Earls Trip

10 - The Gentlemen Are Resplendent in Silk

10

The Gentlemen Are Resplendent in Silk

She didn’t come. There were only six days left of their holiday, and she didn’t come.

It was fine, though. In fact, it was for the best, because by nine o’clock, Archie, Simon, and Effie were sitting around in silk dressing gowns talking again about salt and strawberries and how their parents didn’t love them.

Apparently, Effie’s trip into Doveborough with the ladies that first day had involved a stop at a modiste, and his heretofore unexplained disappearance earlier today had been to pick up dressing gowns he’d had commissioned for the three of them.

“Just try it,” he’d said, over and over, after it had become apparent that the Morgan sisters weren’t coming. Effie had disappeared, changed into his, and returned and held out the other two beseechingly. “They cost a right fortune, what with the rush I was in. I promise, the wearing of this gown will confer the most delightful sensation. It will lift your spirits, Archie.”

Archie had started to protest that his spirits didn’t need lifting, but Simon interrupted, grumbling about how he couldn’t listen to any more of Effie’s entreaties. He’d grabbed the proffered gown and taken himself off to change.

Once two of the three of them were attired in silk—Simon in royal blue and Effie, surprisingly, in lilac—Archie began to feel cornered, a fox staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Look what a lovely color yours is, Archie,” Simon said laughingly, nodding at the forest-green gown Effie held. It was good to hear Simon say anything laughingly.

“I asked for masculine colors,” Effie said archly, “knowing that would be important to you lot.” He grew serious. “Yours is green because you love the trees, Archie, and Simon’s is blue because he is always looking up, imagining a better world.”

Well. Archie’s throat tightened. He was discomposed by having had Effie’s poet eyes turned on him.

“And yours is lilac because . . . ?” Simon prompted.

“Mine is lilac because the modiste was out of black silk,” Effie said blithely. “Alas. My gown really ought to be black like my heart.”

Archie found his voice. “Your heart is not black.”

Effie raised his eyebrows.

“You see the beauty in the darker side of life, when the rest of us look away. I’m not sure if that kind of seeing is a blessing or a curse. But either way, it doesn’t mean your heart is black.”

Effie blinked rapidly; apparently it was his turn to be at a loss for words.

Feeling a bit sheepish about his little speech there, Archie said, “Oh, give me that,” and stalked off to change.

When he returned, Simon was sliding around on his chair. He was rotating his hips and flapping his bent-at-the-elbow arms in such a way that, together with the blue of the gown, he looked like an enormous peacock trying—and failing—to take flight. “This fabric does create a curious but pleasant sensation.”

“A curious but pleasant sensation,” Archie echoed.

“Ah, you are in agreement!” Effie cried triumphantly.

“No. Well, yes.” He was, but he’d been echoing Simon’s words because the phrase itself had plucked a chord within him. The hearing of those words was itself a curious but pleasant sensation, though it did leave him with the sense that his mind was trying to settle on something just out of its reach. Not unlike when one wakes from a dream and is still connected to it but only by vanishing tendrils.

It never worked, trying to hold onto those dreams, so he turned his attention to the present, where, he had to admit, he was learning that a silk dressing gown against one’s bare skin was indeed an agreeable sensation. He joined Simon in his attempt to take flight, flapping his arms as he squirmed in place. If Simon was a peacock in blue, Archie was a mallard in green.

Archie was the sole occupant of a settee that had been covered in silk. In keeping with everything else in Quintrell Castle, it had seen better days. But though it was stained and the stuffing was coming out near one end, the silk was still smooth. Archie’s attempts to mimic Simon while sitting on a silk settee and wearing a silk dressing gown caused him to slide off the damn thing entirely.

Laughing uproariously along with the boys, he got up and made a more controlled attempt at the same feat, sliding from one end of the settee to another. “Do you remember that time at school when it was raining on top of a bit of snow that had already accumulated, and the combination of precipitation made for an ice field all around the grounds?”

“We nicked some wooden trays from the kitchen and went out and slid down that knoll that abutted the cricket pitch,” Simon continued, coming over and elbowing Archie out of the way. “Let me try.”

