“How do you manage to get out of it?” Sarah asked.
“I just remind him that as long as he’s alive, there is already a perfectly good heir. I don’t think he likes to contemplate his own demise.”
“That’s not going to work forever, you know,” Sarah mimicked.
“No. And neither is your fake illness.” Hart braced his hands on his hips to mimic her.
Sarah smiled at him. “We’re a pair, aren’t we, dear brother?”
“Yes, now you’d best climb back into bed and do a better job at coughing. Mother may well choose to pay you a visit herself. She’s determined to get you healthy before the Season begins in earnest. I heard her calling for Cook to make some chicken soup.”
Sarah groaned. “Oh, dear.”
“I must go,” Hart announced. “I’m off to the clubs later and hope to be half in my cups beforehand.” He gave Sarah a wicked grin. Contemplating his timepiece again, he strolled back toward the door. “Miss Timmons,” he said, again not looking at her.
Meg murmured a good-bye.
Just as Hart’s hand was on the door handle, pulling it open, Sarah called out, “Hart? Do you know a… Lord Berkeley?”
Hart paused. He dropped his watch back into his pocket and narrowed his eyes. “Berkeley? Yes, nice chap. Viscount, isn’t he? The man did me a good turn at school once. Though he’s much too respectable to carouse with the likes of me.” Her brother winked at her. “What about him?”
“Oh, nothing. I just wondered if you’d… heard of him.”
“Seems to me he’s thick as thieves with Claringdon and Swifdon and their set. The only one from that group I tend to spend time with is Owen Monroe. Though now that he’s settling down, that chap’s become a downright bore.”
Hart pulled open the door farther. “Feel better, dear sister.” And then he was gone, his boots thumping down the corridor.
Meg sighed loud and long. “I still think you should cry off from Lord Branford.”
Sarah whirled around to face her. “Why?”
“Because ever since you’ve returned from Scotland, the only man’s name I’ve heard on your lips is Lord Christian Berkeley.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
London, April 1817
London was a different place entirely in the spring. The grass in the park was growing, baby birds were coming to life in the trees, and while the rain made for muddy ruts in the dirt roads, there was still a fresh energy to the town that was not there in the heat of the summer or the cold of winter when coal smoke clogged the air.
Christian ensconced himself in his town house on Upper Brook Street and set about making appointments with all the tradesmen Sarah had mentioned. First, he allowed his frustrated valet, Matthews, to shave him and cut his hair. The man seemed beyond pleased with his master’s sudden desire to be well-groomed again. Matthews was even allowed to cut his hair particularly short, much shorter than he normally wore it. Close-cropped: That’s what Sarah had told him was all the rage in London. “Yes, my lord, at once,” the valet replied with a gleam in his eye, no doubt from relishing his duty.
Once he was freshly shorn, Christian embarked upon a shopping trip. He made his way to Hoby’s for new boots and shoes, Weston’s for new coats, Martin’s for new shirts and cravats, and Yardley’s for new hats. One by one he checked off the list that Sarah had prepared for him, ensuring that he was the best-dressed man in theton. Or one of them, at any rate.
He even met Owen Monroe at the stores a time or two, and the stylish man gave him advice on what precisely to order and lessons on tying not only the mathematical knot, Sarah’s favorite, but the l’Orientale and the mail coach as well. Once that tedious business was done, Christian waited for his purchases to arrive.
In the meantime, Lucy stopped by nearly every day to regale him with tales of the latest goings-on of theton. He steadfastly refused to ask about Sarah.
“You’re going to Daphne and Rafe’s wedding next week, aren’t you? It’s to be in the country at Cass and Owen’s parents’ estate.”
“Of course,” Christian replied, reading the latest political news from the front page ofThe Timeswhile Lucy sipped tea in Christian’s drawing room. “I received my invitation weeks ago. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“And Alexandra and Owen’s next month?” Lucy prodded.
“Yes, of course. I had a heavy hand in that one.” He chuckled, turning the paper’s page. “I’m greatly looking forward to it.”
“What about Sarah’s?” Lucy asked in a singsong voice.
Christian’s hand arrested halfway to the teacup he’d been about to pick up.
