“That is rather generous of her,” she muttered, though not judgmental.
“Charlotte enjoys their company and her art.”
“Her husband doesn’t mind?”
Preston refilled his glass of brandy. He’d not have a third as he didn’t wish to become inebriated.
“Her husband lets Charlotte do whatever she wishes.” That’s because he never visits and probably has no idea what she is up to.
“Such a rarity among husbands,” she stated in surprise.
“So I’ve been told. I’ve no experience in the matter.”
“Nor I, Lord Melcombe.” Miss Claywell chuckled.
Women did have very little freedom, and perhaps that was why Miss Claywell wished to remain here. Other than being her employer, he didn’t govern her actions. He couldn’t inquire as to what she did with her free time or demand that she do anything specifically.
Was that the true reason she wished to stay?
“I have scheduled appointments for the girls to visit with Monique the day after tomorrow.”
He didn’t wish for their topic of conversation to be about the girls. “I’ll make arrangements in my schedule so that I may accompany them.”
The corner of her mouth quirked.
“What?”
“Have you ever visited a modiste?” Her cheeks suddenly grew bright. “I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question. I apologize.”
Usually, when a bachelor visited a modiste, it was because he was purchasing something for his mistress. “No, I have not,” he answered honestly.
“Such appointments can be quite long and tedious. You’d likely be pacing and ready to be done before they’d begun to select materials,” she assured him. “I do not mind accompanying them.”
“How long?” Preston asked.
“Take the amount of time you spend at a tailor, multiply it by five, then consider that your nieces will need to decide on how many dresses they will need to last them through half-mourning, or the next three months.”
Humor twinkled in her eyes, teasing because she knew that Preston had no idea what all was involved, but explained in a manner he understood. In turn, he groaned. The trip to Monique’s would likely take a better part of the day. “I’ll trust you in this and leave it in your capable hands.”
Preston sipped his brandy, and once again silence stretched between them. If he didn’t think of something to say, she’d likely finish her brandy then excuse herself, as she did every night following tea.
“My uncle and you enjoyed chess,” he said for lack of anything else, other than to compliment her hair and dress.
“Yes,” she answered. “He began teaching me when I was Miss Matilda’s age.”
“How did that come about?” Preston would have been only eighteen and she would have been thirteen. It’s no wonder that they hadn’t met until this past spring as he’d already been on the Continent, fighting the French, when she was making her coming out.
“I was in London with my uncle and cousins, but too young to enjoy the Season. Your uncle, being a friend of Uncle Clarence, visited often. Then, one rainy day, he saw me sitting at the chessboard, trying to figure out the game after I’d read up on the rules, and decided to teach me.”
“It takes many hours to learn to play chess,” Preston commented.
“Your uncle loves the game and from what he told me, few played against him because he always won.”
Preston laughed. “Yes, he’s claimed to be the best chess player in London. I didn’t believe him.”
Miss Claywell chuckled. “I believe he may be, or he hasn’t yet met someone who is better.”
Preston stared into her laughing emerald eyes and grew serious. “You have.”