They all laughed as Simon aped Archie’s sideways slide. There was something extra amusing about the starchy, overserious Simon in this particular setting, and judging by the volume of his own laughter, Simon himself knew it.

“My turn! My turn!” Effie did not bother with the measured approaches adopted by the other two, and hurled himself at the settee in such a way that he slid rapidly down it, bounced off the carved wooden armrest on the far side, and landed in a heap of laughter on the floor.

After their laughter died down, Effie suddenly said, “I lied earlier. The reason my gown is lilac is that lately I’ve been feeling more . . . colorful.”

Archie had no idea what that meant.

“It’s impractical, of course, to remake one’s entire wardrobe, but I have resolved, going forward, to experiment with cheerier hues.”

“Is your newfound interest in brighter hues reflective of an inner shift? A change of outlook?” Simon asked.

“I think so. Lately, I’ve been seized with . . .” Effie looked around as if to make sure they weren’t being overheard, but since they were utterly alone, the effect was comical. “I’ve been seized with moments of joy.” Archie had to hold back laughter, and Effie must have realized how silly he sounded, for he pulled a face and said, “But don’t worry, I retain my appreciation for the beauty in the darker side of life.”

“What’s brought on these moments of joy?” Simon asked.

“I’ve had some correspondence lately that has made me rethink a few things.”

Archie could see Simon getting ready to launch an interrogation. Archie himself was desperately curious. But Effie rose and shoved Archie to the side. “Move over. I want to try that slide again.”

A tussle broke out over who would gain ownership of the settee, the three of them braying like donkeys as each attempted to sit and to dislodge the others. It was a bit like a game Mother used to set up outside on long summer days. It had involved a grouping of chairs containing one fewer in number than the assembled players. Everyone processed around the chairs until a neutral observer shouted, “Sit!” at which point a mad scramble ensued. The chair-less player was ejected, a chair removed, and the process repeated until the final two players went head-to-head for the last chair. Archie had forgotten about that. He had the notion that the game was meant for children, but Mother loved it and cajoled him and Father to play whenever they had familiar guests over—the Morgans had played this game many a time. Mother had had such a sense of fun in those days. And Father had always grumbled at being pressed into such a silly game, but by the end, he would be laughing along with everyone else. How extraordinary. In all regards: that it had happened to begin with, that Father had been regularly coaxed to participate, and that Archie had so entirely forgotten it.

Tonight wasn’t exactly like that game, though. Here, the settee was big enough to accommodate the three lords, if just. No one wanted to give up, so as the tussle wound down, they ended up pressed together, each man sitting on just enough space for his silk-covered arse to slip and slide in place. And as they sat there wiggling, laughter started bubbling up again.

And when Simon said drily, “No wonder our fathers disdained us. We are an utter embarrassment,” they exploded in mirth.

Then Clementine and Olive walked in the door, and everyone went silent.

Being caught out like this should have been mortifying. It was mortifying.

But somehow it was also the most amusing thing that had ever happened to Archie. After so much longing for Clementine to appear, that she would choose this exact, absurd, perfectly imperfect moment to do so, felt both providential and hilarious. He managed to get to his feet. “Well, hello. I thought you weren’t coming.”

* * *

Clementine would freely admit that she was never going to be a paragon of manners and decorum. She never noticed when she had grass stains on her dress. Her hair never stayed where her maid put it—and it was even more of a lost cause here at Quintrell Castle, where she had no maid but Olive, whose hairdressing skills were nowhere near as good as her embroidery skills. But those were errors of execution, not of theory. Clementine’s training had been sufficient to educate her on how to conduct herself. The fact that she was constitutionally ill-suited for spending a great deal of time in company didn’t mean she didn’t know how to do it. Theoretically.

None of her lessons had ever covered what to do when one walked in on two earls and a viscount wearing silk dressing gowns and doing what could only be described as writhing on a settee whilst laughing like Bedlamites.

“Oh, my Heavens,” Olive breathed, and somehow it was enough to draw the gentlemen’s attention.

The room went dead silent as three pairs of wide eyes swung toward the sisters. The men ceased their moving as if they’d been at a dance and had been struck by paralysis mid-cotillion.

