“I can’t help but agree with you there, Montford.” Grantham nodded. “No gentleman wins as often as Horsley does unless there’s foul play afoot.”
“It’s not Horsley! Really, neither of you give Francesca enough credit. She’s an excellent judge of character.”
“If it’s not Horsley, then who is it?” Jasper demanded.
“Yes, Basingstoke, do tell,” Grantham drawled.
Basingstoke huffed out a breath. “I don’t pretend to know why either of you are so determined to know every detail of Miss Thorne’s matrimonial affairs, but I’m not about to tell you two gossiping hens all of her secrets. Even if I wished to, I’m not at liberty to . . .”
Basingstoke went on at some length about Miss Thorne’s marriage prospects being a sensitive matter, and Miss Thorne being due the courtesy of privacy, but Jasper had stopped listening to him, because something far more interesting than Basingstoke’s lecture was unfolding on the other side of the double glass doors behind him.
He nudged Grantham, and nodded at the doors. “Look, Grantham. Just there.”
The terrace off of Basingstoke’s study led into a small, private garden with a series of stone pathways that wound past a dozen or so tidy rose arbors. While Basingstoke was nattering on, Miss Thorne had wandered into sight from the direction of the south lawn with a tall, fair-haired gentleman right on her heels.
Jasper leaned forward in his chair. The man’s face was hidden by an enormous shrub, but it looked like . . . “Luttrell!That’sthe gentleman you’ve chosen for Miss Thorne?”
Basingstoke stared at him. “How the devil did you work that out?”
“Because, Basingstoke, the two of them are walking together in the garden right behind you!” That was no casual stroll, either. Miss Thorne’s cheeks were far too pink for that, and there wasn’t a single raised eyebrow or pinched lip in sight.
She looked almost bashful. Miss Thorne,bashful! As for Luttrell, he looked as he always did, that is, far too pleased with himself.
Jasper leapt to his feet and hurried to the doors. “For God’s sake, Basingstoke, why in the world would the duchess chooseLuttrellfor Miss Thorne?”
“He’s not Luttrell now, Montford, but Lord Stoneleigh.”
“Stoneleigh? Who the devil is Stoneleigh? I’ve never heard that name before in my life. That gentleman right there”—Jasper pointed an outraged finger—“is Robert Luttrell.”
Basingstoke let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s Lord Stoneleigh now, and has been these three months or more. Do pay better attention, Montford.”
“What? You mean to tell me Luttrell’s a lord now?”
“Baron Stoneleigh, yes. He inherited the title rather unexpectedly, and a tidy fortune along with it.”
Not just a lord, then, but a lord with the means to take a wife.
“Stoneleigh has had his eye on Miss Thorne since he met her last fall. Franny’s hoping for a match between them, now that Miss Thorne has made up her mind to wed.”
“For God’s sake, Basingstoke, you can’t truly be considering amatchbetween Miss Thorne and Luttrell? Are you mad?” Why, Miss Thorne would eat the poor vicar for breakfast, luncheon, and dinner. She’d flay him alive with that sharp tongue of hers, fricassee him, then bake him into a pie and swallow him whole. “I can’t think of any gentleman less suited to Miss Thorne than some puffed-up vicar.”
“I don’t think Miss Thorne agrees with you, Montford.”
Grantham nodded at the window, and Jasper turned his attention back to the travesty unfolding in the garden. Luttrell—or Stoneleigh, or whatever the devil his name was now—had just offered his arm to Miss Thorne, and she . . .
By God, shetookit, without so much as a glare or a thrust of that stubborn chin. Indeed, she accepted the man’s arm with a sweet smile on her face, as if he’d just given her the crown jewels.
What, not one sharp word? Not even a hint of a scowl? Not a single disdainful syllable from those pink lips? Jasper watched as they resumed their stroll, his mouth agape.
“What’s the matter with Stoneleigh?” Basingstoke demanded. “And before you claim he’s a drunkard, a lecher, or a cheat, Montford, may I remind you he’s a vicar?”
“That proves nothing, Basingstoke.” The clergy were among the worst scoundrels in England. “I don’t claim the man is a blackguard, but he’s . . .” How to put this without being rude? “He’s a simpering, nitpicking, hypocritical fusspot. He’s utterly wrong for Miss Thorne, and will make her life a perfect misery.”
Basingstoke blinked at him, and Jasper blinked back.
Had he, er, said all that aloud?
“Well, that’s plain enough,” Grantham murmured. “While I don’t entirely agree with Montford, there’s no denying Stoneleigh is a bit of a mushroom, Basingstoke.”
