George took a seat at the far end of the table, the lift of her brow a sign that she found this conversation quite entertaining.
Celeste shook her head. She wasn’t ready to sit. “But thatisn’tthe name of the charity.”
Having done his gentlemanly duty, Salcombe took his chair. “It must be now. It is in all the morning papers. It will be in the evening ones as well.” He drained the tankard of ale. “Thatisgood. Your man says you brew it yourselves.”
“Yes, we do,” Celeste said absently, her mind roiling with his impertinence. He had renamedhercharity, and without a word to her. She had wanted to call it Heroes of the War. Our Brave Soldiers was not terrible... but it wasn’t her idea. “You do remember that my late father taskedmewith establishing a charity?”
“I do.” He picked up a knife and fork and plunged into his food.
Celeste drew in a deep breath and decided the duke’s choice of name was not so bad. “Very well. Our Brave Soldiers. And you have already sent out notices to the papers?”
“My man Peters took care of the matter yesterday.”
He’d known he was going to help heryesterday? But he had not thought to say one word to her?
“Oh,” was all Celeste could think to reply without losing her temper and shouting. She had toyed with the wording of several notices for the newspapers but had, of course, been waiting until she had acquired a lead patron. “Well,” she managed, “another task done.”
“We will hold a subscription ball,” the duke informed her as if she’d asked. “I shall host it. I don’t often entertain at Salcombe House. Peters and the staff are excited about this endeavor. He has made a guest list that includes everyone of importance. We should do very well.”
A subscription ball was a must. It was the way most charities funded themselves. Celeste had been concerned that, since the London house was her mother’s territory, a ball might be difficult to accomplish. Her mother could be very particular. She was also a friend of Lady Redhill’s. If Lady Redhill disapproved, her mother would have rejected Celeste’s request. So, the offer of his hospitality was indeed appreciated, although Celeste thought it would have been nice if he even pretended to consult her wishes.
From the other end of the table, George smiled, the expression that of a cat who drank the cream. She knew exactly what Celeste was thinking, especially as the duke when on abouthisideas andhisplans andhisthoughts.
The longer he talked, the more Celeste felt a strong desire to take one of the silver domed covers on the dishes and clang him over the head with it.
Finally, finished with his meal and soliloquy, Salcombe wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, assuring her, “We will be the talk of the Town.”
“You mean,mycharity will be the talk of the Town.”
“Of course.” He strode out into the hall, and Celeste hopped up and hurried to follow him out. George trailed behind them at a more leisurely pace.
“Tell your brewer he is an artist,” the duke said. “I enjoy a hoppy ale.”
“I shall pass that on,” Celeste replied tightly.
“Oh,” he said as he took his hat from the footman. “Will you be at the Deveraux affair tomorrow?”
“We were not sent an invitation.” Lord Deveraux and his wife fancied themselves the cream of society and enjoyed wielding their high opinion of themselves like a cudgel. They liked letting people know through their invitations when they did not meet their inflated standards.
“I’ll change that. You need to be seen so you can answer questions about Our Brave Soldiers.” He grinned. “We will need to think about what to do with the men once they are off the streets. I already have our first soldier. You were right about their companion animals. His is a mixed-breed, little hellion named Pistol. We will have to move them soon because Pistol has been chasing the stable cats. My grooms are annoyed. Apparently, they considered those cats to betheirpets.” He shook his head as if he didn’t understand their attitude at all. Then, with a final nod, he was out the front door.
Celeste watched him mount his horse and trot off without so much as a backward wave—and then she allowed the full weight of his call sink in. He’dknownhe was going to support her yesterday . . . but couldn’t be bothered to say anything? Not even pen a quick note?
And then her twin spoke. “It seems, Cece, you have caught a Dragon by the tail.” George could barely able to contain her mirth.
Celeste’s answer was to march off to the garden, her heels clicking on the wood floor. She took five turns around the various flower beds before she could think reasonably. She should be happy. The charity would be a success—that is, if she didn’t murder Salcombe first.
And that was becoming averybig “if.”
An hour later, a servant knocked on their door with an invitation to the Deveraux affair for not only all of the Harrington sisters and their mother—who had dearly wished for an invite—but for Dame Beatrice as well.
Because, apparently, the Duke of Salcombe had thought of everything.
6
From the moment the announcement about Our Brave Soldiers appeared in the papers, all credit for the idea was given to the Duke of Salcombe.
Everyone, from the most prestigious of nobles down to chimney sweeps and ratcatchers, believed a charity for soldiers who had lost limbs, and therefore their livelihoods, while fighting for their country, was an excellent idea. They knew the government pensions weren’t enough and never would be to support these former soldiers. Salcombe was lauded for his foresight, patriotism, and generosity.