That comportment training Clementine had been thinking back on, while not having covered this specific scenario, would nevertheless have suggested that it was in poor taste to laugh at peers of the realm. Especially this lot: they had been so kind to her and were being so welcoming to her and her sister. Well, two of them were. Archie was running hot and cold on that front. He wanted her not underfoot. He wanted her to come to dinner. Which is it? she sometimes wanted to cry.

But, oh, how she wanted to laugh at this absurd tableau. Needed to laugh. She bit the insides of her cheeks. Clenched her fists. Anything to stave off the massing storm clouds of amusement, growing heavier with unshed mirth by the moment.

They were frozen, all of them, suspended in amber like poor ancient insects.

Finally, Archie stood. “Well, hello. I thought you weren’t coming.”

There was a beat of silence before Clementine said, “I can see that.”

The storm clouds let loose then. Olive started it, letting loose a great, girlish peal of laughter. Oddly, it sounded like nothing Clementine had ever heard, and she’d heard Olive laugh any number of times. This laugh was unfamiliar: high and musical and infused with delight.

A baritone thrumming rose up from the bottom of the scale, Marsden and Featherfinch joining Olive. The former had a deep, booming laugh; the viscount’s was punctuated with the occasional snort, providing a percussive element to the symphony.

That left Clementine and Archie, alone now in their amber prisons, staring at each other while the other insects buzzed with laughter and liberation.

Archie was the first to succumb. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was the other way around. Clementine initially thought the first upturn of one corner of Archie’s mouth was the tinder that caused an echoing flare inside her. But it might have been the reverse, because Archie looked surprised by the fact that he was laughing. Either way, Clementine felt a cracking, as if something inside her she hadn’t even realized was frozen, incarcerated, was coming alive, the amber around it fracturing to let in air and light. And laughter. Gales of it.

Archie never took his eyes off her as the chorus rose, a roomful of happy locusts. The others stopped before she and Archie did, perhaps because they’d had a head start, or perhaps because she and Archie needed it more, to allow themselves the balm of laughter, to let the light shine into the fissures created by the splintering of their amber confinement.

The other two gentlemen rose and exhorted Olive to sit. Eventually, Clementine and Archie’s mirth tapered off, but still he looked at her, still he smiled at her. She looked back at him, smiled back at him, her dear friend, and marveled that she’d been nervous to join him and his friends this evening. She wasn’t sure why, only that her reacquaintance with Archie had heretofore taken place in the dark. On the roof. Under the stars where it was easy to say what she meant—what she felt.

She had told him so much, recklessly exposed her foibles and her fears. She had snuffed out her lantern, there on the roof under the Seven Sisters, and she had shown him her self.

She was forced to break from the steadfastness of Archie’s gaze by Lord Featherfinch, who was suddenly at her side. “Won’t you please sit, Miss Morgan?”

She felt as if she were coming out of a trance, and she felt the rousing as a loss. Her nervousness was gone, but in its place, a kind of resigned sadness moved in. Now she would have to act properly, remember to address Archie as “my lord,” be decorous in front of his friends. She took Lord Featherfinch’s proffered arm and revised that thought. If anyone here ought to be worried about the contravention of social norms, surely it was the gentlemen wearing dressing gowns and, judging by the bare legs sticking out of the bottom of them, not much else?

Clementine had never seen bare male feet before. Though he had undone the fall of his breeches, Theo hadn’t removed his stockings when they’d lain together. Clementine examined Archie’s lower limbs. His ankles were . . . well, they were lovely. The lines of his long feet were graceful, and his ankle bone protruded in a way that kicked up her heartbeat. She allowed her gaze to migrate up his leg. Oh! She hadn’t expected so much hair. And she would never have expected so much hair to be so . . . pleasing to the eye. Pleasing yet simultaneously unsettling—probably only because such a sight was so out of place in a drawing room.

Discomposed, she allowed Lord Featherfinch—she refrained from looking at his legs but only just—to seat her next to Olive on the settee while the gentlemen scattered to various chairs. Well, two of them did. Archie remained where he’d been standing. Perhaps the trancelike state she’d been in earlier had been shared. A kind of dual, temporary madness.

“Hello? Harcourt?” Lord Featherfinch waved a hand in front of Archie, who blinked a few times.

