Highton first, perhaps that will cover it.”
Bobby rolls his shoulders. There’s no escaping the shadow of their father, whether it’s his debts or the damage he did totheir only carriage. At least sometimes at the balls or the teas he manages to forget, but when it’s quiet like this—when Albie’s listing off his never-ending tally of tasks—it’s like their father is in the carriage with them, drunk and turning yellow while he laughs at a distasteful joke.
Bobby wishes their other uncle was here to help Albie. Maybe he’d actually accept Uncle Jonathan’s help. But Aunt Gertrude’s gout is acting up, so they won’t be down for the season. Which leaves Bobby as the only audience for Albie’s tirades about debts and taxes and expenses.
It’s like living with a walking abacus.
“I wonder if Prous will have any hunting stories,” Bobby says, cutting in when Albie takes a breath.
“Probably not. The Kingsman estate doesn’t have the same game as Prous’ father’s.”
“Surely he spent some time at home over the year,” Bobby says, wincing on Prous’ behalf.
“Lord Kingsman is setting him up to run most of his holdings. I think he was with Lady Eloise the whole winter.”
“Dreadful,” Bobby says.
Albie laughs. “Being with his fiancée?”
Albie, happily married and disgusting about it, probably thinks it the height of romance. But being trapped beneath a woman’s father’s thumb in an endless courting ritual sounds like hell to Bobby. And now Prous is in town for the entire season because Lady Kingsman wants to remain an active part of the ton, despite her daughter being happily promised and soon to be wed. Dreadful indeed.
“Trust me, someday you’ll meet the right one, and you’ll be as soppy as the rest of us,” Albie says.
The carriage pulls up to the grand Kingsman townhouse and Albie promptly hops out.
“Not bloody likely,” Bobby mumbles as he climbs down.
They’re not late, but they’re not early either, and the back garden is already teeming with the toast of the ton when they step through the gate. As usual, Lady Kingsman has made ample use of her gardener’s talents. The blossoms aren’t yet in full bloom, but the hints of color on the green flowering bushes promise a spectacular season.
In and among the greenery, everywhere he looks, there’s a nice young lady sitting artfully on a bench, or daintily splayed on a picnic blanket, or fanning herself while standing charmingly by a tall topiary. Dozens of lovely young women, all with slightly predatory smiles, whom Bobby would like to hide from for as long as humanly possible.
Of course, Albie is ready to abandon him as soon as they reach the edge of the patio. “I’ll be with the lords. Go have a good time.”
Albie pats his shoulder a bit patronizingly and hurries off. Bobby fights a scowl. He has zero interest in finding a nice young lady to chat up. There’s more than one nice young man he’d approach were things different, or if he was at Thomas Parker’s infamous club.
He catches Jeremiah Prince’s eye across the garden. The poor man’s gone and gotten engaged to MissCatherine Langston, a round-cheeked young woman with a pretty smile and lustrous brown hair. Prince raises his glass in Bobby’s direction, a hint of a smile playing against his chiseled jaw.
Bobby supposes Prince and MissLangston don’t look terrible together, but it seems an awful waste of a life. Prince is a bright, cheerful man, and a shockingly good kisser. He’s made quite a name for himself at Parker’s club. And now that’s all over for him, shackled to a woman and a marriage and a future Bobby can’t fathom wanting for himself.
Bobby notices Prince’s eyeline shift and glances back at the gate. Lord Demeroven has entered the party, looking just as handsome and uncomfortable as he did a few days earlier at the ball, and no less indifferent.
Bobby turns back and settles his sights on the alcohol, pouring himself a dram and a half. He may have promised Beth he’d take the man under his wing, but he doesn’t have to make the effort sober. He stalls for the next few minutes, painstakingly perusing the finger sandwiches. Crab and cucumber? Ham and cheese? It’s an important decision.
By the time he’s made his selection and regretfully turned back to the party, Demeroven has been pulled into conversation on the patio, freeing Bobby from obligation at least for the moment. He merrily pops the first of four crab-and-cucumber sandwiches into his mouth and wanders over to lean against the hedge that surrounds the garden, people watching.
Prince and MissLangston have broken off from the group to whisper to each other on a bench. Across from them, Lady Eloise and Prous are holding court with a group of Gwen’s society friends, both of them looking hearty and hale and not at all like Lord Kingsman has held a tyrannical rule over them all winter.
