Mrs. Morrit, she noted, frowned even more deeply. The servants’ quarters would be in an uproar. She swept out in his wake, however, without comment.
Goodness. He is rather magnificent when he takes command. And children! Who would have guessed?Another thought tugged at her.These people do not make it easy for him. She wondered if she had wandered into a civil war.
*
Dinner with Tavernashgenerally involved a long discourse about the nodcock’s mother’s opinions on everything from waistcoats to the Prince of Wales. Gideon endured it on principle rather than slinking up to a tray in his room. Tonight was no different.
“Fillmore told me there are young ladies in residence. Not the thing, bachelor establishment and all. M’mother would not approve.” Tavernash frowned as if puzzling over that thought gave him a headache. “She says now I’m heir, chits will try to trap me. Don’t plan to put my foot in parson’s trap anytime soon. Pr’aps I ought to ask Mother about it.” Cheered by that thought, he tucked into his mutton with enthusiasm.
“They’ve been housed in the guest wing on the other side of the house from family,” Gideon said. Privately, he thought “family” a stretch in Tavernash’s case, but he wouldn’t say so.
Tavernash grunted.
“I will be moving to the family wing tonight as well. Jem is transporting my things now.” Fillmore, he noted, looked as if he had swallowed a lemon, but then, he frequently appeared that way. Gideon had endured glances all day—both puzzled and alarmed. His confrontation with the housekeeper had likely been repeated word for word throughout the staff.
“Family wing? But you’re—” Tavernash paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Family,” Gideon finished. “I am family. The duke, you will recall, is my brother. He sent me here.”
“But my mother—”
“Will no doubt explain it to you,” Gideon muttered. He stabbed at his food, wishing Miss Selwyn had accepted his invitation to dine with family.
He left without eating his cake—Tavernash could undoubtedly devour Gideon’s share. He expected Jem to fetch him when the room was ready. For now, he sought the peace of the library.
When he found it occupied, his feelings veered from disappointment to delight. He left the door open behind him and bowed. “Miss Selwyn. I’m glad you found your way here.”
She dropped a curtsey that wouldn’t be out of place in Mayfair. “Yes. Thank you, sir.” She glanced at the open door and snatched up two books she’d been considering. “And thank you for having us moved. We are quite comfortable.”
Relief flooded him. They’d been moved. He had feared he would have to follow up with a more aggressive demand.
“But you didn’t join us at dinner.”
“I—that is, Selina needs me. I must get back up. Besides, I have no proper clothing with me for dinner here. They are bringing broth for her and supper for me on a tray.”
“I understand. How is she?” he asked, wondering if Mrs. Morrit remembered to ask the viscount to send clothing for his niece.
“Restless and feverish. She slept off and on all day and endured the move downstairs with some misery. Thank you for asking.” She nodded to him again and was gone, taking both books.
He sat at the desk and started his own message to Viscount Clavering.
Chapter Eleven
Uncle Ludlow rarelymoved with anything resembling speed. Mia was therefore surprised when a footman—John, she thought—informed her that her uncle required her presence in the green drawing room the following afternoon. Her steps took her down a stately marble stairway that led her to the grand passage that ran the length of Woodglen’s central block. When she reached the bottom, she turned toward a disturbance in the entranceway. She couldn’t make out words clearly, but Fillmore appeared to be showing Eustace and his worthless friends out. The presence of a rather large footman suggested they were not going willingly. She swallowed a smile and allowed John to lead her to the green drawing room—Woodglen had several, and she would never have identified the correct one herself.
Mrs. Morrit exited the room as she approached and hurried away without acknowledging Mia. Curtis Marshall followed her out. He inclined his head. “Miss Selwyn. I trust your accommodations are comfortable?”
The pitch of his voice made Mia wonder if he expected an answer or merely intended some message to her uncle.
“Quite comfortable.”Now.
“Good,” he responded, obviously preoccupied. “I would stay to chat, but I have a clogged drainage ditch to see to.” He hurried away.
Her uncle, grim faced, stood by the window with his hands behind his rigid back.
Mia dipped a curtsey. “Uncle, thank you for coming. You probably wish to see Selina.” She gripped her hands tightly, fearing he planned to drag Dr. Gratis back to bleed the girl.
Uncle nodded. “The housekeeper reports she suffers from fever, albeit one brought on by her own hoydenish behavior.”
