Chapter Three
The sound of an approaching carriage sneaked its way into Elgin Park’s study.
Flint, Ambrose’s spaniel, sat up in his bed and let out a soft growl.
Ambrose, lounging in his favorite armchair, lifted his gaze from the newspaper to glance out of the window.
Not that he could see the portico from where he sat, but he wondered, vaguely, who the unannounced visitor was.
Not that it really mattered, either. Ambrose had no intention of speaking to him, her, or them.
“Down, Flint,” he said. Then, with a frown and a sniff, he shook out an unwanted crease in his newspaper, and went back to reading about Napoleon’s ongoing machinations in Europe. A few minutes later, a tap came to the door and it opened partway.
“You have a visitor, my—”
“I am not accepting visitors, Crabtree.” Ambrose kept his gaze on the newspaper. “I thought I made that patently clear.”
The butler cleared his throat. “You did, my lord, but I’m afraid—”
“Pendlewood, there you are!” The door opened fully and Ambrose looked up as Edward Fortescue, Viscount Eskdale, sauntered into the room like he owned the place.
“Gads, it’s nippy out there today,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“Harriet sends her love and the twins are doing well, thank you for asking. Right, that’s the niceties out of the way.
I’ll take a coffee, Crabtree, if you please, and bring one for Lord Pendlewood as well.
He looks like he needs one. And good day to you, too, Flint.
” He bent to pet the spaniel, who’d approached, tail wagging.
Crabtree, looking vaguely amused, glanced at Ambrose seeking approval, which came in the form of a nonchalant hand wave.
The butler nodded and left. Edward, meanwhile, settled into an adjacent chair and leaned forward, his gaze critical.
“You look dreadful, Pen. Like death warmed over, in fact. Not sure if it’s the wrinkled clothes, or what you haven’t done to your hair, or the fact that you’re in dire need of a shave.
” Nose in the air, he sniffed. “And when did you last bathe? Or is that the dog I smell?”
Ambrose heaved an exaggerated sigh, set his newspaper aside, and scratched his jaw. “What are you doing here, Eskdale?”
Edward sat back. “Checking on you, my friend. Believe it or not, your absence these past few months has been noted. Rumor has it you’ve never been the same since you were jilted by a certain Miss Grissom and that you’ve hidden yourself away to lick your wounds.
I don’t believe a word of it, however, so I came here to find out what, exactly, is going on. ”
Ambrose heaved another sigh, got to his feet, and pushed out the kink in his back. “Well, I suppose the rumors are partly true. Except for the jilted and the licking my wounds part.”
Edward raised both brows. “What’s left?”
“The truth.” Ambrose went over to the sideboard. “Drink?”
“I just ordered coffee.”
“Is that a ‘no’?”
“Yes. No.”
Ambrose muttered a curse under his breath. “This really isn’t helpful, Eskdale,” he said, pouring himself some brandy.
“Give me time,” Edward replied. “I’m not leaving here till you sort yourself out and leave with me.”
Ambrose scoffed and went back to his seat. “Then I hope you brought a change of clothes.”
“Several.” Edward leaned forward again. “Come on. Out with it. What’s going on? You’re not ailing, are you?”
“No, not ailing. Not licking any wounds, either.”
“So what did happen with Miss Grissom?”
Ambrose took a sip of brandy and rolled it around his tongue. “If you must know, I caught the chit kissing the stablemaster behind a hedge in the garden.”
Edward stared at him for a moment before his mouth started twitching. “Are you joking, Pen?”
“Unfortunately not.” Ambrose scowled at his guest, at the same time quietly acknowledging a growing sense of gratification at his presence. “And don’t you dare laugh.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Edward turned away and feigned a cough, which failed to smother a subsequent burst of laughter.
“Bugger off,” Ambrose said, failing to suppress a smile. “Miss Grissom’s deceit is only a small part of why I’ve chosen to isolate myself for a while. The precursor, if you will.”