“Right. Yes. I should sit.” He paused halfway to a chair. “No. I should go change.”

“Don’t change on our account, Archie,” Olive said, her eyes dancing. She sobered. “Oh, I meant Lord Harcourt. My apologies.”

Archie grinned as he took in the room, looking at it as if for the first time. “You may call me whatever you like. No one here will mind.”

“I suppose one needn’t stand on ceremony in such a . . . setting,” Olive agreed.

“I only wish I had procured dressing gowns for you and your sister, too, Miss Olive,” Lord Featherfinch said with great earnestness.

“You’ll forgive me for asking,” Olive said, “but what on earth are you gentlemen doing?”

“Well,” Lord Featherfinch began, and Archie interrupted to say that he was going to change. He was followed by Lord Marsden, leaving Clementine and Olive alone with Lord Featherfinch, who spun an elaborate tale of being accosted by an evil patch of hogweed and finding relief in the wearing of his sister’s clothing. It was a very amusing story, mostly because its teller was so charming. Clementine fretted as she watched Olive come to life under Lord Featherfinch’s attentions. She had a prickling feeling of dismay about this development, though she wasn’t sure why. This behavior could be interpreted as the return of Olive to her normal self. Dangling after someone as charming and handsome as Lord Featherfinch was exactly something Olive would do. She told herself there was no cause for dismay. What harm could it do? On the exceedingly slim chance Lord Featherfinch could be convinced to return Olive’s affections, he would be a very good match. He would meet many of Olive’s requirements. For example, Clementine thought it likely that he would not object to a house decorated entirely in florals. And he was a long-standing bosom friend of Archie’s, which meant that in addition to whatever else he was, he was a good man.

And, as was more likely, if he did not return Olive’s affections, what harm was a little flirtation if it helped her sister find her feet after a very disconcerting time?

It was more a niggling sense that she was watching her sister put on a disguise, one Clementine had only found out about recently. She felt as if she’d been given a peek at the girl beneath the veil, the sister—the real one, the one with the unfamiliar laugh—and she wanted more than a peek. That was not going to be possible if they went back to the way things had been before.

She put her concerns aside when Archie and Lord Marsden reappeared. “Oh look, the gentlemen are back and they’re dressed—” Laughter was still so close, an unfamiliar friend. “I was going to say ‘dressed in proper evening attire,’ but I realized I could stop the sentence after the word ‘dressed.’”

“Well, that’s all fine and good for them, but no one is going to shame me into getting back into ‘proper evening attire.’” Lord Featherfinch performed an exaggeratedly satisfied sigh and leaned back languorously in his chair. “Once one has peeled off the trappings of the day and is cozily ensconced in loose silk, the idea of redonning those trappings, however handsome they may be, is simply too terrible to contemplate.”

“It’s the same when a lady removes her stays,” Olive said, and Clementine swallowed her impulse to scold Olive for talking about ladies’ stays in company. It was hardly the least scandalous thing occurring here. “Once they’re off, the idea of putting them back on is anathema.”

“Oh, yes, I imagine that would be the case,” Lord Featherfinch said. He sat up suddenly. “Unless I am making anyone uncomfortable. In that instance, I shall gladly go change. I want you ladies to feel at ease; I do so look forward to spending an evening in your company.”

Olive and Clementine assured Lord Featherfinch that they were not uncomfortable and were, in fact, quite happy to pass the evening with him wearing a dressing gown. Clementine even allowed herself to surreptitiously examine Lord Featherfinch’s legs. They were hairy, like Archie’s, but his ankles did not disturb the regular rhythm of her heart.

Another laugh threatened to burst out of Clementine. Comparative ogling of gentlemen’s ankles: Was this really her life?

It was for now, and she felt lucky to have it. Soon enough she’d be back in London, and it would be time to battle with Father.

The sisters allowed themselves to be given glasses of scotch, which was all that was available to drink without calling upon Mrs. MacPuddle. Clementine had never had scotch. She would have said she was certain Olive hadn’t either, but then she thought of Olive’s list and wondered if she could ever again be certain about anything to do with her sister. She took a tentative sip and fell into a fit of coughing.

