Chapter Ten
Adam Pryce, Lord Nyfeld, looked up from his seat to one side of the pianoforte as Beckett waved a glass of whiskey in front of him. “Ah, my thanks, Hentrose,” he said, taking the drink and downing a good half of it. “You always did have good taste in spirits.”
Beckett nodded at Lady Nyfeld on her husband’s far side as he seated himself on the neighboring sofa. “How’ve you been, Adam? You and Lady Nyfeld have … three young ones now, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” the viscountess said, sitting forward. “Anne is one, Robert is three, and Michael, our oldest, is five.”
“I don’t have any experience with boys,” Beckett returned, “but I have noted that what girls may lack in pure destructive ability, they make up for in intricate fancy.”
The viscount shrugged, finishing off the glass.
“I don’t know about that. Marjorie says Anne is a quite well-behaved infant.
Barely know she’s there, half the time.” He slapped a hand against his thigh.
“Did you attend the boxing match at Vauxhall on Saturday last? Broomfield versus Holiday? What an exhibition that was!”
“I … No. I was building a troll dungeon.” He leaned in, lowering his voice a little. “Trolls have been overrunning the palace, of late. Something had to be done.”
For a moment the viscount looked at him. “You and your tales,” he said, chuckling again as he stood. “Marjorie, you said you wanted to have a word with Mrs. Parridge. Shall we?”
As they made their way across the room, Beckett sat back again. “The difficult thing to deal with is the troll claws,” he muttered to himself, taking a swallow of his own drink. “And their spit is poison.”
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You have a lovely pianoforte,” Pauline said, smiling down at him and resplendent in a deep green gown. “And it’s just sitting there, looking despondent. Might I?”
“Certainly.” At least with music playing he wouldn’t be expected to conjure something interesting to say to people with whom he’d once been close and who now found him odd.
Ten minutes later he silently added “plays the pianoforte and sings well” onto his mental list of Pauline Grenedy’s abilities and talents. Joining the applause as she finished her tune, he shifted over on the couch so she could sit beside him. “Well done.”
She blushed, putting her hands around his nearer arm and squeezing lightly before she let him go again. “Thank you. I generally only play for myself. That made me a bit nervous.”
“It didn’t show.”
“I’m not to tell you, but my oldest sister swears you had a tendre for her before your marriage.”
Her oldest sister would be Wilhemina, Lady Caldridge, the wife of Viscount Caldridge.
She did look vaguely familiar, with the dark brown hair and blue eyes with which all of the Grenedy females seemed to have been blessed, but he would have recalled if he’d actively pursued her.
He hadn’t. “I believe your sister is teasing you, though I do have a memory of an al fresco luncheon where we sat together.”
“Ha! I knew it.” She laughed. “Pray don’t mention that aloud; her husband Ralph is the jealous sort, and he’s been drinking since before dinner began.”
“I appreciate the warning.” Another of her sisters approached the pianoforte, her husband, Baron Fitzharold, leading the applause.
They all played well, and sang well, and Beckett had been wandering and chatting and sitting about for more than an hour wondering why Mrs. Alliday had sent out bowls of fresh cherries and almonds rather than the orange meringue pie they’d agreed upon this morning.
Pauline had been surprised and delighted to see them, though, so perhaps Mrs. Alliday had overheard something and adapted. Well done, then, to his staff.
It occurred to him that this would be his life now.
Sitting on the couch in the evenings while his wife entertained, because she clearly adored doing so, and being bored out of his mind because everyone talked about the same thing—each other.
Clearly he was the one who’d fallen out of step, because none of his friends, if given a choice between watching a pretty woman sing or drawing up plans for a castle full of traps for evil trolls, would choose the castle.
Here, on the couch, he fit in by simply …
doing nothing. His mind could go where it wished, but as long as he wore a smile, he wouldn’t be “the widower” any longer.
He would be simply Lord Hentrose, husband of the charming Lady Hentrose.
They would attend more dinners and dances because she enjoyed them, and he would stand there, or sit there, or dance, and keep that same smile on his face.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, standing.
“Are you well?” Pauline asked, furrowing her brow and making even that look elegant.
