Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

“Don’t mind if I do,” the marquess said easily, giving no sign that he’d noticed anything amiss. “Come, Louisa, let’s sit down. It’s only right that little John waits on you now. Tell me, how did all this come about?”

Louisa gave a trill of laughter, poked him in the arm, and conversation turned to the five-year-old heir, Little John. The marquess spoke about how fast the time went now. As he sipped at his sherry, he said, “I begin to think my presence this evening has put you out. Does no one live in this house when you aren’t here?”

As if to a cue on the theater stage, the drawing-room door opened and Sir Archibald entered, the habitual look of distraction on his face disappearing at the sight of the marquess.

“My boy, welcome to my home. How are your dear mother and sister?”

“Both are quite well, sir.” The marquess shook Sir Archibald’s hand. “You recall, of course, that my sister, Alicia, married Henry Warton last summer.”

Sir Archibald had no such memory of either the sister or the marriage, but he nodded in gentle agreement. He asked, “Warton? Is that Sir Waldo Warton’s son? Excellent, just excellent. Good Tory family, the Wartons.”

The marquess wondered with a sinking in his stomach if Sir Archibald would beleaguer the company with Tory tales. He reckoned without Louisa.

Artfully, over the first course at dinner, she maneuvered the conversation to the sights they should visit in Paris and the people that they would be meeting. The Bourbon Louis was discussed at length, but only in terms of the festivities offered by the French court at this time of year. By the main course of flaky fish in a rich wine sauce, the marquess found himself describing the wonders of Italy. In deference to the polite company, he dwelled upon the spectacular ruins, the endless number of paintings of the Virgin Mary and Child, and the warmth of the weather.

Sir John was pleased with his father. His sire asked such sensible questions, with no political overtones, at least to Sir John’s sensitive ears, that by the time Grimpston served apple tartlets topped with rich whipped cream, he was quite in charity with his father.

“I say,” Sir Archibald said suddenly, “I thought something was not quite right. Where is dear Hetty?”

Louisa’s eyes flew to her husband’s face. Seeing no immediate help from that quarter, she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster, “Hetty was otherwise engaged this evening, Sir. She regretted that she couldn’t be here, but she wasn’t able to cancel.”

“But where did she go? I swear she said nothing about an evening out to me.” Sir John could only stare at his father. He would have sworn that Sir Archibald didn’t even know the color of Hetty’s hair.

“Ah, to Covent Garden,” Louisa said, and nearly choked on a bite of the apple tartlet.

At last she could rise and she did so. However, she was stopped by her father-in-law. He rose and smiled in a general sort of way at everyone at the table. “I hope you young people will excuse me. There are pressing matters of economics that the Prime Minister has asked me to look into. I mustn’t shirk my duty no matter how delightful the company I am forced to leave.”

As the door closed behind Sir Archibald, Sir John said, grinning at his wife, “At least Jason understands Father’s preoccupations, Lou. Isn’t your uncle, Lord Melberry, also a rabid Tory?”

“Yes, and it quite drives me to sleep. I hope you’ll agree, Jack, that we don’t need to have our port this evening? I find myself far more animated in Louisa’s company than in yours, old fellow.”

“He’s a damned rake, Lou,” Sir John said. “I should probably keep you hidden in the wilds of Herefordshire while the fellow’s running loose in London.”

Louisa gave her husband a wicked smile. “You’re one to talk, Jack. The stories Jason’s told me about you. My ears turned red and if you’d been married to me at the time I would have boxed your ears.”

“Well, enough of that,” Jack said and sped into the drawing room, leaving his wife and his friend laughing at his retreating back.

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