Archie rushed to her side. She tried to wave away his concern, but he sat next to her and patted her back. She recovered herself, and the patting slowed. When she stopped coughing, she thought he would take his hand away.

He did not.

“I do apologize for the state in which you found us, Miss Morgan, Miss Olive,” Lord Marsden said with an air of seriousness. “And for the state in which you still find Lord Featherfinch. Had we thought you would be joining us, we would, of course, have been respectably attired.”

“It is I who must apologize,” Clementine said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the steady pressure of Archie’s hand between her shoulder blades. “I’d told Lord Harcourt we would join you after dinner this evening. The reason we are so tardy is that tonight, contrary to the pattern that had been established, our evening meal occurred after yours. So we’ve only just finished our dinner.”

Heat was blooming across her back, radiating from the spot upon which Archie’s hand rested.

“The cook has taken to the challenge presented by my sister’s dietary preferences,” Olive said. “Tonight she made us a mushroom pie that apparently required six hours of preparation, chiefly involving the marination of mushrooms. Mrs. MacPuddle asked if we would mind eating later than usual.”

“As you can imagine, we could not say no,” Clementine said.

“Of course not,” Lord Featherfinch declared. “One does not say no to six-hour mushroom pie.”

Clementine wasn’t sure if he was teasing or in earnest. “The cook is very ambitious.” Her ambition had produced uneven results—though the mushroom pie had been quite good—but Clementine left that part out.

“We brought our embroidery,” Olive said. “I’ve been teaching my sister.” Olive sat up straighter and looked . . . well, she looked proud. Interesting. Could something as simple as teaching Clementine to stitch make someone as seemingly sophisticated as Olive proud?

“I have to say,” Clementine said, “I am a convert. The act of embroidery turns out to be surprisingly soothing, and when you’re done, you have a beautiful object. Theoretically.” Chuckling, she turned her hoop around to show the gentlemen her “leaves.”

The act dislodged Archie’s hand from her back. She wished she had stayed still.

“You must not judge my sister’s teaching abilities by the result I have achieved,” she said. “Or not achieved.”

She could tell the gentlemen were searching for something kind to say. She interceded, saying to Olive, “Show them yours.”

Olive obliged, and everyone exclaimed with admiration. Clementine watched her sister closely. Their praise was being taken to heart, though Olive responded humbly. “This is nothing. Merely a way to fill the time.”

“Well, then I should like to see what you could produce when you were making an effort,” Lord Featherfinch said.

Archie and Lord Marsden murmured their agreement.

“I have always wanted to try embroidery,” Lord Featherfinch said. “My sister does not care for it, but I have seen other women make the most remarkable creations, though none so fine as yours, Miss Olive.”

Olive was a flower blooming under the viscount’s praise. “I would be happy to teach you, if you like.” She paused, seeming to think better of her offer. “Perhaps that would not be appropriate.”

“Yes, Olive,” Archie said wryly. “Clearly, for a creature such as this”—he gestured at the scandalously clad Lord Featherfinch—“an embroidery lesson would be beyond the pale.”

Lord Featherfinch mock-snarled at Archie, but when he turned to Olive he was half exuberance, half solicitousness. “Would you, Miss Olive? I would be thrilled to submit to your tutelage. Tomorrow after dinner, perhaps?”

“Olive,” Clementine said, “while it was kind of the gentlemen to invite us this evening, we can’t make a habit of joining them. This is their trip, after all.”

“Nonsense!” Lord Featherfinch exclaimed.

“Yes,” Lord Marsden agreed. “We would be happy to have you join us in the evenings for the remainder of our time here.”

He seemed genuine in his sentiment, and everyone’s attention swung to Archie, who smiled wryly and said, “I am in complete agreement, if for no other reason than if you ladies will join us in the evenings, I am certain I will be less likely to find myself wearing green silk.”

“Thank you for the invitation; we happily accept.” Clementine felt she should argue, but she didn’t want to. The spot on her back where Archie had laid his hand was still . . . alive. It felt as if the sun were shining on it, awakening seeds hidden beneath the winter soil. So she didn’t argue. She didn’t even vocalize an “If you’re sure we won’t be in your way,” perfunctory protest. She picked up her embroidery and said, “What were you . . . discussing before we joined you?” By which she meant: What in Heaven’s name were you doing?

