Mary chuckled. “That may be, but in the end, we are meant to create the backdrop for their lives,notappear in them.”
“But I hardly feel esteemed enough to garner an invitation,” countered Willow, looking around the table. “I wouldn’t begin to know how to—”
“I’ll procure the invitation,” Cassin cut in, popping a sausage into his mouth. “I’ve sent an urgent note to Lord Althorp and requested a meeting about Caldera.”
“Althorp?” exclaimed Uncle Arthur. “Leader of the Commons?”
Cassin nodded. “Likely, he will be chancellor of the exchequer after the elections, and his Chancery Court would be the one to hear any case from my uncle’s bogus mine. After we discuss Caldera, I will ask Althorp about Lady . . . who was it?”
“Landfair,” provided Aunt Mary, beaming. She reached for Arthur’s hand.
“Right. Lady Landfair. Compared to this mess with my uncle, a garden party should be an inconsequential request.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Cassin’s first order of business was his uncle’s townhome in Adelphi. He went in person, sending no message ahead. If possible, he would catch the pompous relation off guard.
Sadly, a uniformed butler informed Cassin that Mr. Caulder was “not in.” No indication was forthcoming about Archibald’s locality, and Cassin hurried away without leaving his card.
Two shillings later, a stable boy informed Cassin that Mr. Archibald Caulder had taken his best carriage to Yorkshire weeks before, with no promise of when he would return. Cassin gritted his teeth and lobbed another coin, asking him not to repeat their discussion.
Next he paid an informal call on Lord Althorp. He’d written ahead but doubled down and called on the politician in person just the same.
Here, too, a restrictive butler refused admittance, but he returned with a summons from Althorp, an appointment for a proper meeting the next day. Cassin was swamped with relief, and he asked the butler to furnish Lord Althorp with a brief report he’d written that detailed the Caldera mining conflict.
With this errand complete, Cassin needed only to procure an invitation to the garden party that had been so adroitly foisted on his wife. He did not fault Mary Boyd for making the request; in fact, he quite liked the idea of squiring his countess around London. But procuring the invitation from Lord Althorp had been an ambitious suggestion indeed, and Cassin mentioned it mostly to show off. Luckily, he had another card to play, and he made his way to quiet, out-of-the-way Moxon Street in Westminster to beg help from a friend of a friend.
“The Earl of Cassin to see Mr. Bryson or Mrs. Elisabeth Courtland,” Cassin said hopefully. What were the odds that he’d be denied by the third butler of the day?
“Brent?”cried a voice from behind the butler. Cassin leaned in to see Elisabeth Courtland rushing to the door. She elbowed the butler aside and reached for Cassin.
“But we’ve not heard from Stoker in weeks,” Mrs. Courtland said, giving his shoulders a shake. “Tell me now: Is he in London? I swear to heaven, if he is here and has not called on me . . . ”
Elisabeth Courtland had known Jon Stoker since he was a street urchin in Rotten Row, raiding brothels on behalf of her charity. Their friendship had grown, and she began to provide for his education, his daily necessities, and his erstwhile scrapes with the law. When she married her husband, Bryson, the couple became Stoker’s surrogate family. Eventually, the wealthy coupled delivered Stoker from the streets and sent him to university in Yorkshire. It was here that the lot of them first encountered Cassin. The Courtlands were Stoker’s frequent visitors to school, and Cassin came to know them well. The couple was middle-aged now, with two growing boys. Mrs. Courtland’s charity continued to rescue girls from the horror of London’s streets, and Bryson Courtland’s shipyard was one of the most prosperous in the empire. Stoker’s pride had prevented them from asking the Courtlands to sponsor their guano expedition, and Cassin respected his partner’s desire to make his own way.
“Stoker remains in Barbadoes, madam,” Cassin assured Mrs. Courtland. “I’ve come alone. Some ugly business with an uncle and my estate in Yorkshire.”
“How sorry I am to hear it,” said Mrs. Courtland, drawing him inside. She dispatched the butler to fetch her husband. “But how kind of you to look in on us. The boys are in school, or they would be delighted to see you.”
“Rudely, I’ve come to beg a small favor, actually.”
“Anything, of course. How can we help?”
“My wife,” he began, coughing slightly, “has developed an interest in a certain garden party at the home of a society matron, Lady Landfair. The event, I believe, is set for tomorrow. I was hoping you could assist with an invitation.”
“Oh,” breathed Mrs. Courtland, wrinkling her brow. “I haven’t the slightest notion ofLadyLandfair or her garden. I avoid parties whenever possible, as you may know, but Bryson will help you, never fear.” She glanced to the door.“However,”she said, turning back, “it cheers me to hear that you and your wife are . . . enjoying time together while you’re in town.” She eyed him expectantly. The Courtlands had made no secret of their suspicion of Jon Stoker’s hasty marriage to Sabine; indeed, they found all three rushed marriages very strange indeed.
“Quite so,” Cassin said. “Willow’s aunt and uncle have been kind enough to allow me to crowd in on them in Belgrave Square. It is my goal to make the most of my time with Willow while I’m in England. When my London business is done, she will travel to Yorkshire with me.”
“She will,” trilled Mrs. Courtland, clapping her hands together. She smiled and patted his knee. “It’s none of my business, I know, but it cheers me to hear that your marriage was not—” She stopped and bit her bottom lip. “I am so hopeful for you and your new bride.”
“I feel the same hope,” Cassin said, unable to tamp down a foolish grin.
“Cassin!” called a voice from the doorway. “By God, you’re a welcome sight.” Cassin rose to shake hands with Bryson Courtland. “We had no warning that you’d returned to England.”
Cassin nodded and apprised him of the situation with Archibald and the fresh worry with his brother.
Bryson listened carefully, gesturing for them to sit. The older man settled closely to his wife, despite the long couch and collection of plush chairs. He stretched his arm around her shoulder. It was the same comfortable sort of familiarity that Cassin’s own parents shared, and he felt a persistent stab of longing. He missed Willow, despite having just left her bed.
