“I am capable of defending myself.”
“I do not doubt it. Nevertheless.”
They stood perhaps three feet apart, and Thaddeus became abruptly aware of how exposed they were—how many eyes had witnessed his intervention, how many tongues would already be crafting interpretations of his behaviour.
He should walk away. He should offer a polite dismissal and return to the tedious work of political conversation, leaving Lady Maribel to navigate her own course through the treacherous waters of the ton.
He did not walk away.
“You look as though you require air,” he said. “The terrace?—”
“The terrace would be inadvisable, Your Grace.” A flicker of something that might have been dark humour crossed herfeatures. “Have we not given them enough fuel for speculation without adding more?”
She was right, of course. She was invariably, irritatingly right.
“Then perhaps the library,” he heard himself say. “I have a matter regarding Oliver that requires discussion. It cannot wait.”
Her expression shifted—concern replacing the careful neutrality. “Oliver? What has happened? Is he unwell?”
“He is perfectly well. But I received a communication this afternoon that concerns his future, and I find myself... in need of your counsel.” The words tasted strange upon his tongue. He had not sought anyone’s counsel in years. “The library will afford us privacy without impropriety. We will not be there long.”
Maribel hesitated, her gaze searching his face. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, for she inclined her head.
“Very well, Your Grace. Lead on.”
He did that, without a single word further—acutely aware of her, trailing behind him.
The library was blessedly quiet.
Thaddeus closed the door behind them—leaving it slightly ajar, because he was not entirely devoid of sense—and moved to the fireplace, where low flames cast dancing shadows across the walls of leather-bound volumes. The distant strains of the orchestra filtered through the walls, muffled and dreamlike.
Lady Maribel remained near the door, her posture watchful. The candlelight caught the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat where a simple gold chain disappeared beneath her bodice.
He looked away.
“You mentioned a communication,” she said. “About Oliver.”
“Yes.” He withdrew the letter from his interior pocket—he had carried it with him all evening, though he could not have said why. “This arrived today. It is from Lord Stanton.”
Her brow furrowed. “I do not know the name.”
“You would not. He is newly elevated—made his fortune in shipping, recently acquired a barony through service to the Crown.” Thaddeus unfolded the letter, scanning the contents though he had already committed them to memory. “He has three children of approximately Oliver’s age, and he has taken it upon himself to host a gathering for the sons of quality families. A sort of... educational assembly. Riding lessons, deportment, the foundations of classical instruction.”
“That sounds entirely appropriate.”
“It would be, were it not for the addendum.” Thaddeus looked down, a frown forming between his brows. “Stanton writes that he has heard rumours regarding Oliver’s care—specifically, regarding the woman who has been installed at Blackwood to oversee it. He wishes to assure himself, before extending a formal invitation, that the child’s guardianship meets his standards of propriety.”
Silence.
When Thaddeus raised his gaze, Lady Maribel’s face had gone pale.
“He wishes to vet me,” she said quietly. “To determine whether my presence makes Oliver unsuitable for respectable society.”
“That appears to be the implication.”
“And what have you decided to tell him?”
Thaddeus set the letter down upon the mantel, his movements deliberate. “I have not decided anything. That is why I required your counsel.”
