“Everything in good order, Your Grace.”
“Not quite,” she said.
She straightened the pages. Set both ledgers open at the relevant entries. Placed her notes on top. And then she sat back in the chair across from the desk, folded her arms, and waited.
CHAPTER 25
William was shown in by a footman and found James in the drawing room, in the middle of what appeared to be a one-sided argument with a letter.
“–and the absolute nerve,” James was saying to no one, the letter held at arm’s length as though it had offended him personally, “of a woman who sends four notes in a single morning and signs each one with a different initial, as though I will not recognize the handwriting, as though I have not been recognizing this particular handwriting since–” He looked up. “William.”
“James.”
“This,” James said, holding up the letter, “is Lady Cavendish’s third daughter, who has apparently decided that subtlety is for people with less conviction. Four notes, William. The first was an invitation to a concert. The second was a clarification of the concert’s date. The third was a concern that perhaps the first two had not arrived. The fourth was–” He looked at the letter. “A poem. She has written me a poem.”
“Is it good?”
“It reads terribly.” James tossed it on the table. “Sit down. Do you want brandy? It is half past eleven, and I have already decided it is a brandy morning.” He was already moving toward the decanter, not waiting for an answer, which was standard. “She compared my eyes to a winter sky, which is not a compliment regardless of how earnestly it was meant because I loathe winter, and she rhymed heart with art twice, which I think the rules expressly prohibit–”
He stopped and turned.
He looked at William properly for the first time since he’d entered the room.
“You’re not laughing,” he noted.
“No.”
“I have just told you that a woman wrote me a poem about a winter sky, and you are standing in my drawing room looking like that, not laughing.” He set down the decanter. “I know I am special, but I did not think I was quite this special. People generally reserve that particular expression for funerals and solicitors.” He crossed the room and handed William a glass. “Sit down.”
William sat.
James sat across from him, stretched out his legs, and waited.
It was one of the things William had always valued about him. James could be silent when silence was required. He was rarely required to be, because he was constitutionally designed for rooms that needed noise. But when the situation called for it, he had a patience that surprised people who didn’t know him well.
“I’ve complicated things.” William couldn’t help sighing.
“Define complicated.”
“With Cecily.”
James said nothing. He simply waited. William had expected a response from him.
“The ball was–” He stopped. Turned the glass in his hands. “She walked into the ballroom, and three months of London gossip simply… evaporated. Not because she did anything different. She was entirely herself, and the room didn’t know what to do with that, and then it decided to be charmed. By the time supper came, Lady Ashford had sought her out to apologize.”
He looked at the fire; all he could see was the shimmery image of Cecily.
“She was extraordinary. She danced well. She argued about everything. She told me at one point, with complete composure, that she had been doing well since she arrived, and I hadgone into defense mode. She said it like she was reporting the weather.”
“And you…?”
“Found it completely maddening,” William said. “Yes.”
James smiled and took a sip of brandy, saying nothing.
“She told me something during the waltz,” William continued. “Why she walked alone to the shore in Brighton. It was because of her suitors—six, apparently—and her sister pressing her and her feeling cornered by it all and needing somewhere she could stand without owing anyone an answer.” He paused. “She said she would rather have been alone for the rest of her life than marry a man who felt nothing for her.”
“That sounds exactly like her,” James remarked.
