Chapter Fifty-nine
Several weeks later, back in London, Angus looked up from his paper as the door to the breakfast room opened. No longer prepared to do battle with paper and wife, he unhurriedly laid it flat on the table as Sylvie skipped towards him.
“Good morning, husband.”
“Good morning, wife,” he replied, adopting an air of weary compliance as he opened his arms and allowed her to settle herself in his lap.
“Have I told you how I love you?” she giggled, attempting to cover his face in kisses.
“Yes,” he said, turning his head left and right in a vain attempt to avoid such nonsense, “you keep reminding me. Now…” he said, catching her face between his hands to still her advances, he leaned in and kissed her deeply. “Now, stop distracting me and eat your toast.”
Wrinkling her nose in delight, she playfully rubbed it against his before reaching across to pick up a slice. “Yum,” she said, “black cherry this morning.”
“One of your favourites,” he said, pretending not to watch her as he sipped his coffee — yet he knew resistance was futile.
“It’s very romantic, you know,” she said softly, smiling. “Preparing my toast for me.”
“Romantic?” he echoed. “Or self-preservation… for myself and the household staff… so we are spared the daily turmoil that descends while you agonise over which of the many preserved fruits you will spread on your bread.”
“No, definitely romantic,” she said with a shrug. “ Oh, look!” she added as she leaned forward, tapping a jammy finger on his pristine newspaper. “A new exhibition’s opening…”
He should have minded the fingerprints, but sharing the morning paper with his wife — her perched on his knee, nibbling toast, chattering about whatever headline caught her fancy — had become one of the quiet joys of his day.
She never demanded more of his time than that half hour at breakfast. Never questioned where he went or what he did.
Yet increasingly, he found himself declining engagements or leaving his study in search of her company.
Pondering this curious development, he smiled to himself.
“Um, sorry, I…”
“Yes,” she teased, “drifted off at the mention of the latest shipment of silk… or was it the exhibition? Anyway,” she continued, “I was merely asking if you will be here for supper tonight, so I can advise Cook.”
“Oh… no.”
“Very well,” she said brightly, kissing his cheek as she stood. “I’ll see you later, oh and wish me luck.”
“Luck?”
“Yes,” she said, widening her eyes in mock horror.
“I fear Lady Cabbage Leaf is to call on me today. Betsy heard a whisper, of course, nothing escapes her these days. She’s quite taken with her role as Marchioness’s Ladies Maid, though truth be told, neither of us have quite adjusted to our elevation. ”
“Right,” murmured Angus absently, “Sylvie? Before you go…”
“Yes?”
“Do you know where we keep the napkins? The ones with the coat of arms embroidered on them?”
“What?” she half laughed, “you want a napkin?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
Still laughing, she crossed to the decorative sideboard. “You are a funny thing sometimes,” she said, tugging open one of the big drawers. “I hardly…” her voice suddenly catching as she looked down. “Blistering barnacles! Whatever is…?”
Already behind her, Angus reached over her shoulder and lifted the Westland Sapphire from the drawer. “I had a new necklace made for you. I thought the diamond too cumbersome… though we can have it returned if you prefer.”
“I, I don’t understand.”
“Do you not like it?”
“Like it? Of course I like it, but, but… it was your mother’s, and…”
“And she would be delighted,” he said softly, “that I have finally found a woman worthy of it. Something about declaring my love and respect, if I recall. Romantic twaddle.”
Turning her gently, he fastened the clasp at her neck. His fingers lingered, caressing her skin as he kissed her forehead. “Wear it to your tea things,” he murmured. “Give them something to talk about.”
“Angus, I…”
“Whoa,” he cautioned, stepping back. “Don’t you dare go all sentimental on me. You know I have no defences when you turn into a watering pot. Now be off with you, I have much to do. And don’t be late for supper. We leave at seven.”
“Supper?” she quizzed on a turn. “What supper?”
“You know. Supper. Every other Tuesday hereafter — a little family gathering. Nothing formal.”
She blinked back at him for a moment before her eyes filled with joy. “Oh, Angus,” she cried, leaping at him so suddenly he had no choice but to catch her.
“Oh, you big, gorgeous, romantic softy,” she laughed, smothering him in kisses — again!
“Well,” he said, setting her back on her feet, “I thought your poor father might appreciate an ally… and, let us not forget, Masie can be quite a determined little hellion when she sets her mind to it.”
“Oh, how I love you,” she said breathlessly, “I can’t wait to tell Betsy.”
“Yes, well,” he grumbled with a half-smile, “let’s not make too much of the ‘romantic softy’ part. I am, after all, The Morose Marquess.”
Pausing in the doorway, she turned back with a grin. “Of course you are, my love. Absolutely — the Morose Marquess.”
* * *
As the door closed behind her, Angus shook his head, amused, and reclaimed his paper. A faint smear of cherry jam still marked the corner where her finger had tapped. His eyes drifted to the small announcement she’d pointed out earlier:
“The Royal Exhibition: Masterworks of the Old Master, Sir Jacob Redding — featuring the never-before-seen portrait of an exceptionally interesting person.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Never before seen, eh?” he murmured aloud. “Southerby will be intrigued.”
Leaning back in his chair, he folded the paper and set it aside — just as, several streets away, a certain earl paused over the same notice, his expression sharpening into a smile as the footman entered with the morning post. Absently, Southerby took the topmost letter, and cracked the seal before noticing the handwriting.
His smile was now a thing of the past, as his eyes darted over the elegantly penned lines. “The devil you’ve stirred up this time, Louis?” he muttered, already pushing back his chair.
The game, it seemed, was far from over.