Chapter 13
“Idon’t know if I should be shocked or affronted that you did not invite me to your wedding, Scarfield,” Adrian declared as he swept into the study with all the gravity of a man arriving at the site of a national disaster. “Perhaps both, for safety’s sake.”
Oscar looked up from his morning correspondence, one eyebrow raised in polite inquiry. “You should feel both,” he said, setting down his letter opener. “You seem the type to enjoy dramatic excess.”
“Touché.” Adrian sketched a bow in the general direction of the window, as if to an appreciative crowd. “But still, a marriage? Without so much as a card or a whisper to your closest friends? It wounds, Oscar.”
Oscar regarded him for a moment, then replied, “The ceremony was a small affair. There was no need for a crowd.”
Adrian clutched his chest with mock pain. “And now you’re calling me a crowd. My self-esteem may never recover.”
“You have enough self-esteem for a dozen crowds,” Oscar returned. He gestured at the decanter on the sideboard. “If you need to anesthetize your feelings, help yourself. It’s a bit early, but I’m told that never stopped you before.”
Adrian poured a generous splash of whiskey, then perched on the edge of the desk, somehow managing to radiate both sloth and tension. “So. How did it go?”
Oscar examined him for signs of genuine interest, then decided it was safer to assume the worst and offered a neutral, “Efficiently.”
“Efficient?” Adrian sounded appalled. “I demand at least one detail. Did she weep? Did you? Was there a duel? Or did the Duchess simply tie you up and force you to sign the papers at gunpoint?”
Oscar’s mouth quirked. “There was no gunpoint. The Duchess was perfectly dignified.”
Adrian nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less. “And the children?”
“They’re acclimating,” Oscar replied. “Better than expected, given recent events.”
“A wise decision to make her your Duchess, then. Do the children find her agreeable?”
Oscar nodded as the memory of Clara’s arms around Nancy’s neck and Henry’s eyes wide with all the hope he had in her pressed in at the edges of his mind. “They will benefit greatly from her presence.”
“Of course,” Adrian murmured, swirling his drink. For a moment, Oscar thought he saw something pass over Adrian’s face—a calculation, a flicker of envy, something quick and buried. But then Adrian brightened, too fast. “I take it she will be assuming charge of the household?”
Oscar braced himself. “Naturally.”
“And the matter of the governess?” Adrian pressed. “My cousin’s recommendation still stands. Miss Blythe can start next week, if you wish.”
Oscar weighed the name. He had no fondness for strangers in his home—least of all ones vouched for by Adrian—but the twins did require more than the occasional story or lullaby. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, carefully. “But the children need time to adjust. Perhaps in a month or two.”
Adrian pretended to pout, then shrugged. “Very well. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Adrian drank; Oscar returned to his letter, but found himself unable to focus on the page.
After a while, Adrian spoke again. “So what is it like, having a Gallagher in the house?”
Oscar considered. “Noisier. But less tedious than anticipated.”
Adrian barked a laugh. “High praise. She must be truly exceptional to receive such warmth from you.”
“She is—” Oscar stopped, unsure how to complete the thought. “She is herself.”
Adrian sipped. “And how is she managing you?”
Oscar almost laughed. “With the same discipline you’d expect from a Neads girl. She left me speechless more than once already.”
Adrian grinned. “A rare feat. I must meet her soon. Perhaps you’ll bring her to White’s for an evening, show her off to the rabble.”
Oscar said, “She’s not likely to enjoy the rabble. Nor they her.”
“Splendid,” Adrian said. “It will be the event of the year.”
Oscar sighed and stacked his letters, pushing them away. “Was there anything else?”
Adrian’s eyebrows rose. “Can’t a man visit an old friend to offer congratulations?”
Oscar thought of their years at Eton, of the schemes and secrets and, later, of Adrian’s uncanny knack for being everywhere and nowhere at once. “You never do anything without a reason,” he replied.
Adrian looked hurt. “I have always considered you my dearest friend, Scarfield.”
Oscar snorted. “That’s because your other friends are dead or in debtor’s prison.”
Adrian shrugged. “And yet here you are, thriving.” He tipped his glass in salute. “I’m glad you found someone who can match you. Truly.”
Oscar could not think of a reply that wouldn’t sound either defensive or sentimental, so he let the compliment hang.
Adrian finished his drink in one smooth swallow. “I should go. I have a standing engagement with Lady Chertsey’s whist table, and she bites if kept waiting.”
