would it not?”
Lady Bartham was beginning to see the path ahead, and the sight was not agreeable.
“It would be a fascinating test of influence, do you not think?” said Lady deGriffith. “Who is better liked? Who might garner more sympathy? Who has relatives who can make or break a person’s standing at Court with a few words?”
“An intriguing question.”
Lady deGriffith turned her gaze to the passing scene. “How pleasant it is to have Lady Charles Ancaster back,” she said absently. “She is at Windsor until Monday, I believe. Their Majesties can’t seem to get enough of her. Lord Frederick Beckingham accompanied her. I wonder where that will lead. Ah, there is the Serpentine.”
Lady Bartham looked out at the park as well, seeing nothing but Lady Charles and Lord Frederick whispering about her to the King and Queen, and the whispers traveling through the Court.
One word from Lady Charles, and invitations would stop coming, to Court events and all others to which royals were invited. Then, as word traveled the aristocratic circuit, the other invitations would stop coming, too.
“We’ve nearly completed our circuit,” said Lady deGriffith. “Unless you would like to go round once more? I shall not be wanted for some time. My husband has business with Mr. Humphrey Morris, which apparently will continue into the late afternoon, possibly the evening. But it is important business. As you are aware, Lord deGriffith contemplates engaging your son as a secretary. I understand Lord Bartham expressed some pleasure at the prospect. Let us hope nothing occurs to prevent the engagement. I should hate to see Lord Bartham disappointed.”
One blow after another, every one aimed true.
For the most part, Lord Bartham let his wife do as she pleased. But he deeply resented her interfering in what he deemed men’s business. He would never raise a hand to her, or even his voice. But if he found out she’d tried to thwart Humphrey’s employment with Lord deGriffith, he would react fiercely. He would curtail her allowance, stopping her ability to shop and entertain. Once or twice, in cases of extreme displeasure, he had sent her back to Yorkshire.
“Thank you,” Lady Bartham said. “One circuit is sufficient.”
“Are you quite sure, my dear? As I said, I am at leisure.”
“So kind of you. Another time, perhaps. I seem to have a headache.”
“Ah, then you will want to return home and be quiet.”
Lady Bartham met her gaze. “Yes, it seems that would be best.”
“Yes,” Lady deGriffith said. “I believe it would.”
The Duke of Ashmont emerged from Lord deGriffith’s study, looking, as Humphrey Morris put it, “Like he’d gone ten rounds with Gentleman Jackson, then another ten with Tom Cribb.”
This was a slight exaggeration. As His Dis-Grace re-entered the billiard room, he dragged a hand through his hair and looked about him in bewilderment, as though he’d been days in a deep black hole and the light, even the pale light of this uncertain day, blinded him.
“This is what comes of so much thinking,” he told Morris. “Have my eyes crossed?”
“Stimulating,” Morris said.
“What?”
“Lord deGriffith. Stimulating. Kept me hopping, I’ll tell you.”
“You’re going to work for him? Truly? Couldn’t you find something easier? Like—oh, I don’t know. Lion taming. Wrestling pythons.”
“She thinks I can do it,” Morris said. “She said I was wasting my talents. What talents, I wanted to know. And she smiles and tells me I’m too modest. But about Miss Hyacinth.”
“What about her?”
“Any idea why she wanted me there, with all that family confabulation going on, and mighty personal, too. I didn’t know where to look, I was that embarrassed. I mean, your private business and all that. And Miss Pomfret’s, too.”
Ashmont considered. It wasn’t easy. He felt as though his future father-in-law had tossed his brains about with a pitchfork, then raked them over for good measure.
Women are told . . . that . . . should they be beautiful, Mrs. Wollstonecraft had written, every thing else is needless, for, at least, twenty years of their lives.
“Maybe Miss Hyacinth wanted you to know who she was,” he said finally. “Not merely the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen.”
“Ashmont? Is that you? Or has another being taken over your brain?”
He turned to the doorway, where Cassandra stood.
“What brain?” he said.
“That’s all right,” she said. “Papa does that to everybody. Gentlemen, mainly.”
“Stimulating,” Morris said.
“So it would seem,” said Cassandra. “The duke remembered my sister’s name.”
“What time is it?” Ashmont said. “What day is it?”
“Still today. But my mother is back. I heard her come in, and ran