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“Not if Mrs. Stryde masses her forces against us.”

“Like Napoleon’s Imperial Guard at…Waterloo? She’s doomed I’d say.”

“And if my kind, but curious aunt Louisa simply wants to know how you changed my mind about marriage?”

“I’ll say it was a near-run thing, but like Wellington at Waterloo I had reserve forces ready to throw at any stubborn, last-minute resistance you might throw at me.”

“Where does all this Waterloo knowledge come from?”

“The United Service Museum, one shilling admittance, and a great model of the field and battle.” He stopped and turned her toward him, tilting her face up, his gloved fingertips soft under her chin. He was inviting her to play a game with him, as he had from the first when he’d gone down on his knee before her in Lady Melforth’s drawing room. It was a heady prospect. Together, they could defy those who would keep them down. If only she could read him as well as she thought he could read her.

“I know you’re worried, but no one knows the true state of our feelings but us. Now, if someone wants to know how you feel about your fiancé’s desire to kiss you again …”

“I’ll say, there are some things we will never know about…Waterloo.”

Chapter Sixteen

Lady Melforth’s dining room was brilliant with light, and overwarm from a blazing fire in the hearth. Lark couldn’t say that the evening was already a disaster, but it was headed that way. The only thing he had not had to worry about was a meeting with the duke and duchess, who were away from London.

Candlelight from a dozen tall white tapers gleamed and sparkled on silver and porcelain. And pearls. Those pearls shook the certainty in which he had dressed for the evening, the certainty that as Viv Bradish’s fiancé he had become a true gentleman. Tonight, she seemed impossibly distant from him, not the partner of the past fortnight. Listening to empty talk in the drawing room, the pearls had caught his eye, and the old professional habit of assessing weights and clasps had taken hold.

Lady Melforth’s long triple strand hung nearly to her waist, its clasp concealed by a lace collar. Viv’s aunt Lady Louisa wore a glittering pearl and diamond bib with a box clasp, and Mrs. Stryde’s heavy double strand, weighted with a bloodred garnet cross, was tied with a matching velvet ribbon like the stripes in her gown. Viv’s single pearl in a gold filigree setting hung on a delicate chain that closed with a toggle clasp, easy for a man to undo as he brushed his lady’s hair aside.

Now Lady Melforth stood at the head of the table in an emerald gown with tall black plumes in her fiery hair. She waved away Dr. Newberry’s assistance as her guests found their seats. Lark distrusted her ladyship’s forced gaiety. For half an hour, she had stood in the midst of her guests, calling the evening a grand celebration. There had been champagne for all and a pointed salute to Viv, which, to Lark’s ears, had sounded bitter and dismissive. “To Viv, who has taught me the value of having an assistant for the tedious aspects of the business so I could concentrate on the main work.”

They were a small party, and the dining table further shrank the boundaries of the conversation. Lark was on one side between Lady Louisa and Mrs. Stryde, while Viv was opposite him between Mr. Stryde and her uncle Sir Oswald Atwood, Baronet. Newberry was at the foot of the table opposite Lady Melforth. Almost any topic could trip Viv and Lark up. Between them, mid-table under the chandelier, was a sort of silver tree, over a foot tall, its branches holding scallop-edged glass bowls filled with fragrant pink blooms. He tried not to regard the seating arrangement as a further sign of impending catastrophe. Begging Lady Louisa’s pardon, he leaned to his left and mouthed their signal to Viv. Waterloo. She gave him a faint smile in return. He straightened and caught a hostile stare from Newberry.

At Lady Melforth’s nod to Haxton, the servants sprang into quiet action, and over a vivid green pea soup, Lady Louisa turned to Lark. She was a tall woman in lavender silk and black lace with a long plain face, lively hazel eyes, and an amiable, no-nonsense manner. Her genuine interest in others seemed to Lark as much a danger as Mrs. Stryde’s malice and Newberry’s suspicion.

“Viv tells me that your only relation is an aunt in Somerton.”

“Yes, ma’am. She’s quite good to me, though I rarely see her.”

“And, is it in Somerton that you made Wenlocke’s acquaintance?”

“It’s where I did my schooling, ma’am, with his help.”

“Oh. Privately then.” Lady Louisa looked across the table to Viv. “What did you tell me, Viv dear? The old duke or the current duke?”

Viv’s voice came from behind the silver centerpiece. Lark could see the blue of her sleeves, but not her face. “Well, I suspect I’ve got my dukes mixed up, Aunt. It was after…Waterloo, so it must have been the…”

“The current duke, ma’am.” Lark supplied the answer.

“After his return to his family then. You must be near in age, Mr. Larkin. And your friends call you Lark, do they? From childhood? It puts me in mind of something I wanted to ask you about the duke, but it’s gone out of my head.” She smiled at him and dipped her spoon in the soup.

“No doubt it will come back to you, ma’am,” he said, keeping his expression blank.

For the rest of the soup and fish course, Lady Louisa talked with Lady Melforth about mutual friends, but when the bowls were removed, she turned to Lark again.

“I’m surprised that some enterprising playwright hasn’t turned the duke’s story into a drama. The Lost Heir Restored sounds rather suitable for the Adelphi Theatre. I don’t suppose, Viv, that you want to try your hand at that sort of thing?”

“Not my style, Aunt.”

“Are you thinking of another guide, then?” Lady Louisa smiled in Viv’s direction, but Lady Melforth stiffened, wineglass in hand.

“Under Lady Melforth’s tutelage, I may,” Viv replied. “I’ve learned so much from her. I think you’ll like the chapter on shopping, Aunt.”

“Ah, you know me well, my dear.”