Before she could turn to leave, Mr. Wright said, “Lady Cordelia, could I ask a favor of you?”
Cordelia’s head snapped up. He’d steepled his hands on the desk, blue eyes clouded. “I am very new to the role of hosting parties and conversing with tenant farmers and overseeing dowries. Would you mind being of service to me?”
“How?” she asked. “I’m just a duke’s daughter, I know nothing of the actual role itself.”
“Oh, I beg to disagree, Lady Cordelia. Perhaps we could meet daily? Starting tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Cordelia parroted back. Portia had plans for them tomorrow; she’d practically blocked off the entire afternoon for them to search the grounds.
“Yes. I have correspondence to write in the morning. I was hoping we could spend some time together in the afternoon. Mrs. Norris will be chaperoning, of course.” Mr. Wright went back to organizing his papers, reaching for a pen he’d discarded at the corner of the desk.
“Of course,” Cordelia said, gathering her wits about her. “Which particular subject is Your Grace interested in learning?”
“I was thinking we could start with dancing?”
“Dancing?”
Mr. Wright’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, dancing. You’ve said yourself you have far more experience with balls than I do. I want to make sure I am versed in all the particulars. Including dancing.”
“Yes.”
Mr. Wright smiled. “Good, I will see you at half past one. Thank you, Lady Cordelia.”
*
“And then whatdid she say after that?” Peverill asked, rifling through the late duke’s cigar box, searching for something that would suit his taste.
“She said,” Justin began, lighting his pipe, “absolutely nothing. The chit looked surprised as anything. Fluttered right out the room like a pheasant.”
“Good,” Peverill said. “Does she think we suspect her?”
“You know,” Justin replied, taking a deep draw of woodsy smoke, “I have no idea what goes through the heads of high-born females. How have you managed them for so long? How have you not torn out every single one of the hairs on your head?”
Peverill shrugged, plucking a cigar out of the box and lighting it. The smell was sickly sweet, and he smiled to himself, as though he were keeping a secret. “Honestly, Wright, you have to regard these creatures like people from a foreign country. Their customs are different. The language is complicated. The rituals more complex. You’ve not yet got your sea legs.”
The men had taken a brief lull from the company of the ladies in the duke’s old smoking room. It had been another long dinner with stilted conversation, everyone eyeing one another suspiciously. The youngest, Bea, the only one of the sisters Justin could tolerate, had been made to eat beforehand.
“Good lord, do I want sea legs? You know I can’t stand them.”
“Who exactly?”
“Them. These types of people. Never could,” he said, taking a mouthful of brandy and letting it wash down his throat.
“Because of what they did your parents?” Peverill asked, blowing a smoke ring. “How long are you going to keep that up for?”
Justin shrugged. “Can anything good come of thinking you’re above other people? That because you’re born with an extra name you deserve so much more?”
Peverill laughed. “I didn’t know you were such a Jacobin, Wright! If you don’t keep your voice down, the ladies might send you straight to the courts for treason.”
“Don’t think they wouldn’t if they had the chance. You’re right; they are plotting something.”
Peverill raised an eyebrow. “And you have proof of this?”
“Not yet, but believe you me, I’ll find it.”
Peverill laughed heartily at that, shaking his head. “Well, can you blame them? You’re the fox that upset the henhouse.”
“Are you able to stay here until the ball at least?” Justin asked, hoping he disguised the edge of desperation he’d been trying to tamp down all evening. “I’ve asked Cordelia to give me lessons every day leading up to the date.”
