“Oh, God, please tell me she hasn’t brought out another tongue-tied young miss for my perusal.”
“Hardly, Jason, since your own wife hasn’t yet been dead a year.” He wished instantly that he hadn’t been so blunt, for he saw a strange bitter gleam in his nephew’s dark eyes.
“Forgive my lack of tact, Jason, but these things happen and a man must get on with life.”
That was true, Jason thought, staring at his uncle.
“Now attend me, Nephew. Your aunt asked me to encourage you in the strongest fashion possible to get you to come to one of her soirees.”
“What? My poor aunt finds that she suddenly has thirteen sitting down to dinner?”
“It must be so. She was wringing her hands until she recalled that you’d come home. I trust you are not otherwise engaged for tonight, Jason?”
The marquess had planned to escort Melissande to Covent Garden this evening. But then again, he quite liked his good-natured aunt and wanted to see her. A mistress was one thing, but a beloved aunt was another. “I should be delighted, sir. What time does my aunt require my presence?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea. Come when you’re hungry. Now, lad, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do this afternoon.” The tone of his voice left no doubt in Jason’s mind that his uncle considered this commission on behalf of his beloved to be a shocking waste of his valuable time.
He rose and cordially shook his uncle’s thin hand. A smile touched his lips as he watched his uncle grunt a stiff greeting to a gentleman who had the misfortune to offer a polite “how d’ye do.”
“He may be your uncle, your grace,” Mr. Denby said a few moments later, “but I swear that politics does naught to a man but make him act like his trousers are too tight in the crotch.”
Jason Cavander laughed. “Be relieved, Denby, that he isn’t your relative, though he isn’t so bad.”
Jason strode downstairs, deciding how many guineas he would wager with Alvaney over the new prizefighter he was backing.
While the marquess was attempting to set a wager with Lord Alvaney, Hetty, having heard the clock strike noon, rushed toward the breakfast room to greet Sir Archibald.
She kissed Sir Archibald lightly on his cheek and rested her hand on his shoulder until he reluctantly turned away from the Gazette and looked up at her.
How very handsome he is, she thought, admiring his still smooth forehead topped by thick silver hair, handsome and distinguished. His sparkling blue eyes must inspire trust and confidence. The fact that his eyes normally became markedly vague when he gazed upon her didn’t overly disturb her, for, she thought philosophically, she was of no concern to his electorate.
To Hetty’s surprise, Sir Archibald’s gaze did not, this time, become vague, nor did he seem preoccupied. He said exuberantly, thrusting aside his paper, “Hetty, my dear, we have got those damned Whigs by their radical collars this time. In two borough elections, two, mind you, our Tories ousted the incumbents by a great margin! What do you think of that?”
“It’s marvelous news, Father,” Hetty said, preparing herself for a complete account of the brilliant strategies executed by the Tories. To her further surprise, Sir Archibald showed no disposition to favor her with the details of the triumph. Instead, he said, “Come, child, do sit down, and let us have our lunch. There is much I have yet to do this afternoon. And,” he added in a conspiratorial manner that set her antenna aquiver, “I have a surprise for you.”
He’d never before in his life had a surprise for her.
Finally, convinced that he’d had a fit of some sort, she said, “Father, you have a surprise for me?”
“Surprise? Certainly, my dear child. Lady Melberry has invited you to attend a musical soiree this evening. Nothing fancy, of course, just some squawking Italian soprano to give you a headache. But I fancied it would be just the thing for you. I accepted her invitation on your behalf.”
Hetty went pale. She’d realized that sooner or later Miss Henrietta Rolland must make her entry into London society. She had optimistically hoped it would be much later, perhaps even after she had dealt with Lord Oberlon. If both Miss Henrietta Rolland and Lord Harry Monteith appeared at social gatherings, it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the marked resemblance between them. “This evening, Father?”