“Yes.” He deepened the smile that he was already becoming accustomed to assuming. “I was expecting something to arrive this afternoon, and I forgot to inquire about it. Two minutes. Three at the most.”
“Of course. I’m not your nanny, Beckett.”
Fresh air. That would do him good. In the garden. At the wall. Because by God, if he couldn’t chat with someone about the idiocy racketing through his brain, he was going to voluntarily take up residency at Bedlam.
As he crossed through his study, he picked up a bottle.
Brandy would be the drink of the night, then, whether Iris happened to be out in the Grove House garden or not.
Because he needed a damned drink, not a sip of spirits taken in between bits of clever conversation.
He left via the orangerie door to avoid being seen from the drawing room and ducked deeper into the shadows.
Then he uncorked the bottle and took a long swallow.
“I hope you brought something strong with you,” Iris Silbern’s quiet voice came, and he turned.
She stood at the garden gate, her hands on one of the ornate metal crossbars and her gaze on him.
“I was hoping you’d be out here,” he whispered, relief and something he didn’t wish to speculate about drifting through his chest as he walked over and stopped just on his side of the gate.
“You didn’t roll your aunt into a wall, did you? ”
She snorted. “The Duke of Trent and his sons and their wives and their children all arrived for dinner two hours ago. He’s currently asleep in a chair.
Now everyone’s tiptoeing about the room, while his sons whisper arguments over whether they need to draw up more papers to prevent a son gotten on a new wife from challenging their own inheritance.
Evidently this isn’t the first time they’ve had this discussion.
I—or whomever wins Trent’s contest—would be his sixth duchess. Did you know that?”
“I knew he’d remarried, but I’m afraid I didn’t keep a tally of how often.” He cocked his head. “Five wives? What happened to them?”
“Oh, influenza, a blood disorder, a riding accident, and two wasting illnesses. And to think I was worried over what would happen to me after he turned up his toes.”
“That’s … I have no idea how to respond to that.
” His first thought was to ask if she’d considered whether the other wives had approached the idea of marriage to Trent in the same way she was—that they would have to be his companion for but a short time until he kicked off.
“Once he’s wed again, he’ll have equaled Henry the Eighth’s number, but with a higher mortality rate. ”
“I would think the odds have to favor me this time. Wouldn’t you?”
“I would never wager against you.” With his free hand Beckett opened the gate and handed over the bottle. “Brandy,” he said, stepping into the Grove House garden. “I think you may need it more than I do.”
“Thank God.” She took a deep swallow and leaned beside him. “How goes your evening?”
“All the Grenedy women, single and married, are taking turns playing my pianoforte and singing. It’s quite charming.
Pauline’s sisters think I’m handsome, I attempted to discuss troll dungeons with an old friend of mine who had no idea what to make of me, and I keep thinking I would rather be putting together Rebecca’s new puzzle with her. I have become stodgy.”
With a laugh she handed the bottle back. “It’s not stodgy. It’s wanting to spend time in a certain way and being annoyed when you can’t.”
“Thank you. Because I don’t feel stodgy. Though I would like to take off my shoes and put on some comfortable slippers.”
She turned her head to gaze at him for a moment. “You don’t have to marry Lady Pauline, you know.”
“I know. The thing is, there’s nothing wrong with her. She’s perfect. I’d have to be a nodcock not to offer for her. And this match will benefit both of us.”
He took another drink of brandy. The stuff wasn’t supposed to be consumed straight out of the bottle, but he didn’t happen to have a snifter in which to warm the liquid in his hands, or a cigar to blow smoke into the top of the glass.
In addition, it wasn’t a lady’s drink—though the whiskey the other night hadn’t been, either, and she’d held her own quite admirably.
“A week ago I was absolutely convinced I would never marry again,” she said, a sigh in her voice.
“This idiotic contest Trent’s handed me, though, offers me what I need, and without the sticky …
problems that come with feeling the least bit of affection for my spouse.
It’s mercenary of me, for which I blame the last four years of my life.
There are moments when I’m absolutely repulsed, but I’m not certain if it’s the thought of marrying him that makes me ill, or the very idea that I could convince myself to do such a thing. ”
Beckett lifted the bottle. “To having no damned idea about what’s best for ourselves, then.”
She took it from him. “To utter ignorance.”