Oscar stood as Adrian did, and together they moved to the hall. The manor felt different already—a subtle but growing sense of life, an echo of laughter from the breakfast room, the distant thud of running feet above them.
They reached the front entry just as Nancy swept through. She wore a dress the color of moss after rain with a tartan cummerbund, and her hair—rarely content to stay pinned—spilled a coppery streak over her shoulder.
Adrian stopped and stared, so much so that Oscar nearly elbowed him. Clearing his throat, he said, “Duchess, this is a friend, Adrian Farleigh. Viscount of Eastmere.”
“Your Grace,” Adrian bowed with the air of a man greeting royalty.
Nancy’s mouth curved. “It is a pleasure, Lord Eastmere.” Her brows furrowed ever so slightly. “You look familiar, though I am only just making your acquaintance.”
Oscar saw Adrian’s eyes dance with delight. “Perhaps we have met in a former life, Your Grace. If not, I must consider this morning my good fortune.”
Nancy laughed. “You may be correct, Lord Eastmere.”
Adrian bowed again. “How radiant you look this morning.”
“Oh, you flatter me!”
Oscar watched, uneasy. Nancy never bantered with him quite that way. It pricked at him—an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation.
“Are you departing so soon?” Nancy asked.
“Regrettably,” Adrian replied. “But if my company is ever required for an emergency, I am but a short carriage ride away.”
“Why, we must host you for dinner, Lord Eastmere,” Nancy said, glancing at Oscar as if daring him to object.
Adrian seized on this. “I would be delighted.”
Oscar said nothing, but he suspected his own smile was as sharp as a knife’s edge.
“Well, then,” Nancy concluded, “it is settled. We will write to you when the day is chosen.”
Adrian took her hand and bowed again, and this time, Oscar did not miss the way Nancy’s eyes twinkled as she withdrew her hand. He could not explain why it bothered him.
“You shall have breakfast with me this morning,” Nancy declared, pinning Henry in place with one hand while straightening the buttons of his jacket with the other. “And if you say a word about the nursery, you will find yourself eating plain porridge for a week.”
Henry’s eyes widened, round as eggs. “In the morning room?”
“In the morning room.” Nancy gave him a brisk nod, then turned to Clara, who looked as though she’d been sentenced to hard labor.
“But Mrs. Tullock says we are to always remain in the nursery,” Clara objected, arms folded in the manner of the truly oppressed.
“Mrs. Tullock,” said Nancy, “does not outrank me, and I am the mistress of Scarfield Manor now. You shall go where I want you to go.” She spun Clara’s tartan sash so it sat perfectly at her waist, then marched both children down the hallway.
The main staircase was already occupied: a footman polishing the banister, two maids bearing trays, and a butler at parade rest by the entry. None dared meet Nancy’s gaze, which she considered a modest victory.
They arrived at the morning room, where sunlight poured through the long windows and revealed Oscar, entrenched behind the day’s newspaper and an impregnable fortress of toast. He looked up, startled. “Is it a holiday?”
“Of course not,” Nancy replied, ushering the children to their seats. “But as you have failed to provide for their proper education, I have taken it upon myself to introduce them to the finer points of breakfast etiquette.”
Oscar’s brow twitched, and he looked from Nancy to the twins and back, as if searching for the punchline. “Is there a special occasion?”
Nancy set about loading the children’s plates with alarming efficiency. “Yes. The occasion is that we are not dead, and thus entitled to decent food.”
Henry regarded his pile of scones with suspicion. “Are we allowed to eat all of this?”
“As much as you wish.” Nancy gave him a plate, then handed Clara a scone. “If you do not finish, I will be forced to do so myself.”
Oscar cleared his throat. “Duchess, might I have a word?”
Nancy ignored him and poured tea for the children, splashing milk in generous dollops. “One does not interrupt a lesson in progress, Your Grace. It confuses the pupils.”
Oscar made a noise of resignation, then returned to his newspaper. Except he did not, not really. Nancy was aware, in the way a fox is aware of the approaching hound, of his eyes drifting up at intervals, charting every motion, every giggle, every jam-smeared smile that crossed the table.
Clara took a bite and said, “You spread the cheese better than the maid.”
“That’s because Nancy used to make it herself,” Henry explained, spraying crumbs as he spoke.
“Chew before you speak,” Nancy said, then handed him a napkin. “And wipe your face, or the Duke will think you a barbarian.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, but he kept his gaze on the paper.
“Can we walk in the gardens after breakfast?” Clara asked, licking jam from her fingers.
“We are not allowed in the gardens, Clara,” Henry whispered, scandalized. “You know that.”