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When he was a boy, Simon had thought her apparent floating charming. It had made her seem larger than life. Larger than his life, anyway, which wasn’t saying much. Of course, it was only her penchant for overlong dresses, and not any kind of supernatural bent, that was responsible for his childish illusion. It was important to remember that.

“I thought we might go over next month’s invitations,” she said, setting a stack of paper on the desk.

“I didn’t expect you so soon.” He’d known his mother was planning a stint in Town, but last she’d written it was to inform him to expect her the week after next. At which point, he had only a week to weather until Earls Trip—and he had been considering spending that week at Galecroft, even though it would mean a terrible lot of travel hither and thon.

Not that the particulars of when she showed up should matter. What was he going to be ready to say, or do, in two weeks’ time that he wasn’t ready to say, or do, today? I didn’t expect you so soon was an excuse, and a weak one at that. He might not be ready or able to solve all the problems of the House of Marsden, but he could at least not lie to himself.

She plucked the top invitation off the pile. “We have been invited to the Amesbury ball, and I’ve already sent our acceptance. I didn’t see any way to decline.”

“I believe the way to decline is simply to write a note to that effect. You’re terribly sorry to miss it, you are overdue for a catch-up, perhaps you can get together next time you are in Town, et cetera, et cetera.”

He had spoken sharply. Both his words and his tone were unprecedented, and she had taken note. He could tell by the ever so slight raising of her eyebrows. She had them under control within seconds, but he, so attuned to the minute shifts in mood of this woman, had noted their brief rise.

“The Amesbury ball is one of the major events of the autumn,” she said. “Historically not very well attended, as most people have already scattered with the end of the Season, but it had quite the buzz about it last year, and it will be a good way to test the waters.”

“Test the waters?”

“You’re nearly thirty, Simon. We’ve both got to face the fact that you must marry.”

“I beg your pardon?” Where the hell that that come from?

“How will that ever happen,” she went on, ignoring his query, “if you never go anywhere?”

For a brief moment, Simon wondered if his mother was, in fact, a witch. She had never, not once, brought up the idea of his marrying. She hadn’t said a word about the succession. He had always assumed it was because of her … not to put too fine a point on it, but her fixation on his brothers. And, after his heart-wrenching conversation with Frances, he wondered if she cared about the next generation at all.

Had she somehow heard his conversation with Frances? Did she know what had prompted him to seek out his brother’s widow? Could she see inside his heart?

Dear God. He needed to get a hold of himself.

“We’ve both got to face the fact, you say,” he said, trying to buy some time to get his thoughts in order. He’d always had the idea that many unmarried men of his station found themselves the object of motherly meddling. Goodness, there was that opening line of Pride and Prejudice: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” Vastly amusing in the context of a novel but perhaps less so in real life.

“Yes,” she said, gazing at him evenly as if daring him to defy her.

“I cannot attend the Amesbury ball. I shall be on my annual trip with Harcourt and Stonely,” he said, as if geographic absence were the only reason he wouldn’t be attending.

She looked put out. “Well, I shall be attending a musicale this evening, hosted by Miss Olive Morgan, your Harcourt’s sister by marriage. Some kind of experimental orchestra.” She wrinkled her nose. “But the music is no matter. Miss Morgan is very popular among young ladies. There will be scads of them there.” She paused, tilted her head. “We might even consider Miss Morgan herself. She is odd, to be sure, but her pedigree is good.”

Oh, dear God in Heaven. He took a breath. “I have already sent my regrets to Miss Morgan for the musicale.” He’d considered going, purely to show his support for Olive, who was increasingly acting as hostess in her father’s household. She was developing a penchant for events Mother deemed experimental—odd musical performances, salons where people recited poetry Simon did not understand. In the end, Simon’s antisocial nature and disinclination toward the unusual fare Olive showcased—he was a beginner when it came to ordinary novels, after all—had prevailed.

“Well, I have not sent my regrets,” his mother said. “I shall attend, if you would be so good as to escort me.”

If you would be so good as to escort me meant, in this context, that it was a given that he would. Simon had no idea what to do, in the bigger scheme of things, but he did know one thing: If he gave in here, it would mean he was ceding to her campaign to “test the waters” when it came to the marriage mart.

“I cannot attend,” he said, attempting to use his “Parliament voice.” The boys were always telling him he was very impressive when speechifying—had that been part of how Miss Brown had been misled as to what kind of man he was?—and he had of late been attempting to use that same tone, or timbre, in regular life. “I am otherwise engaged.”

“What are you doing that is more important than—”

“I must take my leave, in fact. I am overdue. Good day, Mother.”

What Simon had to do that was more important than attending Olive’s musicale was to call upon Archie and his mother. They were in Town, and he did try to call when that was the case.

It was possible, however, that Archie himself would not be at home. He might in fact be at Olive’s musicale. Archie’s wife, Clementine, who was Olive’s sister, was not in Town, but Archie, while probably disinclined toward spending an evening listening to an experimental orchestra, was exceedingly fond of his sister by marriage.

As Simon turned onto Berkeley Square—he had decided to walk to Archie’s house in order to shake off the encounter with his mother—he considered what, if anything, he might say to Miss Brown. The passage of another day since her extraordinary visit had him even more chagrined. Having reflected on the matter a bit more—well, a great deal more; it was very nearly all he’d been thinking about—he had come to the conclusion that while he regretted the manner in which he’d delivered his message, he did not regret the content of said message. Miss Brown had misunderstood him on two counts. First, in thinking that he could participate in her wild ruination scheme, and, second, in assuming he was the type of person who wouldn’t understand what it was like to be alone in the world. But misunderstanding was not a crime. It was an error, and one that should have been corrected more gently.

It was a lovely day, the blue sky just beginning to give way to dusk. Archie was very likely to be at home in the garden with his mother and Miss Brown. Nay, it was almost certain. Archie, a devoted outdoorsman, would not want to be closed up inside on such an afternoon.

Simon was greeted warmly by Mrs. Saunders. “I’m sorry to tell you that his lordship is not at home.”