in mind, later, my love.”
“But I do,” Letty said with a sweet smile.
Reade chuckled. “I don’t know how you manage this all too clever wife of yours, Cartwright.”
“It takes some astute maneuvering,” Brandon said with a grin.
“It works well.” Letty gathered up her shawl, reticule, and fan. “Because I allow Brandon to believe it. Ah, there is Lady Sommerville, I promised to give her a recipe for gooseberry cheese.”
“Minx,” Brandon murmured, looking appreciative. Once his wife moved out of earshot, he turned to Reade and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I daresay Viscount Sidmouth is waiting.”
“I’m curious as to why the Home Office has involved us in a matter ordinarily left to Bow Street,” Reade said as they crossed the floor. “Has Sidmouth some interest in tonight’s host?”
“A bigger fish, methinks. But you may make a variety of guesses,” Brandon said as they walked to the library. “It’s my hope he is about to tell us, and quickly, so I might remove my lady to home and bed.”
Reade chuckled. He would not be averse to marriage if he could find a lady like Letitia Cartwright. Dashed if he wouldn’t. But then, that would mean upending a way of life that served him well. And what could he offer a wife? A drafty estate in the north, filled with such painful memories that he hardly ever visited? He would not fool himself into believing he could make a woman happy. It would not be fair to the lady.
The library was empty. “It appears Sidmouth has got caught up somewhere,” Brandon said resignedly.
Reade stretched his length out from a padded chair and watched the flames lick into the wood. “Nice of them to light us a fire, though, pass the brandy decanter, there’s a good fellow.”
Chapter Three
The next morning, the two gentlemen who partnered Jo at the ball, and Mr. Baxter sent their cards. They called promptly at two o’clock in the afternoon. Mr. Baxter silently drank his tea while he eyed the other gentlemen with an expression of grave censure. Although Jo would never consider Mr. Baxter for a husband, she agreed with him. She distrusted the way the other two fawned on her. They effusively agreed with everything she said as if she was an oracle or a renowned beauty.
“Well, you are beautiful, Jo,” her father said when she moaned to him later. “But I believe they have learned of our improved financial circumstances.”
She disliked being judged by her father’s wealth and the size of her dowry. To suddenly become a person of consequence sat awkwardly on her shoulders. If it meant people treated her differently, she wouldn’t care for it. Back in Wiltshire, she was on good terms with everyone, except those up at the manor, to whom she remained virtually invisible.
“It is the way of the world, Jo,” her father said.
“Well, I don’t care for it.”
“Nor I. Even though my circumstances have changed, I will never judge a man by his fortune,” he said. “Unlike your mother’s family, who cast your mother and your aunt out because of me.”
It always made Jo mad. Her father was the best of fellows.
The order at Madame Moreau’s salon was all but finished. The dressmaker was as English as Jo was, for her French accent slipped on occasion to become something less refined, but Madame knew what clothes a debutante needed, and Jo’s confidence in her grew. A room full of needlewomen finished several outfits to a very high standard. A cape of gold cloth trimmed with soft sable, an elegant green and white satin carriage dress, and a striped sarsenet promenade dress with Vandyke edging. The white silk evening gown decorated with gold braid made Jo catch her breath. She would purchase gold slippers to wear with it.
Madame’s recommendations sent Jo and Aunt Mary to the best establishments to purchase hats and accessories. Jo bought a fetching leghorn bonnet ornamented with a plume of down feathers and another bonnet of white velvet trimmed with satin, several pairs of white gloves, and a pair of primrose leather, and a frilly white parasol. Aunt Mary chose a lovely India shawl, a white crepe fan embroidered with silver, and a lace cap with a broad satin bow.
At five o’clock the following day, she and her aunt promenaded in Hyde Park among the fashionable ladies and gentlemen. Jo watched the riders trot down Rotten Row while searching fruitlessly for a large dark-haired gentleman.
That evening they listened to the wail of bagpipes in Astley’s Amphitheater