Neither surprised, nor amused, Charles blinked. “You’re a dolt.”
Benjamin raised an eyebrow, accepting the proffered challenge for a duel of insults. An exercise that somehow had bonded, rather than dividing them, since childhood. Iron sharpening iron, as it were. His baby brother crossed his arms and bandied back. “Ninnyhammer.”
Charles resisted the tug of a smile. “Clodpoll.”
“Insipid ignoramus.”
“Blithering bumble-faced buffoon.”
Entering the fray of their verbal sparring match, Mother gave each a swat with her dampened handkerchief. “Lord preserve us, mightn’t you at least pretend to be grown men? Honestly, ’tis no wonder I haven’t any grandchildren with the pair of you carrying on like spiteful schoolboys with a thesaurus.”
Barton stepped forward, glasses barely clinging to the tip of his nose as he consulted his primary pocket watch. “Mr. Harrison’s been waiting three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.”
With mock gravity, Bailey tutted under his breath. “You’re as good as sacked, Charlie. A man might pardon a three-minute wait, but that extra twenty-seven seconds ... unforgiveable.”
“Balderdash,” blustered Westland. “Tardiness is alwayspardonable if the latecomer arrives bearing a consolatory offering of fresh pastries. Here, lad, these turnovers should do the trick.” Pushing past the wall of Barton and Bailey, Westland extended a white bag that smelled of icing sugar. A twinkle flashed across his blue eyes as he whispered conspiratorially, “I’ve heard Harrison’s fond of strawberry and rhubarb.”
Charles accepted the bag, which was rather warm. The pastries must be fresh, indeed. “Thank you for coming to see me off, gentlemen.” Though he still hadn’t the foggiest why they’d bothered. “I’d best not keep Mr. Harrison waiting.”
“Not just yet, Charlie!” Mother rushed over, grasping him by the dangling necktie. “I can’t have my son meeting a duchess in such disarray, now can I, Elaine?”
“Certainly not, Mimi.” Mrs. Bailey shook her head. “And now he’s got icing sugar all over his new suit, thanks to our resident pastry fiend.” She shared an amused look with her smirking spouse and then snatched the bag of baked goods, shoving them at Westland with a scowl. Dusting her hands on her dress, Mrs. Bailey addressed his mother. “Hurry, dear, let’s get the boy presentable so he’s a credit to the esteemed name of Mimi Noble.”
Next thing Charles knew, he was being preened by a pair of mother hens. Mother saw to his necktie, fitting it up in a neat bow, while Mrs. Bailey scurried about him with her handkerchief, dusting away evidence of baked goods. One loving lady smoothed his pomaded hair. The other wet her thumb pad and cleaned something offensive from his face. All Charles could do was hold still, stare straight ahead, and try to ignore the amused laughter of the Magi and his chortling camel of a brother.
Thankfully, the motherly ministrations didn’t last more than a minute by Barton’s watch, and Charles was soon escorted out the door and stuffed into the waiting carriagewithout further ceremony. As the conveyance rolled along, his employer was gracious enough not to remark upon the delay or the three-ring circus that had seen him off with a flutter of handkerchiefs and assorted hurrahs. Charles tugged at his collar and tried to collect himself. Tried to regulate his breathing and keep his mind from wandering back home. Wondering if all was well.
If all would still be well when he returned.
As though they’d been etched on his mind rather than chalked on a slate, Father’s words echoed amid the void of Harrison’s silence.God didn’t spare my life so you could stop living yours.The notion stuck in his chest, aching like food that had been swallowed too soon. Father meant well, he knew. But this was one of the few times he was wrong. Charles hadn’t stopped living. He’d just started living for the things that actually mattered.
Chapter
16
If there was one thing at which Lady Alfreda Darlington the Duchess of Darrowby excelled, it was hosting a superb soirée that attracted the crème de la crème of society. If there was one thing at which Mumsie excelled, it was championing a noble cause by attracting as much attention as possible. When the two matrons saw fit to collaborate, they were a force to be reckoned with. A spectacle of angelic motives and audacious methods impossible to ignore.
