When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,62
a noose of guilt with each well-meant word. “Your devotion to them does you credit, my lady. I will redouble my efforts to find you an exquisite piece for your musicale.”
The butler had handed Wakefield’s greatcoat to Lady Elspeth and then retreated into the bowels of the house. The day was beastly cold, and a bitter wind made a journey of even a few streets uninviting.
And Matilda is somewhere in the countryside, alone, without means.…Because the Crown and its various foreign counterparts must play their little games, in which Wakefield had always been a willing pawn, provided the compensation was generous.
“This garment is lovely,” her ladyship said, holding up Wakefield’s greatcoat. “I don’t know as I’ve seen another like it.”
“The workmanship is Russian. Matilda bought it for me when we spent a winter in St. Petersburg.” He hadn’t meant to say that, though it was the truth. “She has an eye for quality, in art, fashion, and the company she keeps.”
“You’re proud of her.” Lady Elspeth smoothed her hand over Wakefield’s shoulder. “I can hear that in your voice. I do hope you’ll introduce us when she returns from her travels.”
Not if she’s wanted for treason, you don’t. “The two of you would get along famously. She hasn’t your ear for music, but she’s passionate about chess and very well read.” Fat lot of good that would do her on an English winter night.
“Tell her to come home. Broadening the mind is all well and good, and heaven knows once a woman marries, her time is not her own, but tell her to come home.”
She passed Wakefield his scarf, a sumptuously soft purple cashmere Matilda had found in Edinburgh.
“What are we supposed to do with the empty hours, Thomas?” Lady Elspeth brushed her fingers along the curled brim of Wakefield’s top hat. “Our spouses expire, and one can’t be angry about that, though one is, and then our children grow up. Again, one knows the natural order calls for such eventualities, but what is one to do about them? You will think me pathetic.”
Wakefield had made good coin gathering such confidences from unlikely sources. His role as a gentleman merchant made conversational intimacies natural, and he’d been well paid for his skills. He’d forgotten that confidences could be gifts, unasked for, freely bestowed.
Had he also forgotten how to be a father?
“We take comfort from our friendships, my lady, and should that fail, I’m told spoiling grandchildren is a fine pastime.”
He offered his signature benevolent smile, she beamed back at him, and then he was out in the frigid air, cursing the Crown, foreign governments, musicales, and wayward daughters in particular. Pray God, Matilda eluded Lord Atticus Parker’s clutches until Wakefield could find her, though better that Parker come upon her than some factor of a more ruthless bent.
“Her ladyship didn’t like any of the angels,” Carlu said, falling in step with Wakefield at the foot of the drive. “I told you she wouldn’t.”
Wakefield’s porter had carried the figures, wrapped in thick wool and boxed with chopped straw, the distance from Wakefield’s home to Lady Elspeth’s.
“She likes me,” Wakefield said. “I suspect that’s the point of the exercise.”
“My esteemed employer is only now realizing this? The English winter has curdled your brains, sir. My testicles, should I ever have occasion to see them again, are likely curdled, too, but the infernal cold has shriveled my manly abundance to—”
“Carlu, how many toddies did you enjoy in Lady Elspeth’s kitchen?”
“Two. I believe rum was involved in the recipe. You know how I am about rum.”
Wakefield walked quickly, the better to battle the penetrating cold. A top hat was damned idiocy in weather like this, but an English gentleman did not go abroad bareheaded.
“You’re to return for the figures tomorrow,” Wakefield said. “She wants a day to consider her decision.”
“She wants you to come back tomorrow. Fortunately, the under-cook is friendly, and I flatter myself that—”
“Carlu, for God’s sake, if you have something to say, say it.”
Leather did not keep feet dry, but at least Wakefield had only a few streets to tramp in the slush and muck of London. Where was Matilda, and was she still wearing the single pair of half boots she’d taken with her months ago?
“Parker is making his way to Brightwell. His progress is slow—he’s gone off on several goose chases—but within days, a fortnight at most, he’ll find the place.”
“We have some time, then.” Not much, some. “Has Matilda been seen in the vicinity?”