“The damned Maudsley House is full of people. I thought you said they would be at the theater?” Farcle leaned in. “Good God, man. What happened?”
“Mind your manners,” Loren gasped.
“Apologies, my lord.” Farcle rang for water, which couldn’t come quick enough.
Loren awakened the next morning to rain slanting against the windows. He’d wanted nothing more than to pull the counterpane over his head and lollygag the rest of the day. And once Maudsley’s younger daughter was delivered, he would do exactly that. Currently, however, he couldn’t afford not to be seen. He dragged himself from bed and rang for a much-needed bath.
Two hours later, he handed over his coat and hat to White’s most distinguished guard dog, Jones, vowing to settle the score against one stupid Slav.
Stepping across the threshold in the great room immediately brought a sense of tranquility over him, easing his doubts. A quick survey showed the rain had succeeded in bringing in hordes of youngbloods. Most of the hum of conversation flowed from the gaming room. Loren gravitated in that direction, stopping first for a glance over the betting book. He ran a finger down the list of newest entries until one jumped off the page in a glaring leap.Lady M to marry Lord B by Boxing Day… £500.
Loren considered the post and found himself relieved. He glanced through the other bets, carefully maintaining his benign facade. For the first time in days, a sense of amusement teased him. He took up the pen and added his own wager to the contrary.
“That you, Griston?” A heavy hand pounded his back, and pain shot through his chest, stealing his ability to breathe.
Barely managing to cover his discomfort, he turned slowly. He didn’t recognize the portly man, but he had a sizeable bruise on his face that rivaled Loren’s ribs.
The man chuckled, introducing himself. “Baron Wimbley. Hope you enjoyed the theater last night, my lord.” He touched the side of his nose. “Had a bit of a run in with a, er, brick wall.” He cleared his throat. “But I’m sure Lady Maudsley enjoyed the show immensely. She returned home quite late.”
Loren couldn’t very well say he hadn’t made it either. But it appeared it didn’t matter. The baron nattered on.
“How did you find the marquis? Bit of an arrogant arse, if you ask me.” He pulled a pipe from an inner pocket. “Join me for a port,” he said, slapping Loren on the back again.
Loren grit his teeth but managed a nod. “Honored,” he said on a low huff and followed the man to an unoccupied table. He needed all the information he could get.
Nineteen
T
he morning room at Maudsley House was the only room Ginny truly loved. She’d had it outfitted with a round table that seated six but could expand to eight. It had the most clever tilting feature, allowing one to slide the entire ensemble out of the way should extra space be needed. The mahogany veneer rested atop winged lion’s paws feet that were so beautiful, sometimes it was all she could do not to slide to the floor and host her own picnic beneath—
Her mother swept into the room, dulling her enthusiasm at the thought of an-under-the-table picnic. “There you are, Virginia. I don’t know why you insist on having breakfast in this”—she scrunched her nose—“hovel of a nook instead of the formal dining hall. I’ll never understand.”
“No, I suppose you won’t,” she murmured.
“Good morning, Grandmother.” Irene skirted the baroness, Celia close on her heels. “Good morning, Mama.” She came up and gave Ginny a respectful buss on the cheek. Celia, of course, hugged her profusely and kissed her soundly.
“Good morning, my darlings,” Ginny said, grinning.
The baroness’s astonishment could not have been more profound. “The children eat here?Withyou?”
“Of course, Mother. Where else would they eat?” A plate of eggs, kippers, and bacon was placed before her.
“Might I have coffee, Mama?” Celia asked.
“Of course not.” Irene’s voice held not an inch of inflection.
“I came to inform you that I’ve been invited to tea this afternoon with Lady Martindale.” The baroness spoke through a clenched jaw then turned away, muttering, “At least someone shows some sense.”
“You shouldn’t tease your grandmother so,” Ginny told Celia.
“I wasn’t teasing, Mama. I do want coffee.”
Irene took a slab of toast and slathered it with marmalade. The sight was so in keeping with a child, Ginny’s heart squeezed. “Why are you up so early, Mama? You had a late night,” Irene said.
“How did you know I was out so late?”
“I heard you open the door to my chamber and smelled your perfume.”
