“I don’t th—,” Mr. Roberts began, only to be silenced by Miss Chilcott, who continued with, “You see, Mr. Roberts and I were discussing the matter earlier—reading, that is. Not your reading habits, of course, since that would be absurd considering we’ve only just met, but relating to ourselves.” She drew a deep breath while Anthony struggled to hide his grin. Apparently Miss Chilcott liked to speak when she was nervous.
“And what, pray tell, did you discover?” Anthony asked. He tipped his hat to an elderly lady and stepped aside so she could pass.
“That reading is an indulgence that only serves to distract from more important things in life.” This statement came from Mr. Roberts.
“Such as?” Anthony asked.
“Such as the improvement of oneself, of one’s household and of one’s business.”
Trust Mr. Roberts to think like that.
“Well, I do like to enjoy the occasional book,” Anthony said, deciding that this was as good a time as any to start making Miss Chilcott aware of the ways in which he would make a better match for her than Mr. Roberts. “The library at Kingsborough Hall is vast, so I often find myself passing the evening with a bit of poetry or a novel.”
There was an unmistakable sigh from Miss Chilcott, and Anthony found himself smiling. It didn’t matter—he was walking in front of them, so they couldn’t see.
“To each his own, I suppose,” Mr. Roberts said. “But I for one have always considered the arts a complete waste of time. All it really is, is a bunch of people who’ve decided not to work but to take advantage of the rest of us instead by profiting on their hobbies. Painting, writing books and playing music ... if all these so-called artists would only make themselves useful by doing actual work, the world would have advanced much further by now, of that I have no doubt.”
That settled it. If there had been the slightest bit of uncertainty in Anthony’s mind about continuing his pursuit of Miss Chilcott now that he’d discovered that he actually knew the man she planned to marry, it had just been completely and utterly dismissed.
The man was obviously an idiot. More than that, he’d actually told Anthony that Miss Chilcott would be taking on the duties of housekeeper once they married. If that didn’t spell frugal when even Anthony was aware that Mr. Roberts made a substantial amount of money, then Anthony wasn’t sure what did.
But for Miss Chilcott—the vibrant and cheerful woman he’d met the night of the ball—to be subjected to such a dreary existence was not only unfair but would also probably be harmful to her character. Mr. Roberts would break her, whether he intended to do so or not, and Anthony realized that it was no longer only about his wish to be with her; it was also about a deep-born need to save her.
None of them said anything further until they arrived at the Chilcotts’ cottage. “Mama, Papa,” Miss Chilcott said as she opened the door to what Anthony soon discovered to be the parlor, “we have returned from our walk and have brought with us the duke, who said he wished to meet with you, Papa.”
Following Mr. Roberts into the room, Anthony spoke a greeting and bowed toward Mrs. Chilcott, who didn’t look the least bit happy to see him. He turned to Mr. Chilcott and put out his hand. The older man hesitated only a moment before accepting it in a firm handshake. Like his wife, however, he did not smile, which could only mean that whatever they imagined the reason for his visit to be, it wasn’t good. Well, he’d just have to prove them wrong, that was all.
“If this is an inconvenient hour for you, sir, I can return at another time,” Anthony said, mostly because he felt it would be the polite thing to say—not because he really wanted to leave only to come back again later. He wanted the whole affair to be over with.
“This way if you please,” Mr. Chilcott said as he directed Anthony through to another, much smaller room that was sparsely furnished with a wooden table that could seat up to six people, and a credenza that stood tall against one wall. This was clearly their dining room. Closing the door behind Anthony, Mr. Chilcott gestured to one of the chairs. “Do have a seat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chilcott.” Anthony sat, adjusted himself so he was comfortable and then reached inside his jacket pocket to pull out the drawing of himself and Miss Chilcott. “I met a woman the other day—at the Kingsborough Ball, to be exact—but she departed very suddenly while I was attending to some business. I’d like to find her again if possible and was hoping that you might be able to help me in that regard.”
He handed the drawing to Mr. Chilcott, who studied it for a moment before he finally shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I have never seen this woman before.”
Anthony sat frozen. He could not believe that Miss Chilcott’s own father was denying that it was his daughter in the picture. “How can you say that, sir, when it is obvious even with the mask she’s wearing that this is—”
“Nobody I know,” Mr. Chilcott said firmly. “And in case you are implying otherwise, my daughter was here, asleep in her own bed that night. I know, because she and I played chess together that evening while we waited to watch the fireworks display—which was beautiful, by the way.”
Anthony was stunned. He was being deliberately shut down. Either that, or Miss Chilcott wasn’t the woman he’d danced with at the ball after all. Perhaps he’d just wanted her to be Miss Smith so badly that he’d convinced himself that they were one and the same.
They looked alike, based on the drawing, but then again there was the mask to consider. He shook his head. No, it wasn’t possible. Miss ChilcottwasMiss Smith—shehadto have been. He felt it deep in his bones. Whatever his reason, Mr. Chilcott was lying. Discussing the possibility of a courtship, not to mention the Deerfords, would have to wait. Anthony had to think about everything he’d learned first, and in order to do so properly, he would have to go home. His mother would be able to help perhaps, Winston and Casper too. Yes, he would have to invite Casper over, because when it came to women, he always knew what to do when faced with a problem. The fact that he was a rake was no coincidence—it was a vocation that came naturally to him.
Chapter 13
“Mr. Goodard is waiting for you in the library, sir,” Phelps announced as soon as Anthony returned home.
He handed the butler his hat and gloves with a smile. How convenient that Casper had decided to call exactly when Anthony wished to speak to him. It was probably no coincidence though—his friend would want to know about Anthony’s progress regarding Miss Smith.
“I was planning to send you a dinner invitation,” Anthony said as he walked into the library and spotted his friend, who was comfortably seated in one of the deep leather armchairs with a book in his hand, “but you’ve saved me both the paper and the need to dispatch a footman. Thank you for that.”
Casper grinned. “Truth be told, I’m desperate to discover if you’ve found Miss Smith.”
Anthony nodded and walked over to the side table. “I thought you might be. Care for a drink?” He held up a crystal carafe filled with brandy.
“Please.”
Turning his back on his friend, Anthony prepared a glass for each of them. “What are you reading?” he asked as he strode across to where Casper was sitting, placed the glass on the table in front of him and sat down opposite his friend.
