CHAPTER NINE
“A gentleman must be pleased to find in the woman he designs to marry, qualities which will be likely to render her a charming and engaging companion.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“When are you marrying?”
From the relative refuge of the fireplace, Hugh peered over the bone china teacup held at his lips. “As yet, I’ve not met anyone I wish to marry, Aunt Enid.”
“Well, what do you expect,” she declared with a huff, “squiring sorts like Lady Tottywood around London’s ballrooms.”
“Thurwood.”
“Precisely.” She pursed her lips and raised a quizzing glass from where she sat ramrod straight upon the silk-covered sofa.
Hugh endeavoured not to squirm but Aunt Enid’s beady eye was akin to an implement of torture, prodding you with shame. And it would only get worse.
Where the hell was Phoebe to rescue him? He’d sent a message up to the schoolroom as soon as Cruikshank had deposited his aunt in the drawing room, yet no saviour in black had yet descended.
And although he adored his aunt, today he was due to visit the Military Records Office and see what he could find on members of the Brotherhood of Ravens. Read each man’s file and–
Aunt Enid tutted as her quizzing glass dipped below his jacket.
Hugh’s lips curved.
This lady had cared for him when his mother had died so long ago, fussed over his wounds through the years and more recently deplored his modern pantaloons.
She knew of his employment, of course, although they never talked of it as he’d vowed long ago never to involve her, never to share a whisper. It was all too easy for an innocent to let a secret slip unawares and danger then followed like a flea to a dog.
With fifty years – or thereabouts – her hair was still a ginger-red which she swore came from her maternal side but which more likely came from Mr Blenkinsop’s Henna Hair Regenerator. One shilling a bottle.
Slender and tall and smothered in amethysts, Aunt often wore an odd purple turban on her head.
Dropping the quizzing glass, she harrumphed. “I have invited Miss Abigail Farquhar-Fisherwick to take tea at my abode. I expect you to be there.”
Hugh rifled through the filing cabinet of his brain and found the girl under D.
Diamondof the first water. Pretty. Likely to succumb to the vapours after one look at his scarred chest.
Unlike his governess this morning. Who’d stared. Quite a lot.
“Aunt, she’s scarcely eighteen and quivers at a lobster tailhors d’oeuvre.”
“That’s as maybe but it’s high time you found…anyone, as time is not on your side. I accepted my dear Bertram’s suit despite him being merely a viscount.” She tutted again. “Oh Hugh, what am I to do with you? I want babies.”
“I hate to break it to you, Aunt Enid, but you might be too old.”
“Not mine, you beggarly rascal.” She brought a hand to her brow. “Odds boddikins, I feel a bout of the megrims coming on.”
As did Hugh.
He wasn’t against settling down one day, but he was assuredly not going to marry some meek debutante who’d faint at his grisly wounds or coarse language or rough desperate kisses after a failed mission or–
“Hugh, are you listening? Perchance I could bring along Lady Millicent Struthers and–”
The door opened, praise be, and Phoebe dashed in with her governess in tow.
