A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,44
making some vague reference to renovations in progress, Millicent’s ill health, or another excuse for turning away callers. This was the choice she should have made, given the despair in Miss Price’s eyes, and the venom in Lady Phoebe’s. In London, Althea had resorted to all manner of fictions to placate the Miss Prices and Lady Phoebes lurking beside every potted palm.
And what had that accomplished, other than to encourage the same women to slight her and talk about her behind their fans?
“I am always happy to receive my friends and neighbors at Lynley Vale,” Althea replied. “Lady Phoebe can give you my direction, but I will warn you: If you make any attempt to steal my cook, you will be escorted from the property.”
That general invitation—Althea’s third option—should have been less upsetting to Miss Price. If the young lady had any initiative, she’d accompany Ellenbrook on the call. As Althea made her way to the drawing room, she realized she honestly did not care how Lady Phoebe regarded the exchange.
“Aunt, I do believe you’ve forgotten to offer Lady Althea a spot of tea,” Miss Price said, when every other female guest in the parlor had been served.
“Did I? Oh, my lady, I beg your pardon. Let me send for a fresh pot.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Althea said, certain the fresh pot would be tepid and weak, when it eventually arrived.
“I must insist. Tell me, what do you hear from your family these days?”
Lady Phoebe’s question felt like the handshake offered before a champion pugilist pounded an upstart challenger into the dirt. “They are keeping well, thank you.”
“You must miss them terribly. Do come sit beside me and tell me the news from your dear sister-in-law. Has Her Grace been blessed with a son in her nursery yet?”
Nasty, nasty woman. Althea moved closer to the sofa, there being nowhere else to sit, and consigned her hostess to the ranks of verbal brawlers. No science to her meanness, no subtlety.
“Their Graces count their three daughters foremost among their many blessings.”
Her ladyship took a slow sip of tea, which was rude in the extreme when a guest had not yet been served. “A peer needs an heir, though, you must agree. Such a pity when a title goes begging. One never knows who the College of Arms will turn up when they grow desperate.” Her tone said that a wealthy and honorable banker inheriting a ducal title—as Quinn had—was the worst insult the peerage could have suffered.
A few weeks ago, Althea would have tried to change the subject, or worse, she would have agreed with Lady Phoebe’s bile in the vain hope her ladyship would be placated. Since then, Althea had made Rothhaven’s acquaintance, had kissed him, and had left him to his walled garden and his somber hall.
She dreamed of him nightly, she missed him by day with a hollow, hopeless ache. Compared to those sentiments, dealing with Lady Phoebe had become like swatting at a persistent housefly. Her ladyship was impossible to ignore and utterly undeserving of attention.
“Fortunately,” Althea said, “my brother Stephen is heir to the Walden title, and my cousin Duncan serves as the spare.”
Lady Phoebe stirred her tea. “Lord Stephen is the lame fellow?” As if Stephen were a foundered coach horse.
“An injury sustained in childhood means my brother uses two canes rather than one. He is far from lame.”
A footman arrived with the fresh teapot, which necessitated a pause between verbal rounds. Althea imagined the other ladies quietly placing bets.
“How do you take your tea, Lady Althea?”
“Plain will do.”
“Here.” Lady Phoebe set the cup and saucer on the low table. “Sit with me and enjoy your tea.”
“Will you be going south later this spring?” Althea asked, taking another sniff of the daffodils.
“I haven’t decided. Some of that depends on Miss Price. Sybil is positively deluged with invitations from all the best families in York and one doesn’t like to ignore neighbors no matter how delightful the blandishments of the capital. Tell me, Lady Althea, is it true that His Grace of Walden now owns two banks? What could one possibly need with a second bank?”
Two piles of filthy lucre, two blatant associations with trade, two blots on the Walden escutcheon.
Althea wandered near the sofa rather than broadcast her reply to the whole parlor. “I would not know, Lady Phoebe. His Grace’s business dealings are certainly no concern of mine.” Or yours. “I’ll have that tea now.”
Lady Phoebe lifted the cup and saucer and Althea extended her