Chapter Three
Damiano entered the inn’s dining room to find the duke and his daughter already there. Confirming the endless eccentricity of the English, the housekeeper and the fat dog were there too.
“Come sit by me, Count,” the duke said.
This seemed painfully obvious, as the housekeeper had her charge settled on the other side of the table. “Yes, Your Grace, most considerate. A fine evening.”
“Do you enjoy our weather?” Lady Valor asked.
Damiano had to pinch his leg to stop from laughing. Who on earth enjoyed English weather? Mother Nature seemed to glare down at this spot of the world and order more rain, and then more rain again. That rain was reliably cold. The sun appeared very reluctant to ever make an appearance.
“Oh yes,” he said. “It is so…forceful.”
“Hah! Not like your Sardinian weak-willed sunshine. Surprised you don’t get tired of it, day after day,” the duke said.
“What brings you to our shores?” the housekeeper asked.
Now he was to paint a picture that did not at all say why he was here. “Ah, my family has deep roots in England. I was educated at Eton and I have cousins here. After I check on our estate in Hertfordshire, I will spend time enjoying the London societal season.”
“Do you spend much time at your estate in Hertfordshire?” Lady Valor asked.
“Naturally,” Damiano said. “A fine estate just north of St. Albans. If I have to criticize it in any way, it is that it is in a very quiet neighborhood. But then, I find I can appreciate quiet. I have been considering settling there permanently so that I might enjoy the peace of the bucolic English countryside.”
There was no confusion about how that idea landed with Lady Valor.
She was most approving of it. His suspicions were confirmed that she was a rather timid lady who would not care for anything too exciting.
Another type of lady might thrill to hear of a swordfight.
Lady Valor Nicolet would rather hear of cows grazing.
“Do you collect anything, Count?” Lady Valor asked.
He was not certain what she was fishing for, but he collected knives and was relatively certain she would not see the beauty of them.
“Ah, I carry on the family tradition—we collect art. Is there anything so satisfying as going to a museum and walking the hushed corridors amidst the works of great masters?”
“That does sound rather marvelous,” Lady Valor said.
“Could there be anything more wonderful than the Capitoline in the Palazzo dei Conservatori?”
“I’m sure I do not know,” Lady Valor said. “I’ve never been to the Continent.”
Of course she hadn’t. These young English ladies never went anywhere. “But then,” he said, “you have your own storied institutions. The British Museum is very fine—what do you think of it?”
Lady Valor blushed up to her ears. “Goodness, I’ve never been.”
Mio Dio, she had not even bothered to go to a museum so nearby. “No! I cannot believe it. You must allow me to escort you there.”
“Papa?”
“Fine, fine, as long as Mrs. Right or one of your sisters accompanies you. Now, I did not wish to put a damper on the evening, but we ought to look sharp these days. I am certain there is a French spy in this neighborhood.”
One of the innkeeper’s waiters set a platter down with a crash. The other spun round and stared at the windows. Then he hurriedly closed the curtains.
Damiano set his glass down slowly. What did the duke say? Did he somehow know that Damiano spied for the French? He must do, why else would he say it? Was it a warning of some kind? But then why allow his daughter to be escorted to a museum by him?
The duke suddenly roared with laughter. “Works every time! The look on your faces!”
“Count, my papa likes to invent a ruse to amuse himself,” Lady Valor said.
The housekeeper nodded in agreement. “He’s very clever about it. Last year, he had everybody celebrating Captain Cook Day, a holiday that does not exist.”
“Good fun,” the duke said, “that’s what’s needed to ease these interminable journeys.”
A ruse for the fun of it? About a French spy in the area? Damiano did not see the humor in it.
And what was he talking about to name a trip to London an interminable journey? These people were not even traveling outside of their own country. “Ah now I see,” Damiano said, though he did not see in the least, “Your Grace enjoys a jest.”
“Yes, why not,” the duke said. “Passes the time.”
As this conversation was unfolding, the waiters’ looks were getting very dark. Damiano presumed they’d been the previous victims of Captain Cook Day.
“Eh, boys?” the duke said to them. “Remember Grassington Hambac?”
Damiano did not have the first idea of what Grassington Hambac might be, but noting the ever darkening looks of the waitstaff, he presumed they did. It did not seem as if they had fond memories of it.
