“As to that, Lord Hamilton, I am unsure. I believe the words, ‘it is dire, Dibley, extremely so. Please wake our nephew with coffee at once,’ were spoken by Lady Petunia.”
Anthony didn’t growl because he’d learned long ago to let no one hear or see what he felt, but it was clearly implied as his butler took a large step back and left, bowing out the door.
The room he slept in was not as grand as the rest of the house. Anthony had stripped every memory of his father from it. Changed the curtains and flooring. Removed the bed and had a new one put in. It was now plain without the fussy trimmings the late earl had adored.
“The gray will do, Bernard,” Anthony said when his manservant appeared with a pale green waistcoat and black jacket.
“Your aunts—”
“Will take me as I am at such an hour,” Anthony added as Bernard scurried back to replace the green for the gray waistcoat.
He pulled on his clothes and allowed Bernard to tie his neckcloth.
“I have no wish to look like a puppy; no more folds if you please.” Wisely, his manservant kept his thoughts on the matter to himself, although the tightening of his lips suggested he was displeased.
Another who had been in his employ for some time, Bernard was short, immaculate, and knew a great deal about meat as his father had been a butcher, much to the delight of Anthony’s cook.
He looked in the mirror and saw the bruise on his chin was now an ugly shade of burgundy, but there was little he could do about that, so he stomped his feet into boots and left the room. Stalking along the halls lined with the treasures of his ancestors, he took the stairs down and reached the parlor his aunts were in. Their conversations were never quiet, so Anthony could hear every word as he approached.
“He will have to come about, Petunia.”
“There is no choice.”
“We have the list now.”
Anthony entered the room, bracing himself for the kissing and touching. He’d told them he’d rather they didn’t do that every time they saw him, but they’d ignored his wishes. So, he endured the fussing because he owed them that much.
“One hopes that bruise was not from a fist, Nephew!” The first to reach him was the eldest of his father’s sisters, Lady Petunia. “We have an urgent matter to discuss with you.” She leaned in to brush the air beside his cheek, leaving the scent of lilacs when she straightened. Large in every way, including her personality, her husband had died, leaving his entire fortune to a nephew, and thus her penniless.
“Of course not,” Anthony said.
Like the other two women in the room, Aunt Petunia had silver hair styled perfectly in a bun at the back of her head, and she always wore the color of lavender no matter the season. The shade varied slightly but little else.
“Hello, darling boy.” Lady Agatha was next. “That bruise looks sore.” The middle sister, who Anthony thought secretly had the most sense, stepped forward. She patted his cheek with a soft hand and smiled. “Sorry to descend on you, but the matter is urgent.” She had married an earl, who had died five months later, leaving no heir and all his money to his brother. Her favorite color was apricot.
“Quite urgent,” the youngest sister said. Aunt Lavinia was the smallest and had little to say unless she first asked her sisters if it was appropriate to do so. She’d been the gentlest of his aunts growing up. Her favorite color was a soft sage green.
Her husband had been the third son of a baron, and they’d had fifteen years of wedded bliss before he passed. Anthony knew she still missed the man she’d loved dearly.
“Please sit,” he said, waving to the sofa they always sat on when they invaded his privacy. Petunia on the right, and Agatha on the left. Lavinia wedged in the middle. His aunts were creatures of habit.
Anthony had left for school, happy, as the nephew of three doting aunts, who had stepped into his and his sister Harriet’s lives when their parents died. That soon changed, and the cruelty he faced left him reeling.
“Have you heard from your sister?” Aunt Petunia demanded in that forthright way she had, sounding like the words were fired from a pistol.
“A letter arrived yesterday. I will be reading it when I take my morning meal.” Harriet was married and living in the country happily with her husband. They were as close as he let anyone get, but did not see each other often.
“She’s well, and happy with Simon. We also received a letter yesterday, but unlike you, have read ours.”
“I know she’s happy, Aunt Petunia,” he said, resisting the need to rub his forehead. Conversations with these three were exhausting.
“She’s excited about the child.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You should have read the letter,” Aunt Aggie said stepping into the conversation.
“Child?” he said instead of repeating that he was about to read it before they invaded.
