fulsome compliments. He abjectly requests it as a favor.”
“Let me see that.” His father read the note with a frown. “He really will say anything to get what he wants. Who is Miss Verity Sinclair?”
Randolph did not miss his mother’s raised eyebrows. “A young lady. We sang an impromptu duet at Lady Tolland’s musicale. It was…well received.”
“Apparently, it was stunning,” the duchess said. “I’m so sorry to have missed it. Robert said you were wonderful.”
Despite his ambivalence, Randolph once again appreciated the praise from his most discerning brother.
“The prince hates to miss anything of note,” commented the duke.
“Must I do it?” asked Randolph.
“Awkward to refuse a direct royal request couched in these terms,” his father replied. “You can hope the young lady’s parents object.”
Randolph perked up. “Right. Not the thing for her to sing in public.”
The duke considered the letter again. “He makes a great point of it being a private party, quite exclusive. Her parents will probably agree to it, unless they’re remarkably straitlaced.”
Randolph sighed. He hadn’t gotten that impression from his encounters with Miss Sinclair. Hidebound parents couldn’t have produced such a…forthright girl. It seemed he was doomed to perform with her. He’d have to call and discuss the matter. He wondered what new insult she’d find for the occasion.
“Miss Sinclair is the one related to the Archbishop of Canterbury, isn’t she?” said his mother.
“Not one of his daughters?” asked the duke. “Doesn’t he have ten? But no, not with the surname Sinclair.”
“It’s not as bad as that,” Randolph replied.
“What do you mean ‘as bad’? Is there something wrong with the girl? She must be related to the Duke of Rutland, too.”
“Perhaps a good connection for you, Randolph?” said the duchess.
Randolph knew that look. She was intrigued. There was no stopping Mama when her curiosity was aroused. “Nothing’s wrong with Miss Sinclair,” he replied. Except the way she treated him. “I just need to stay out of the archbishop’s way for a while. A while longer. Not too much longer now, perhaps. I hope.”
“Why? What did you do to the archbishop?”
“I didn’t do anything to him, Mama.”
She waited, rather like Ruff at a mousehole. Papa waited as well, with the amused expression he assumed when his mate was extracting information from one of their progeny. The picture—and the conviction that there was no way out—was as familiar as childhood. Thinking he might as well get it over with, Randolph spoke quickly.
“It’s ridiculous really. Three years ago, I organized a Christmas pageant at my church. The archbishop happened to be near Hexham at the time, so he paid a visit. Everyone was quite excited. It was a great occasion. But a young…humorist had put a ram in the manger instead of a proper sheep. The archbishop was leaning over to compliment one of the children who played an angel, and the ram, er…”
“Knocked him down?” said his mother when he hesitated.
“Bit off one of his coattails?” offered the duke when Randolph still didn’t speak.
“No.” Randolph sighed. The scene was engraved on his memory. Unfortunately. “The archbishop had on white vestments, from an earlier rite. When he bent down, the ram…seemingly…mistook him for a ewe.”
His father’s snort was not unexpected.
“Mistook…?” His mother’s mouth fell open. “Oh. Oh dear.”
“Two burly parishioners had to help me get the creature off him,” Randolph continued. “The archbishop was thoroughly shaken up and not…understanding.” The prelate’s glare had been searing; his secretary’s even more so. “Since then, I’ve been lying low in church circles.”
“I daresay,” said the duke. Only his blue eyes laughed, but they did it very well.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said the duchess.
“I was in charge,” said Randolph. “I should have noticed the ram.” The youngster who’d smuggled it in had been contrite—when he could stop laughing. But the damage had been done. “Time has passed,” said Randolph. “The memory must be fading. I have a new parish, a fresh start. But I don’t think a close association with a relative of the archbishop’s is—”
“Advisable,” supplied his father.
“Precisely.”
The duchess’s expression was hard to read. Randolph had seen her look that way when she was planning to canvas her country neighbors for contributions to her educational schemes, and when she was choosing jewels to match a ball gown.
“We’ll sing a few songs for the prince’s guests, and that will be that,” he declared. “No need for concern, Mama. Or…intervention.”
“I would never do anything you didn’t like,” she answered.