“We were actually having quite a serious conversation regarding the nature of familial bonds,” Lord Marsden said. “Picking up on what’s been somewhat of an ongoing discussion of late.”

Well. She hadn’t expected that, given the state they’d been in when she and Olive arrived.

“Marsden is being too judicious,” Archie said. “We were discussing how disappointed Father always was in me.”

“That’s putting it too simplistically, I should think,” Lord Featherfinch said.

“It isn’t, though,” Archie said. “Miss Morgan will know what I mean. He was always trying to get me interested in estate management, pressing books on me about agriculture and animal husbandry that I routinely failed to read.”

“Hmm,” Clementine said noncommittally. She did remember that. Archie had always been disappointing the late earl, but Archie had never seemed overbothered by it. She had interpreted their standoffs—and she thought he had as well—as being more about his father’s overbearing nature than about Archie’s failings.

“Were you not tempted to just do what he asked, as unpleasant as the tomes may have been?” Olive asked.

“You misunderstand me,” Archie said. “When I say ‘failed to read,’ I don’t mean that I couldn’t bring myself to, I mean that I couldn’t. It is true that I don’t care for reading. Never have. But I would have done it if it’d pleased Father, and I did—do—care about the estate. I care very much. But it’s equally true that I’m not good at reading. After a while, and not a very long while, the words start to swim on the page, and I can’t make any sense of them, nor can I remember what I read two sentences ago. The more concertedly I apply myself, the worse it gets, until I may as well be looking at something written in hieroglyphs. It’s worse still when I’ve an audience. Writing is equally challenging.” He glanced at Clementine, and she thought back to their discussion about having fallen out of touch. Her heart squeezed.

“I’m not clever,” Archie went on, “a fact with which I’ve made my peace. I’ve got a steward I’d trust with my life; Mr. Hughes is worth every penny I pay him. But my father could never accept a dimwitted heir. The only thing he respected about me was my skill with a rifle.”

Several beats of silence followed. It wasn’t a fraught silence, though. These men were clearly even closer than Clementine had realized, given how comfortable they were talking about matters that should by all reasonable standards be uncomfortable. She rather thought no one wanted to disagree with Archie because to do so would seem as if they didn’t respect his opinion. He was, after all, the expert on his own life. But his easy, blanket dismissal of his own intellect didn’t sit right with her.

“Lord Harcourt has a different sort of intelligence.” She poked at her sewing as she spoke and kept her tone mild, as if she were commenting on a fact of the weather.

“He does, doesn’t he?” Lord Marsden said.

“I quite agree,” said Lord Featherfinch.

“Excuse me?” Archie waved at them as if he were standing on the shore of a lake signaling a passing boat. “I should like to remind you that I’m right here, and also for you to explain yourselves.”

“You aren’t good at books, fine,” Clementine said. “But you can take the measure of a man in an instant. Or of a difficult situation. You got my sister and me out of what might have been a disaster by pulling off a scheme that by rights should have taken a great deal of advance planning. But you just . . . did it.”

“Oh,” he said dismissively, “those sorts of situations are like boxing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“In boxing, you’ve got to react to what’s in front of you, to what’s coming at you in the moment. You might need to anticipate your opponent’s next move, see your way through to how the bout will end, but that’s as far ahead as you need think. And there’s no recall of past events required whatsoever. It’s quite easy.”

“It isn’t easy for everyone,” Lord Featherfinch said. “It feels easy to you because you’re good at it. I, on the other hand, could train at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing club for a year and still not be a decent fighter.”

“Well, that’s not a character flaw; that’s just your nature.”

“That is exactly what we’re saying,” Lord Marsden said. “Perhaps you aren’t naturally academically inclined. That isn’t a character flaw, either. It unfortunately happens to be the sort of inclination that is rewarded by the social strata in which we find ourselves, but that is neither here nor there.”

Archie looked confused, but he shook his head and his usual easygoing countenance returned. “Why do I feel as if my parents are in conference with the headmaster here? Let us change the subject.” He turned to Olive. “What say you, Miss Olive?”

“I think my sister and your friends are correct,” she said, quietly but assuredly. “There are many different types of intelligence in this world.”

