“Last time we saw him, when he came down for Lord Marple’s funeral, he had no more ‘side’ than when he was a boy.”
Perhaps they should look Thornstead up now they were in London. Though it had been five years since they last saw him, for Lord Marple died a few months after their father. At the time, he had still been a viscount, a courtesy title as the heir’s heir. And he was preparing to be married—an arranged marriage, about which he was philosophical. “Grandfather is on his last legs,” he had said, “so I shall be heir to Dellborough soon enough. It’s best I get on with making the next generation.”
Perhaps Lady Thornstead would not be pleased to meet her husband’s commoner friends. Perhaps Thornstead had grown more aware of his exalted status now his father was the duke and he, himself, had moved up to the courtesy title of marquess, rather than viscount.
Apparently, Drake had no such reservations. “We should visit him, Bane. I imagine he has children by now, do you not think so?”
“We could try,” Bane said. “Don’t be surprised if he no longer wishes for the connection, Drake.”
As it turned out, there was no need for Bane’s reservations.
Later that evening, they arrived at the assembly hall Lady Marple had hired for her ball. They made their way through the Marple receiving line, offering compliments to Lady Marple and all five of her charges—thoroughly deserved.
Miss Olivia Wintergreen took Bane’s breath away in another of the rich jewel colors she’d taken to wearing—this one a sort of reddy-purple, like the pansies his mother had grown in theirgarden when he was a little child. The gown clung to her curves as she moved and made her eyes look even more silver than usual.
The courtesies observed, they gave their names to the butler at the ballroom door, were announced, and went in to find a place along the wall where they could observe the crowd and still watch the entrance for those in the receiving line—or, more specifically, the Wintergreen sisters—to enter the ballroom.
But they’d been there for no more than a minute when a tall blond gentleman hurried up, a pretty dark-haired lady on his arm. “Itisyou,” said the man, holding out a hand to Bane. “I knew it must be. I didn’t see you come in, but Jenna said you had a hood on. Jenna, my love, this is Mr. Wolfbane Sanderson, and here is Mr. Mandrake Sanderson.”
“Lady Thornstead,” Bane said, bowing. It had to be their old friend. The eyes were the same, though the chin was firmer and the shoulders broader.
“Lady Thornstead,” said Drake. “You lucky dog, Garry.”
Lady Thornstead’s eyes twinkled, and Thornstead’s smile at his lady was fond. “I know it, old friend. But how wonderful to see you here! Are you visiting London?”
Drake explained that they’d moved to the big city. “We were just talking about calling on you, Garry.”
“We last met your husband when he came to our village for Lord Marple’s funeral, Lady Thornstead,” Bane explained, “before he was married.”
“He has spoken to me of the friends he made when he visited Marplestead as a child. You lived nearby, I believe, Mr. Sanderson. In Marpleton, was it not? You gentlemen must call. Would you care to join us for dinner on this coming Friday? Would that suit you, Gareth?”
“That would be delightful,” Thornstead said.
Drake agreed. “Tell us when to be there, and Bane and I would love to join you, Lady Thornstead.”
“And what are you doing in London?” Thornstead wanted to know.
“Lady Thornstead,” said a familiar voice. “Garry, Bane, Drake. Well met.” It was Drew Winderfield, elegantly dressed as ever.
“Good evening, Lord Andrew.” Lady Thornstead shifted in a graceful move that was not quite a curtsey.
“Drew,” said Bane and Drake, and Thornstead gave a cheerful wave.
Lady Thornstead cast a quick glance at Bane and Drake, perhaps wondering how Drew came to know the two commoners, but she did not ask.
Thornstead did, with cheerful ease. “Bane and Drake are old friends of mine, Drew. How did you three come to know one another?”
“We are members of the same investment club,” Drew explained. “Smart fellows, your old friends. I was sent across the ballroom by my stepmother, Bane and Drake—I’ve been talking about you, and she and Father would like to meet you.”
“We shall come too,” Thornstead decided. “My parents are talking to yours, and I’d like them to meet Bane and Drake, as well. Heaven knows they heard enough about them when I was a boy!” He offered his arm to Lady Thornstead and led the way across the ballroom.
Heavens. Thornstead’s parents were the Duke of Dellborough and his duchess. Thornstead had married because his grandfather was dying, though he had lived for a further three or four years, until the spring of last year!
Drew’s father was the Duke of Winshire, and his stepmother the Duchess of Winshire was the one the newssheets calledthedouble duchess, for her former husband had been the Duke of Haverford, a title now held by her eldest son.
They were flying in high altitudes indeed!
The high-born lords and ladies were very gracious. Friendly, even, in a way that reminded Bane of village elders speaking to young men who were not yet bumptious enough to challenge the gaffers, and could always be trusted to show deference to the grannies.