The door opened and Crabtree entered. “Coffee, my lords,” he said, setting a tray on a nearby table. “Shall I pour?”
“No, we’ll see to it, Crabtree,” Ambrose replied. “Thank you.”
As the butler left, Edward went to pour himself a cup. “So,” he said, “if not Miss Grissom’s chicanery with the stable lad, what has brought about this retreat from society? It’s not like you, Pen. People are talking. You’re an automatic invite for most of the soirées and events.”
“Which is exactly why I’m taking a hiatus this Season,” Ambrose replied. “I’m disillusioned by it all, frankly. The expectations, the false pleasantries, the toadying.”
“I understand fully. There was a time, you might recall, when I felt the same.” Edward, coffee cup clasped in his hand, settled back into his seat.
“So I know what I’m talking about when I implore you not to go down that road.
Believe me, it leads precisely nowhere. You need a wife and an heir, Pen, and you’re not going to find one by shutting yourself away like this.
She’s out there somewhere, waiting for you.
You need to get out there and find her. Or perhaps she’ll find you. ”
Ambrose frowned into his brandy snifter. “Can you hear yourself, Eskdale? You sound like one of those parlor-game fortune tellers.”
“Like I said, I happen to know what I’m talking about,” Edward replied. “I literally bumped into my beloved Harriet, and at the Lyon’s Den of all places. I mean, what are the odds? And, I should point out, that was before you took it upon yourself to ask Dove-Lyon to play matchmaker.”
“I’m not sure you’d have pursued Harriet otherwise,” Ambrose countered. “Admit it. My intervention, and the subsequent game, worked.”
“All right. Yes, it did.” Edward gave him a cheerless smile. “But not without some grief.”
Ambrose winced. “Which I regret to this day. I only ever meant well.”
“I know, my friend. As it happens, the pain was totally worth it. In fact, I’m not sure I ever thanked you properly. So thank you, Pen.” He cleared his throat. “That said, I believe it is now my turn to intervene.”
Ambrose threw him a murderous glance. “Don’t even think about it. When it comes to finding a wife, I have no need of your assistance and certainly not that of Dove-Lyon.”
“I never mentioned asking for Dove-Lyon’s assistance.” Edward grinned. “You must admit, however, the lady is good at what she does.”
“Granted. But I don’t need her to do it for me,” Ambrose replied, through gritted teeth. “It’s not like I’m desperate, for God’s sake.”
“But you are, actually. This retreat from society is a classic case of desperation. You just don’t see it. And besides, I owe you one.”
Ambrose shook his head. “Consider the debt paid.”
Edward glanced at the clock, which had just struck four. “What time is dinner? I’m starving.”
“Stop changing the subject and pay attention.”
“I’m heeding every word you say.” Another grin. “Trust me.”
Ambrose snorted. “When the Fallen Angel of Mayfair says ‘trust me,’ one must immediately expect to be defrauded.”
Edward’s smile faded. “All joking aside, Pen,” he said, setting his coffee cup down, “you really should show your face in London. Don’t give the ton the impression you’re shut away out here lamenting Miss Grissom’s rejection.”
Ambrose huffed. “Is that what they’re saying?”
“It’s one of the rumors currently circulating. An earlier rumor alluded to your imminent betrothal to Miss Grissom. That it never happened has left folk wondering why. A lack of facts usually begets gossip.”
“I couldn’t care less about the bloody gossip,” Ambrose replied, and meant it. “The ton can believe whatever the hell they like.”
“Nevertheless, I urge you to put in an appearance or two and at least look as though you’re enjoying yourself.
” Edward grimaced. “Mind you, you might first consider shaving, bathing, and donning clothes that don’t look as though they’ve been slept in.
Come on, Pen, seriously. Return to London with me and sooner rather than later if you don’t mind.
I already miss Harriet and my children.”
Ambrose winced and rubbed his temple. “Give me a couple of days to think about it. No promises.”
“Excellent.” Edward rubbed his hands. “Now, what time is dinner?”