To move the conversation past the duke’s eccentricities, and frankly annoying jests, he said, “I rather like traveling in England. There are so many quiet and peaceful byways.” He was certain that Lady Valor was perhaps less than valorous and would find favor in the idea.
Which she did. He spent the next half hour hearing all about the peace of the Dales and pretending to be charmed by it.
Apparently, one could see for miles. As the view described was one of farmer’s fields divided by stone walls, he was rather at a loss as to why anybody would want to.
Nevertheless, he took the proverbial stage at Drury Lane and playacted that he was mightily intrigued.
All in all, he’d made a good effort. He was to locate and woo a duke’s daughter and he’d found a very likely candidate. She seemed to like him, her father was a fool, she was well-funded, she was pretty, and she would certainly be easy to manage. He did not suppose he could do better than that.
*
Weston had just returned to the house. He’d decided that morning that since he was forced into attending a London season he might as well do some things he actually liked.
He’d gone to Lackington & Allen and acquired a pile of books for Lord Ledderbey’s library.
He would not necessarily have known which books to choose but Mr. Lackington had been very helpful in assisting him.
Then he went on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horseflesh on offer, which was something he understood far better.
Now he sat in the drawing room with his boots up on a table. Lord Ledderbey was examining the books he’d returned with, clearly delighted with the unexpected additions to his collection and wondering how he’d known just what to choose.
Malberry entered with a letter on a salver.
“If it’s more invitations,” Weston said, “just add them to the pile in the hall. I’m hoping Lady Marchfield will come and sort through them.”
“My lord, this appears to be a letter from that very lady.”
“See, she responds promptly,” Lord Ledderbey said. “Must be a good sign.”
Weston took the letter and unfolded it.
My dear Tramondeley—
I will admit to being surprised at hearing from you and finding the wording of your letter so pleasant. I have always constrained myself to only sending a Christmas card on account of the duke claiming you did not wish to hear from us. (I now wonder if that was ever true.)
In any case, I would be delighted to assist you in navigating the treacherous landscape of London society. I will attend you at two o’clock this very day.
Your Aunt Penelope,
Countess of Marchfield
Weston passed the note to Lord Ledderbey. “That duke really is a devil,” he said. “It was not enough that he never gets in touch, but he goes so far as to trick my own aunt into ignoring me.”
“Why has he done it, though,” Lord Ledderbey said thoughtfully. “He might be eleven eggs short of a dozen, but I suspect he had a reason.” The lord paused. “Gad, she says two o’clock, that is in five minutes time!”
Both of their gazes drifted to the clock. It was even less than five minutes. Weston heard the distinctive sound of carriage wheels rolling to a stop.
He got his boots off the table and brushed off the dried mud that had been deposited there. “Malberry, meet Lady Marchfield and escort her in and then get something from the kitchens. What should we have for a lady? Not brandy, I imagine.”
“A tea tray, my lord,” Malberry said gravely.
“Yes, yes, you’ll know what to do,” Weston said.
Malberry turned and stalked out. Weston could see out the drawing room windows a very prepossessing matron descending from her carriage. So that was his aunt.
The butler had the door open and the lady was inside in a trice. He led her into the drawing room.
“Lady Marchfield,” Weston said, bowing.
She took his measure and said, “I did think, from the tone of your letter, that we were not to be so formal. You may call me Aunt, Tramondeley.”
“Very kind,” he said. “Might I introduce Lord Ledderbey.”
Lady Marchfield nodded. “Lord Ledderbey, I suppose we owe you great thanks for watching over Tramondeley during his formative years.”
“He has been excellent company, Lady Marchfield, and so I think most of the advantage has been to myself. Do sit, a tea tray will be up shortly.”
Lady Marchfield took a chair. She said, “Might I clarify one matter before we go further. Tramondeley, did you tell the duke that you did not wish to hear from any of us, on account of the rift between the duke and your father?”
“I did not,” Weston said. “I have never said anything at all to the duke. I have never laid eyes on him, met him, or corresponded with him.”
“That devil,” Lady Marchfield said.
“Do you have any idea why he invented such a story?” Lord Ledderbey asked. “We did wonder, over the years, why he did not get in touch. At least, I wondered.”
“I do not know why he’s done it. At least, not precisely,” Lady Marchfield admitted. “But I can tell you, if there is a right way to do something, my brother will about-face and go in the opposite direction.”
“He rented this house for me,” Weston said. “I am not clear why.”