“And perhaps it would be better to continue playing for pennies,” she said. “Or even matches, as I used to do at home.”
Tom’s face showed what he thought of that. “That’s old woman stuff, that is. Besides. A man oughta have a living.”
“Yes, but gaming with the Earl of Arnon is hardly a career you can pursue.”
“Don’t see why not. It’s what all them gentry types do.” He glared at Lord Cotereigh. “And you oughtn’t be saying I was fleecing the old man. I was not. It ain’t…it ain’t’onnerableto go round accusing a man of that.”
“Or a boy.” Lord Cotereigh adopted a contrite expression. “No, you’re correct. I apologise. There—no need for us to meet at dawn.”
“But you mustn’t annoy Lord Arnon,” Madelaine said, feeling this was perhaps more to the point. “He is…he may need his rest.”
Was it her place to say so? Afraid she’d overstepped her mark, she glanced at Lord Cotereigh, but his weighted study of her only held gratitude and perhaps a little sadness. The topic could hardly be anything but that.
“He asks for me!” protested Tom.
“It’s all right, my boy,” said Lord Cotereigh. “I’ve only been teasing you. Unhandsome of me, I know. You are very welcome to play cards with my father, for as long as he welcomes it. I dare say the company does him good. It takes his mind off…things.”
He met her eyes again before returning to his letter, and this time the gratitude was loud and clear. She’d been the one to save Tom, but might Tom save another lost soul in turn?
Nineteen
It wasn’t unusual forSebastian to visit Hatchard’s, the bookseller, but itwasunusual for him to be browsing books suitable for children, a fact Lady Frances recognised with the curling lift of her smile when she discovered him there.
“From what your uncle has been telling me, I’d have thought to find you among the political philosophy.”
“Looking to replace my well-thumbed copy of Paine’sRights of Man, no doubt,” he said after his bow. He ran his gaze over the titles on offer.Mother Goose,Aesop’s Fables… Really, he ought to buy Tom a cheap chapbook, or let him learn to read on the Bible, like he himself and every other honest English gentleman had been forced to. But the Holy Book might well disintegrate to ashes in Tom’s larcenous paws. “Is that theon-dit, is it? I’ve supposedly become a liberal? Anyone who knows me would understand that’s impossible. I’d have to change my allegiance from White’s to Brook’s, and rumour has it they have a very inferior cook.”
Lady Frances smiled. “A mandoesmarch on his stomach, it’s true.”
“The Reign of Terror could have been averted with a few good meals.”
“Feed the peasants? You reallyaregrowing liberal.”
He flashed her a smile—a very society smile, all amusement and no meaning. “Let them eat cake.Et cetera, et cetera.” They got on very well like this; they could speak for hours, saying nothing of worth.
Lady Frances looked determinedly pretty today, her skin and hair gold and ivory, her pelisse pale with scarlet froggings. It put one in mind of strawberries and cream on a gilt-edged plate. Last month’s frosty silver and queenly blue was only a memory. Today she made herself delicious and inviting. Her appearance was always deliberate.
He drew out a slim volume, studying the title in amusement.Peter Piper’s Practical Principles of Plain and Perfect Pronunciation.Tongue twisters. Perfect; they’d infuriate the boy. Hopefully there’d be one about Horses with Hammering Hooves. Tom would learn to say his aitches if it killed him.
“So you’ve been seeing my uncle?” He tucked the book under his elbow, turning from the shelves to address Lady Frances directly.
“He makes a poor proxy, but you have hardly been anywhere to be found.”
That wasn’t quite true. This business with the wager and Mrs Ardingly only occupied a few hours of each day. But he certainly hadn’t been putting himself in Lady Frances’s path quite so much as before. If, as usual, he had multiple invitations, he’d taken to picking the one she was least likely to.
A test? Or perhaps a ploy, in the same way that inviting Mrs Ardingly to dance had been. Today’s strawberry outfit and thesmilingly inviting head tilt she now gave him suggested it was working.
Ushering her to walk with him, he headed towards the nearest clerk and handed over the book. The man took it to be wrapped and to write the sale in his book.
“I did leave town for a few days,” he said to Lady Frances. “I had business in Kent.”
“At Woodhaven? How goes the building work?”
“Exceptionally well. The wing should be complete by Christmas.” The house—part of a small estate he’d bought recently, his family’s main seat being in Shropshire and inconveniently far from town—was perfectly big enough, but building work was a tasteful way of demonstrating one’s wealth, and he always took care to do that.
“I cannot wait to see it. Mr Soane’s plans were exquisite.”
Receiving only a smile instead of an invitation, Lady Frances switched topics. “Knowing you have no nieces or nephews, can I presume this book is a gift for your young guest? Your uncle says you still have the boy with you.”