Clementine appreciated that Olive was adding her voice to the chorus, but Archie clearly wanted to move on, so she said, “Oh, I have some news you’ve yet to hear, Lord Harcourt! I’ve entered the turtle races in Doveborough.”

* * *

“I’ve entered the turtle races in Doveborough”?

Archie was having trouble making sense of that sentence. Still, he’d gotten what he’d wanted: a new topic of conversation. A wildly new one, in fact. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I haven’t entered them. That would be ridiculous,” Clementine said.

“One would think,” he deadpanned, though he was still confused.

“I’ve entered Hermes in the turtle races.”

“Dare I ask who Hermes is?”

“Hermes is a turtle, of course. Don’t be daft.”

“You have a turtle named Hermes. After the god? The speedy one with wings on his feet?”

“Well, the name is aspirational, obviously.”

“Doveborough has an annual fall festival,” Olive said, taking pity on Archie in his befuddled state. “Apparently there was once an event involving turtledoves, as a nod to the name of the village, but somehow the ‘dove’ bit got dropped, and the contest evolved into a turtle race. No one could quite explain how or why.”

“So Doveborough is host to turtle races of mysterious origin, and Miss Morgan has entered them.” Of course she had. Who would expect Clementine Morgan to learn of the existence of turtle races and not throw her hat into the ring?

“You told me to entertain myself,” Clementine said with just a hint of pique in her tone.

“I believe I also told you not to go to Doveborough by yourself.” He did hear the way that sounded, rather disagreeably paternalistic. But he would be damned if anything happened to the Morgans while they were under his care.

“I wasn’t by myself. Olive and Lords Featherfinch and Marsden went with me to Doveborough that first day, which was when I found out about the race, and then Olive and Lord Featherfinch accompanied me again today when I entered it.”

Archie turned censoriously toward Effie, though he wasn’t really sure why. If Clem and Olive were bent on going to the village, he was glad they’d had Effie with them.

“I needed to collect the dressing gowns I’d ordered,” Effie, sensing Archie’s disapproval, said defensively.

“And you did not think to mention these turtle races to me.”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Effie said with a sniff. He turned to Clementine. “I like your chances, Miss Morgan. Hermes is shockingly swift. I’m not sure the name is merely aspirational.”

“You’ve met Hermes,” Archie said.

“I wonder if it’s down to his size,” Simon said. “He’s smaller and therefore more nimble? Is that possible?”

Hold up. “You’ve met Hermes, too?”

“Yes,” Simon said mildly. “Miss Morgan has been training him early in the mornings, and I have to agree that his speed is startling. If I were a betting man, I would put my money on Hermes.”

“I did put mine on Hermes,” Lord Featherfinch said. “While I was at the modiste today, I learned there is a bookmaker running odds on the races. I visited him while you and your sister were in the bookshop.”

“You did?” Clementine exclaimed. “How lovely of you.” She beamed.

“Well, one does like to support one’s friends.”

“I wonder if I ought to bet on Hermes myself,” Clementine said thoughtfully. “I’d been focused on the quid of prize money, but think, if I won and also wagered on myself, I’d be positively flush!”

Archie opened his mouth, then closed it. He had so many questions. Where had Clementine found Hermes? Where was Hermes now? When were the races? Was he invited to watch them?

Why was he obsessed with a turtle whose existence he had only learned about moments ago?

But he realized that to ask any of these questions would suggest a degree of investment in the matter that would not reflect flatteringly on him.

He had one more question: Was Clementine going to be on the roof tonight?

That last question he actually got answered, a little later when they all parted ways for the evening. Clementine slipped a note into his hand as they made their good nights. His pulse kicked up in a mixture of thrill that she wanted to secretly communicate with him and anticipation over what the content of that communication would be.

I’ve invited Olive to join me stargazing this evening, so if you were of a mind to join me on the roof, I hope you won’t mind making other plans. I suppose this is a disinvitation! How gauche of me. But we are friends, and I know you will understand.

Well. So much for that. He pulled out his time piece. Eleven o’clock. Even if the ladies joined them immediately after dinner tomorrow, it would be at least another twenty hours until he met Clementine again.