“Very well, then.” She turned from me in a brush of faint perfume and tugged on a bell pull. When the ever-efficient Barnstable glided in, she said, “Tell Nanny to bring Peter downstairs.”
“You mean you wish me to meet him now?” I asked. “He is here?”
Barnstable had already disappeared to carry out his lady’s wishes. “Before you can change your mind,” she said. “Shall we?”
She slid her hand into the crook of my arm and more or less forced me to guide her out of the room.
The staircase hall of Lady Breckenridge’s house was plastered in pale colors, with niches holding vases of hothouse flowers. Paintings from centuries past hung on the walls—originals, not copies. Wide stairs with a polished railing ran up into the dim recesses of the house.
I heard a door shut high above us. In a few moments, two people came down the stairs: a tall, slender woman in neat black, and a small lad for whom the black-clad nanny slowed her steps.
The boy’s suit was a miniature of what Grenville would wear, down to the pantaloons and well-shined pumps. However, Viscount Breckenridge would never attain Grenville’s taut slimness. He had a sturdiness that spoke of developing muscle, and in a dozen or so years, he would attain the large, powerful build of his father.
The lad stopped a few stairs above me and stared with undisguised curiosity. I was in my regimentals, my braid neatly fastened, my unruly hair somewhat tamed, my boots as polished as Bartholomew could make them. I saw the lad take note of my height, the breadth of my shoulders, my bearing, my uniform.
“This is Peter,” Lady Breckenridge said, a note of pride in her voice. “Peter, this is Captain Lacey, my friend I have mentioned.”
Peter was inclined to do nothing but stare, but at a surreptitious nudge from his nanny, he bowed correctly. “How do you do?” he asked.
He was far too polite for a lad of five. He ought to be tearing up and down the stairs and shouting at the top of his voice. But perhaps he’d been persuaded to be on his best behavior for me—either that or I’d stunned the lad.
I made a formal bow. “How do you do, Your Lordship.”
I’d never been one to seek the company of children, except for my daughter, but I decided that a brief smile was called for. Young Viscount Breckenridge grinned back at me then quickly hid it.
A pang bit my heart. My daughter and I had exchanged such covert smiles when we were supposed to be formal and serious, knowing we’d both be scolded if caught. I missed her with an ache that had never subsided.
“Do you ride?” I found myself asking the boy.
“Yes, sir.” The small voice held a scoff, as though I were an idiot for asking. He was a lordship after all, born to horse and hound.
“Perhaps your mother will allow you to ride with me in the park sometime. I have some modest skill.”
“Will you show me how to ride like a cavalryman?” The scorn vanished, and Peter sounded like a normal, eager boy.
I glanced at Lady Breckenridge, but she looked in no way dismayed. She went to Peter and took his hands. “If you are good, darling. Now give me a kiss good night.”
Peter obeyed, and I was pleased to see that he kissed his mother with affection. There was no strain between Lady Breckenridge and her son.
Introductions over, Peter was taken his slow way back upstairs with nanny. He glanced back down at me over the banisters but did nothing so undignified as wave. I gave him another friendly nod, and he continued climbing, seeking his nursery once more.
I turned to Lady Breckenridge. “Have I fulfilled my obligation?”
The smile she gave me eased the some of the hurt in my heart, enough to make me believe that the pain could be assuaged a bit were I often enough in her presence.
“Excellently well, Captain,” Lady Breckenridge said. She touched my arm again, her fingers warm.
I dared lift her hand to my lips. “I am pleased to hear it, my lady,” I said.
**
The last thread of the necklace affair was tied when I accepted Grenville’s invitation to dine at Watier’s that night. Watier’s, famous for food provided by chefs of the Prince Regent, offered the deepest gaming in London. Games of macao and whist relieved gentlemen of their fortunes in one room, while the dining room provided excellent cuisine with which to ease the sting.
Grenville was in full dress that evening, which meant that he wore a suit so tailored to his figure that he might have been poured into it. Pantaloons that emphasized his muscular calves were buttoned at the ankle above fine leather pumps. His quizzing glass hung on a fine gold chain, ever ready for scrutinizing the gauche.
After we’d finished our excellent meal and looked in on the games room, I was dismayed to see Lord Clifford making so bold as to approach us. A few of the dandies looked up with interest when Clifford walked to Grenville and put a hand on his shoulder.
Grenville glanced disdainfully at the large hand on his immaculate frock coat, but Clifford did not notice the censure. He let go only after he’d turned Grenville away from the crowd.
