Oscar smoothed his jacket for what felt like the tenth time since he’d entered the parlor less than five minutes before. It was the most foolish thing, how nervous he was in this moment. He wasnevernervous with the person he’d come to meet.
But then again, he couldn’t think of a time he’d ever brought a lady with him to this place. Not that Imogen was with him in this particular moment. He wanted a chance to speak to his contact before she joined them, so she was out on the terrace, enjoying a breath of air before he called her in.
Before he opened her up, and himself up, to all the curiosity he knew would follow.
The door behind him opened, and he turned to face the person entering the room. She was lovely, always so lovely. A regal woman who maintained every ounce of her beauty, even as her hair went gray with the years. She had high cheekbones, the kind of skin women in thetonfought for and bright green eyes that at least one poet had written a popular sonnet about ten years before.
Oscar had always wished he’d inherited those eyes rather than his arse of a father’s.
“Mama,” he said as he crossed to Joanna Fitzhugh.
She had her hands extended and caught both of his, looking him up and down before she pecked first one cheek and then the other. “Not getting enough sleep, are you?”
He shifted under the regard that had always been able to catch him out. He’d been able to hide from anyone but her over the years. Yet another reason not to bring Imogen to Mama. At minimum she was going to know they were lovers without even looking too hard.
“It’s not for entirely unpleasant reasons,” he said with a chuckle.
She arched a brow as she motioned him toward the settee. She took a place there and patted the cushion next to hers. “I’m glad to hear it. I know you have some guilt about poor Louisa, but that wasn’t your fault and I’ve hated to think of you drowning yourself in work and never just a little bit of fun or pleasure.”
“Fun and pleasure,” he said with a sigh. “You likely have enough for both of us.”
She rolled her eyes indelicately and gave his hand a playful slap. “You just missed Will.”
Oscar wrinkled his brow. “I hadn’t realized he was calling on you today.”
He knew all about their friendship, of course. He’d been very happy when they maintained it, as Will was his favorite protector and their own relationship meant so much to him.
“Was I supposed to keep you apprised of my schedule, love?” she teased.
He laughed at her quip. It was impossible not to. His mother had always been the one to make the best of things and never seemed to dwell overly long on the worst parts of her life.
“I don’t think I want to know your schedule,” he said with a wink. “I’m just glad you could fit me into it.”
“Yes.” Her lighthearted demeanor shifted a fraction and he saw the hint of worry she so rarely displayed. “Normally you just come without being so formal. I was a little surprised to hear from you yesterday. And you said something about introducing me to someone, yet you’re alone.”
He settled back in the settee. “My companion is here. I just asked her to wait on the terrace a moment so I could see you first.”
“Her,” his mother repeated. “The one keeping you up nights, I assume?”
He nodded, for again, there was no use at all in trying to hide the truth from her. “She happens to be the same, yes,” he said carefully. “But that isn’t why I’m bringing her to you.”
For a moment, his mother actually looked disappointed, but swiftly wiped the reaction away. “Then why?”
“She’s in a bit of trouble,” he said. “And I thought you might be able to help.”
His mother pushed to her feet. “You and your broken wings, Oscar. I adore you for caring, but I do worry that this obsession with acting a savior harms you. There must be balance in the world, my dear. One man cannot cure all the ills. Certainly he cannot save all the courtesans.”
He pressed his lips together hard. This was an argument they’d had more than once and it wasn’t one he wished to repeat at present, not when Imogen was waiting to join them.
“You can write me a letter then, with all your arguments, so I can read it over and over rather than forcing you to waste your breath,” he said, flashing her a brief smile so the words would be teasing, not harsh.
“Would reading them help you take them in, I wonder?” she mused, and then let out a sigh of resignation. “What kind of trouble is this young woman in?”
“The kind that had her witnessing the aftereffects of a murder at a brothel last week,” he said softly.
That got the response he had hoped for. His mother’s eyes widened slightly and her hands clenched before her. “I see,” she said softy. “Realtrouble.”
“Real trouble,” he repeated.