Tonight, the beneficiaries of their cooperative endeavor were the sister orphanages Mumsie instituted for foundling children and disabled animals, jointly known as The Rescue Aid and Train Society—or R.A.T.S., for short. Though the organization had been established and christened before Margaret’s birth, Papa oft regaled her with the amusing story of Mama and Mumsie’s prolonged dispute over the orphanages’ title. Mama’s contention was that the proposed acronym would reflect poorly upon the charity due to its negative connotations with the world’s least popular rodent. Mumsie countered thatnot only was every word in the acronym essential—seeing as the society intended to rescue, aid, and train those brought under its wing—but that she’d consider no arguments based solely on prejudice. For, according to Mumsie, rats were not inherently vile creatures. The little dears were simply misunderstood. To this day, Mama still lamented her inability to change Mumsie’s mind on the matter.
Margaret smiled, imagining the passionate discussion for the umpteenth time as she accepted book donations from a queue of elegantly attired guests. After becoming friends with Lady Darrowby, Mumsie had encouraged the duchess to make use of her social standing, and the coveted nature of invitations bearing her seal, for the greater good. Being as generous as she was gregarious, Lady Darrowby had been easily persuaded. The pair had dubbed this season’s much-anticipated event the Bibliophile Ball for Literacy. Guests had been instructed to bring a contribution of literary tomes suitable for children at a variety of reading levels. No donation of books, no entry to the ball. Absolutely no exceptions.
Upon arrival at Lady Darrowby’s palatial home, servants directed guests into the Periwinkle Parlor, where their requisite donation could be deposited at a receiving table helmed by the Daughters of Genius Society before they proceeded into the ballroom.
Margaret passed another trio of books down to Helena on her left. Once Helena recorded the titles in a logbook, she handed the books off to Jane, who deposited them atop growing stacks upon the table.
Lady Darrowby appeared on Margaret’s right, beaming a smile so dazzling one couldn’t help but reflect its brilliance. “I’ve just spoken to my footmen. Thus far, not a single guest has arrived without a literary contribution in hand! Do your efforts reflect as much, Lady Margaret?”
“Indeed, we’ve been kept quite busy. By preliminary calculations,we’ve surpassed five hundred books and counting. We’ve hardly been able to keep pace with the deluge.”
Even as Margaret spoke, Iva Leene, Professor Quimby, and a rather giddy Louisa employed themselves at the other end of the table, crating books destined to fill the library and various schoolrooms at R.A.T.S. Her smile broadened as she continued receiving donations, grateful she’d sufficient teaspoons to join her sisters tonight.
The Rescue Aid and Train Society was just one of many goodwill organizations supported by the Daughters of Genius Society’s charitable arm. Not only did it allow the D.O.G.S. to practically assist those in need, but it also helped maintain the society’s guise of normalcy. Bluestocking spinsters were expected to devote their time to one of two occupations, reading or charity work, the latter being considered the more respectable of the two. Not a soul would suspect a society of bluestocking spinsters, thus decorously occupied, to engage in clandestine operations. Or, heaven forbid, be possessed of secrets! Secrets belonged to young lovers with notions of running away to Gretna Green, not unwed women in their thirties.
“Ducky, how marvelous it is to see you up and about!” Materializing alongside Lady Darrowby, Mumsie leaned down to press a kiss to Margaret’s cheek, bringing her nose to beak with an especially wide-eyed owl.
“Great gadgets!” Margaret leaned back, taking in a full view of Mumsie. Her silver-haired grandmother was attired in a gown of crushed fuchsia velvet, accessorized with diminutive owls perched on either puffed sleeve. Amusement quirked her lips, and she nudged Helena with an elbow, lest her friend fail to see their avian company. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your escorts for the evening, Mumsie?”
Helena gasped. “Oh my morels, what little darlings!Athene noctua, if I’m not mistaken?”
