AN INTRODUCTION IN THE PARLOR
Ahalf-hour later, in the parlor of Bostwick House
Peeking into the parlor, David was surprised to discover only a footman occupied the room. He recognized the servant, only the second he had seen since his arrival that afternoon. “Watkins,” he said as he made his way to the fireplace.
“Sir,” the older footman replied with a grin. “It’s good to see you back at Bostwick House. Coffee?”
“Thank you, and yes.” David’s gaze swept the rest of the parlor. “I see mother has redecorated,” he commented, his attention on the carpet below his shoes. At one time, all the carpets in Bostwick House were from Aubusson’s manufactory, but the pattern on this one suggested it had come from somewhere far away. “Turkish?” he guessed as he tapped his foot.
“Indeed, sir. She had it replaced last year, when she thought you and your guest would be here then.”
Guilt had David sobering. “Better late than never, I suppose,” he murmured, taking the cup of coffee from Watkins.
“If I might be so bold as to suggest you mention the fringe and tassels on the settee, sir? Her ladyship was quite fortunate to secure the very best craftsmanship for that item,” the footman said in a hoarse whisper.
David’s attention went to the piece of furniture. Having spent his last few years in plush Ottoman palaces featuring all manner of fringe and tassels, velvets and silks, he wouldn’t have noticed the trimmings in the parlor. “I appreciate the heads-up,” he said. “Anything else I should make mention of?” he asked, his gaze darting about as if he expected to find some exquisite antique or a decorative item crafted by an artist.
His perusal stopped at the painting over the mantel, and he furrowed his brows. “Was that done by Lady Plymouth?” he asked, referring to Samantha Fitzsimmons Range, Marchioness of Plymouth. “Lord Chamberlain’s niece?” he added, remembering he had learned of the relationship at some point during his boyhood.
“Lord Chamberlain’s cousin, I think you mean,” Watkins replied. “The elder Chamberlain died shortly after you left on your Grand Tour,” he explained.
“Ah, I’d quite forgotten,” David said with a wince.
“Lord Bostwick commissioned the painting for Lady Bostwick so it was ready when the rest of the redecoration was complete,” Watkins explained.
David studied the landscape for a time before a grin split his face. He recognized the scene from somewhere in the Lake District, sure his father had asked for it based on where he had taken Elizabeth for their wedding trip. “I can imagine how she showed her appreciation,” he murmured as he rolled his eyes.
When Watkins didn’t reply, David turned to find the man’s face bright red. He chuckled, deciding the servant had no doubt paid witness to his mother kissing his father. No doubt every servant in the household had.
When he noticed the footman’s attention had diverted to the door, David turned to see the subjects of their conversation entering the parlor. They were engaged in an animated discussion about something that had happened at the garden party the day before. His father let out a guffaw.
“That will teach him not to take liberties with the young ladies,” George said, accepting the cup of coffee Watkins offered.
“Take note, son. Your grandmother’s gardens are not to be the setting for your amorous liaisons,” Elizabeth said with a titter.
“Do I dare ask who got caught?” David queried, helping himself to some walnuts.
George moved to stand next to the fireplace mantel and positioned himself so he could see both his wife and anyone else who might come into the parlor. “One of Norwick’s twins. Your mother is not sure which one,” he replied.
Although he was curious as to which twin might have been caught kissing someone in his grandmother’s garden—he couldn’t recall that either one of them were old enough to show much interest in young ladies when he was last in London—David wanted to be sure to comment on the redecorating before their guest arrived. “I like what you’ve done with the parlor, Mother.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Why, I’d quite forgot. You haven’t been here since I had it redone,” she replied happily. She helped herself to a plate of walnuts and moved to one of the chairs near the fireplace. “You don’t think the apricot is too light with this olive green?”
About to reply, David caught his father’s quick shake of his head, immediately understanding he was on treacherous ground. “I like it better than the peach, and...” He paused when he saw his father point to a bouquet of daffodils on a side table. “Jonquil would have been too bright,” he finished, hoping he understood his father’s pantomime.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“The tassels and fringe are exquisite, as is this Turkish carpeting. It must have cost Father a fortune.” His gaze briefly darted to the viscount, who merely shrugged. Perhaps the carpet had been acquired with the help of Sultana Charlotte.
“Your sister was of an entirely different opinion, of course,” his mother murmured. “Why isn’t she here?”
George cleared his throat. “My fault. I kept her in the study far longer than I should have.”
Elizabeth regarded him with worry. “Did she do something wrong?”
Shaking his head, George said, “I merely wished to be apprised of the eligible bachelors and, uh, young ladies of an age to marry this Season,” he said, his gaze going to his son.
“Am I to understand the pickings are slim?” David asked before he popped a walnut into his mouth.
