Confused and with a growing sense of dread, she asked, “Mother…did you have a hand in this? Did… did you do this on purpose?”
After three more hours of rest, a warm bath, and taming his stubble, his valet helped him into his dark blue coat— something he’d wear each morning. He made his way to the small room he used for his morning meals instead of bothering the staff to set the fifteen-foot dining table.
“Is my coffee ready, Turret?” He asked.
“Two pots are ready, Your Grace,” Will replied while bowing.
“Based on what happened this morning, I may need three,” Cedric grunted.
Flipping the already placed cup into its saucer, Will poured out the drink. “Allan told me what happened. Do you think that lady did it on purpose, or was it truly a mishap?”
“I honestly do not know,” Cedric replied.
Because of their actions years ago, Cedric had elevated the two of his footmen to positions of power in his home, Allan as his butler and Will as his valet. Turret still had a reminder of that night as a faint burn mark on his palm.
“Is the newspaper dated for today?”
“It is right beside your meal, Your Grace.”
Shaking the paper out, he reached for the cup that sat aside the platter of buttered toast he had for breakfast every Wednesday at nine o’clock, on the dot. His stomach roiled as he knew that with the formal breakfast coming up, he would be breaking tradition.
“An upsetting anomaly,” he grunted to himself.
“If it is not too bold, do you think this lady will be a fit match for Lord Leander?” Will asked.
Flicking a look up, Cedric asked, “Is that your tactful way of asking if she is handsome enough to satisfy him?”
“Yes,” Will replied as he set the plate in front of Cedric.
“She’s…pretty,” he paused as he was not sure how to vocalize the feeling he’d felt seeing the young lady. “…but I sense she is too innocent for him. Leander is one of the worst rakehells in London, well, barely edging out his friend Cumberland, and that man held a three-day bacchanal with five women in his country house.”
“I see,” Will nodded. “Is there anything I may do for you here, or shall I assist the rest of the staff with setting up the formal dining room?”
The door pushed in, and a dark-haired imp stuck her head in, “Father, are you here?”
“Yes, Emily,” he replied. “I am. Do you want to come in?”
At eight, Emily was a precious child with a head for mischief and was a little hellion in her own right. Her soft oval face, rounded cheeks, tapered to a piquant little chin, facets of her late mother, went nicely with her dark hair, a trait she had inherited from him. Her eyes were hazel, though, another remnant from her mother.
She skipped into the room, her ruffled light blue muslin skirts dancing about her matching kid-leather slippers. “There you are, Father,” she declared as if he were late for some state function. “Must I have French lessons today?”
“Yes,” he replied, giving her an eye. “You cannot be running off to explore the flowers and every hedge from here to the village every day, you know.”
She pouted. “Mrs. Grimes is a bore.”
“Do you want a new governess?” He asked pointedly.
“…Nooo…”
“Then you’re fine,” he said, “And you must go to your lessons. Do you not want you to grow up into the accomplished woman your mother hoped you would be?” He asked, a pointed brow cocked to his hairline.
Her shoulder sagged, and she rolled her eyes, “Fine, fine, I’ll go. But do you promise to take me to the bookstore this weekend?”
“Have you read all of your birthday books already?” He asked.
“Yes. Twice,” Emily replied. “I do wish I could attend some of your balls, Father.”
“Not until the day you turn ten and eight,” he said firmly. To his dying day, he would insulate her from the machinations of the ton and the scandals occurring in this very house. “Your education is more important. Now go along with Turret to your schoolroom, and Turret, after that, you may go to the dining room.”
