Page 65 of A Perfect Gentleman

“True. No one singing in the hallways,” Lady Eugenia added drily.

“Well, I shall have to see what I can do to enliven the atmosphere,” Abby replied, mischief lurking in her voice.

“No doubt you will.” The corner of Lady Eugenia’s mouth twitched, almost as if she were about to smile.

“I am overwhelmed by your welcome, Grandmother.” Graeme came forward to bow over her hand.

“Don’t be impertinent.” But Lady Eugenia smiled at him and squeezed his hand, her eyes searching his face. “You’re looking well, my boy.”

“Thank you. I am feeling well. I would say the same about you.”

“You wouldn’t if your back was as stiff as mine,” she retorted in an amiable tone. “Sit down, sit down, and tell us why you are here. I thought you would stay in the country. Philomena, ring for some tea for the children.”

As Mrs. Ponsonby hurried to do her bidding, Graeme dropped onto the sofa beside Abigail, taking her hand. Abigail noticed that the countess’s piercing gaze went to their linked hands, though she said nothing.

“I told you we would be gone for just a few weeks,” Graeme pointed out mildly.

“Yes, but I assumed you would change your mind and stay.” She turned toward Abigail. “Did you not enjoy Lydcombe Hall?”

“I thought it was lovely, and Graeme’s mother is such a gracious, hospitable hostess.” Again she saw the sparkle in the older woman’s hooded eyes. Abby was never certain whether Lady Eugenia disliked her or simply enjoyed having someone with whom to cross swords. Everyone around the countess was too much in awe of her to do so, and of course sparring with Mrs. Ponsonby would be akin to punching a pillow.

“Yes. Poor Mirabelle has an unfortunate tendency to like everyone.”

“There were a few people I need to speak with here,” Graeme said. “Is Lord Fortenberry still in the city?”

“I should think so. I would be surprised if that man ever left his club.”

“What about Carrington Jones? Do you know him? Or Albert Boddington?”

“Carrington Jones? Of course I know him. He was at Oxford with your father—well, for a year or so. I was surprised he got that far. He married one of the Bracewell girls, you know.”

“Henry Bracewell’s daughter?”

“His sister. Jones is irredeemably foolish—well, he would have to be, wouldn’t he, to marry Madelyn Bracewell? Whatever made you think of him?”

“He was one of the men involved in the fund for wounded soldiers.”

“Are you still going on about that? I cannot imagine why you’re so interested.”

Graeme shrugged. “I thought it might be nice to take it up again. In memory of Father, you see.”

“Sounds like nonsense to me.”

“Yes, but do you know where Mr. Jones lives? I’d like to call on him. And Mr. Boddington, as well. There are others: Gerard Fitzwilliam, someone named Bangs, W. J. Walters.”

“Bangs is Oliver Bangston—odd man; I understand he’s become something of a recluse. I imagine he’ll see you, though, for Reginald’s sake. He used to follow him around like a puppy. If you want to see Fortenberry, you need only go to his club,” she assured them. “Mr. Boddington will be at Lady Salwell’s soiree on Friday. He is pursuing Mrs. Hargreaves, whose husband finally died and left her a tidy fortune. Mrs. Hargreaves is Lady Salwell’s sister. This Gerald Fitzwilliam . . . I don’t know him.”

“Gerard Fitzwilliam,” Graeme corrected.

The dowager countess gave him a long look. “Gerald, Gerard—makes no difference. I don’t know the man, so he is no one of importance.”

Unsurprisingly, the information the dowager countess gave them turned out to be accurate on all counts. Albert Boddington was indeed at Lady Salwell’s party, and Lord Fortenberry spent most of his time at his club. Unfortunately, neither of the two men provided any helpful information.

“Fortenberry does well to remember his own name, let alone anything about the soldiers’ fund,” Graeme told Abigail in disgust when he returned from quizzing the elderly lord. “He kept calling me ‘Reggie’ and asking me when I intended to ask for Mirabelle’s hand.”

“Oh, dear,” Abby commiserated. They were seated on the graceful love seat in Abby’s chamber, Graeme having managed to sneak up the back stairs when he returned, thus avoiding his grandmother and her guests in the drawing room.

“He looked utterly blank when I asked him about the soldiers’ fund. I thought at least he might remember the vicar’s name, since Grandmother thought he had the living from Fortenberry, but he could not.”