“With Mrs. Bloomington.”
“Hawk talks too much.”
Longstaffe’s mouth quirked. “It isn’t only Hawk talking. Half the ton is. This Season’s on dit, it would seem, is that the Duke of Dasborough has become Mayfair’s most industrious gardener. My old pal, toiling away in the dirt with the flowers—I could scarcely believe my ears.”
Dash only smirked, unruffled. “Everything is proceeding exactly as I intend.”
Longstaffe shook his head. “If your plan is to wear out your knees in the flowerbeds while she peeks at you from behind her curtains, then yes—brilliant strategy.” The decorated major leaned in, lowering his voice. “Have you considered, oh, I don’t know, maybe trying the front door? Dressed as a gentleman. Perhaps… even as a duke?”
Dash would have loved to, but… “I’d need an invitation.”
At that, Longstaffe hesitated. His gaze flicked about the room, as though to be certain no one was listening. Then, with a grunt, he rubbed the back of his neck—an oddly self-conscious gesture in so formidable a man.
“Well… as it happens, your Mrs. Bloomington has persuaded me to display some of my work at her next salon.”
Dash blinked. “Your work?”
“Paintings.” Longstaffe’s tone dared him to laugh as he leaned back.
Only Ambrosia, Dash thought, could persuade this beast of a military man to not only confess to dabbling in oils, but display the results to the ton. “Of course she has,” Dash said, amused.
Longstaffe gave a grunt of a laugh. “As one of the artists, I’m told I may extend invitations. Imagine that—me, handing out cards to a Mayfair salon.” His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Your lucky day, Dasborough, old man. Next Friday, nine o’clock. Try not to arrive in your gardening boots.”
Dash drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. An artist’s invitation was still an invitation. He gave a short nod.
“I’ll be there.”
Longstaffe’s eyes flicked to the side and then back. “You may as well be aware—Ashe will be there, you know.”
“Mais oui, porquoi pas?” Dash murmured with a roll of his eyes, because of course Grimm would be there, the bloody snake. What in God’s name was she thinking?
Jeremiah’s mouth curved faintly, though his tone stayed even. “He assures me he’s simply befriended her. But… I thought you should know beforehand.”
Dash met the big man’s steady gaze. The two of them had corresponded over the years, but it struck him now how little Longstaffe said without purpose.
A warning, wrapped in loyalty.
“I appreciate that.” Dash meant it. He let his mouth hitch into a half-smile. “Grimm won’t be a problem.”
Longstaffe’s nod was the kind a man gave when he didn’t necessarily agree, but wasn’t going to argue.
But Dash would finally enter Autumn House through the front door.
Tomorrow night, she’d have to speak with him. She wouldn’t want to make a scene. Not his Ambrosia…
He knew her too well.
PLAYING GAMES
Mr. Edwards had at last been granted the rare pleasure of dressing his most recalcitrant employer to the nines.
Dash stood before the glass, taking in his own reflection with a slow, unimpressed scowl. The gold-embroidered waistcoat fit flawlessly over his chest, the black jacket cut to perfection, and the trousers—tight-fitting yet somehow elegant—showed every inch of his long frame to advantage. His linen shirt sported a modest flounce at the placket, but non, he had drawn the line at lace at his wrists. Even for a Frenchman, there were limits.
Edwards had urged an armband. Dash refused. It was not disrespect for Hannah—only the knowledge that he could not move forward while still wearing the past upon his sleeve.
He turned this way and that. Ambrosia would hardly recognize him dressed like this. Tonight, she would see the Duke of Dasborough for the first time.
At half past nine, he stepped out onto the pavement. To arrive precisely on time would have been gauche; as it was, he was already a touch late. His blood thrummed too hot for a carriage, so he chose to walk instead, hoping the movement might steady his nerves.
