Ambrose exhaled slowly. “My sisters are visiting that place, and I have no wish for any of them to fall prey to the idiots who would hurl abuse at women because they do not conform with society. I want them married well and happy. Not?—”
“Talbot, I did not know you held such antiquated views. Your sisters have my sympathies,” Ram said.
“Just because you lot have differing views from mine, which I understand is due to what happened before we met, does not mean they are correct.”
“But aren’t we always right, Mungo?” Ram demanded.
Mungo grunted his agreement.
“I don’t make the rules, and sometimes disagree with them, but to rebel against them helps no one and simplymakes life more difficult, especially for women,” Ambrose said.
“If we all agreed, who would bring about change?” Mungo asked.
“As always, he cuts right to the point,” Ram said.
Ambrose’s eyes went to Crabbett Close as he thought about his reply.
It was an odd little place where weird people lived and strange things happened, like the Crabbett Close games, which he’d been part of twice now and hoped never to be so again.
He had been raised an earl’s son with all that entailed, but these people, especially the Nightingales, challenged that.
“Must we have change?” Ambrose asked.
“Don’t you and your father have business interests, Talbot? Isn’t that change?” Ram asked. “Most nobles loll about in their houses, doing very little to contribute to anything but their own indulgences.”
Ambrose was used to the order of things exactly as they’d always been. His sisters challenged that constantly, but for the most part, his life had been on the same path for years.
He would wed someone he respected, and they would raise a family. His wife would be a woman of society and good birth who knew the way of things.
Tilly slid into his head then, and he pushed her out. She was the exact opposite of the woman who would be the future Lady Talbot.
“What is that man doing now?” the large Scotsman demanded suddenly.
Following his line of sight, Ambrose saw his eyes were focused on the rotunda that had been erected with some of the Pavlov funds in the middle of Crabbett Close’s small park.
“Writing group, I believe,” Ram said. “Each week theyhave a topic they must write a piece on, and then it is reviewed.”
“Right there in the rotunda?” Ambrose queried.
“My wife, plus Anna, Matilda, and Fred are there,” Mungo said with a sigh.
“And Charles, one hopes,” Ram added. “After all, he is the writer in the family.”
“I believe he calls in when he can, but he will be attending the meeting, so he may not be there today.”
“Odd,” Ambrose muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets now that he’d finished his pie. “It’s bloody chilly today, surely inside a house would be a better place?”
“Crabbett Close,” Mungo said.
“Enough said,” Ram added.
It was never a fast journey to 11 Crabbett Close unless you took a carriage right to the front door, as the locals invariably wanted to chat. He put his head down and walked, leaving the other two to do that.
He didn’t like change and felt like it was coming, but wasn’t sure how to stop it.
“Hello, Ambrose.”
Bramstone Nightingale was a tall man with dark hair greying at the temples, who had a commanding presence for all he rarely raised his voice. He was standing in the front garden of 11 Crabbett Close, the home he shared with his wife, daughter, and three youngest nieces and nephew.
