Euphemia Wilson gave short snort but regarded him affectionately as she smoothed her dress and took his arm to enter the house.
“Silly boy. I am the only member of that family who has not taken a tumble from a horse in recent years. Anne herself broke a wrist last year, my stepson John bruised his back in the spring, and that boy of theirs can scarcely stay on his pony for more than five minutes at a time. Now, where is the Duchess of Westall?”
Ambrose laughed at the speed and energy of his grandmother’s delivery of these statements and the final pointed question. With a nod and smile to the butler, he confirmed that tea should be brought to the main drawing room.
“You are an example to us all, Grandmother,” he remarked.
“That is certainly my intention, but you have still not answered me. Where is your wife? Fond of you although I am, it is really your duchess, and my darling Winnie, of course, that I have come to see today. You are like me, Ambrose, the type that copes with everything life throws in our way. Others require more understanding and support.”
Now in the drawing room, Ambrose walked Lady Levene to her preferred seat.
“I cannot say that I know where Frances might be presently. I shall send out to find her and let her know that you are here.”
“Barely a few weeks married and you don’t know where your wife is? What are you at, young man?” the silver-haired lady tutted, shaking her head. “Frances is in a new place, leading a completely new life with all kinds of new responsibilities. You ought to be at her side.”
The duke smiled and shook his head, going to stand at the mantelpiece and regarding his grandmother thoughtfully.
“That is not what Frances wants from me, Grandmother. She is a woman who needs her own space and time to find her feet. When she comes to me, I will be here. She knows that, I think.”
“The two of you have still not come to an understanding in the bedroom, have you?” she asked frankly. “I thought as much.”
“Is there nothing that makes you blush, Grandmother?” Ambrose laughed, sidestepping this intrusion into his private life.
“After three marriages and six children, likely not,” Euphemia admitted. “Seeing you together with Frances, I did think the two of you would be more compatible than you were with Charlotte, excellent woman though your first wife was.”
The duke looked askance at the doughty elderly woman, knowing that his grandmother was right but unwilling to have this conversation. The best thing would be to change the subject.
“It is too soon to say. Can we leave it at that for now? There was actually something else I’d like to talk to you about now that you are here.”
“Very well,” she agreed, looking at him with her keen, bright eyes. “What is it?”
“My father’s will. Did you happen to have any conversation with Frances about it?”
His grandmother shook her head.
“No, although I have certainly told her how long and how hard your whole family had wished you to remarry. That is really the same thing. Your father only put his wishes into a very concrete form. Why?”
Ambrose shrugged. The only people familiar with the old duke’s will would be Ambrose, his grandmother, Vennels and Bristow, his closest friend Colin Pratt, and perhaps some of the Westall Park staff who had overheard conversations in the course of their duties.
If neither he nor Lady Levene had mentioned the terms of his father’s will to Frances then she would likely not know of it. Having agreed to everything that Lord Scovell’s lawyers hadrequested for the marriage contract, they had asked him for very little in terms of documentation beyond specific assets and trusts relevant to his wife.
“I wondered whether I ought to have told Frances before we married.”
His grandmother showed little concern for his wondering, always a decisive person herself.
“If it plays on your mind, tell her now,” she proposed. “That is the obvious solution. It does not seem any great revelation to me. Aha, here is the tea. Do send out for Frances, my boy. I shall also stay for luncheon with Winifred, of course.”
As Ambrose passed on the necessary messages to the maid, he contemplated his grandmother’s words. Yes, this was the sensible course of action. He should wait for the right moment and bring the matter into a normal conversation. It was not controversial at all. But then why did the thought of telling Frances now fill him with unease?
Chapter Seventeen
“Another glass of champagne, dear lady?”
The Duke of Redford tied the belt of his scarlet silk dressing gown and went to the table where the open bottle sat in its ice bucket beside two now-empty glasses. His valet and factotum had made himself scarce for the evening as was there usual arrangement when his master brought women back to his bachelor lodgings.
“Yes, if you will have one too, Your Grace,” answered the blonde-haired and buxom young woman in his bed, sitting up and stretching luxuriously. “I do adore champagne although I rarely get the chance to drink it, any more than I get the chance to roll in silk sheets like yours.”
“Your wish is my command,” he replied, pouring the wine with a smile.
