Page 35
Fletcher supposed she deserved credit for persistence and tenacity.
He unwaveringly refused to respond to her missives or answer her summons that he attend her at once. He’d been so infuriated at her and Lady St. Lavelle’s highhandedness—and likely Cecelia’s too, though she protested her innocence with tears and a lace handkerchief dabbed daintily upon her rouged cheeks—he’d almost threatened to cut Mother’s funds off.
Except that meant she’d have to take up residence in the dower house. And God help him for being a wretched son, he didn’t want her anywhere near Levensyde House. How a woman could birth three children so wholly opposite her in every way was beyond him.
A sharp, evenly spaced knock, knock at the study door broke his unpleasant reverie.
“Come.”
Wofford, the newly hired footman, as stiff and formal as ever a man intent on becoming a majordomo someday had ever lived, entered.
One, two, three steps.
Heels together.
Polished shoes perfectly aligned.
Never two steps or four steps. Just three. Unless Fletcher requested Wofford to remove or bring him something. Then the man moved with the measured precision of clock hands.
Tick-step. Tock-step.
Tick-step. Tock-step.
Given MacKettrick’s irregular sense of humor, he’d likely thought the austere servant a hysterical addition to the household. As had been the one-eyed gardener with a penchant for whisky, the maid with a lisp and two different colored eyes, and the flame-haired, buxom, former prostitute—now acting as Fletcher’s cook.
Just how recently Tildy Flanney had abandoned her previous profession, MacKettrick hadn’t been precisely clear about. In fact, he’d been downright evasive.
“Your Grace, you have a visitor,” Wofford elucidated in artfully practiced neutral tones. “A female visitor.”
Shoulders squared impressively, Wofford looked directly ahead like a well-trained soldier. So much starch stiffened the cravat cutting into his chin, he probably had no other choice but to look forward.
Fletcher narrowed his eyes.
How did he manage to turn his head or to look down?
Wait.
What?
A female visitor?
The last three words finally registered fully.
Holy hell.
Fletcher tossed down the unopened letter.
His mother had dared to show her face here?
Devil take her and her audacity. The woman knew no bounds. Well, by God, she’d gone beyond the mark this time. It was far past time he set her straight and made the consequences of her meddling in his life known.
Still seething, a diatribe of unpleasant thoughts parading through his mind, Fletcher stood and pulled on his forest-green, black velvet trimmed coat. “Where is she?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of showing her to the floral drawing room.”
As Fletcher hadn’t yet fully furnished the house or seen to redecorating the slightly outdated interior, he supposed that was the wisest decision. The drawing room’s carpet was faded but not threadbare. Though the furnishings were not to his taste, they weren’t in poor repair.
“Shall I request a tea tray, Your Grace?”
