from being so boring.”
Donovan sighed. He had no solution to offer her. He stood up and went to the sideboard and poured whiskey into his glass. “By the by, I was down at the docks today.”
Hollis loved Donovan too much to ask why he might have been down on the docks. “Were you?”
“I met a pair of sailors who’d only just docked on a return from the Continent. Oh, but they were chatty, those two. Nattered on at a pace. They’d been to France, they said, and Louis Napoleon has been elected president and favors imperialism. They mean to hire on to French ships because they think they’ll be rich.” He shook his head and came back to his seat. “One of them said something I thought you’d find interesting.”
“Oh?”
“He said there were four Weslorians aboard their ship. Not just any four, mind you, but four soldiers.”
Hollis didn’t see the importance of it and waited for him to say more.
Donovan stacked his feet on the footstool. “That’s what the bloke said. Said he recognized them because of the bit of green pinned to their lapels, aye? Said they were big men, strongly built.” One of his dark eyebrows rose as he sipped his whiskey.
Hollis thought of Mr. Brendan, another man with a bit of green on his lapel who was strongly built. Unrefined, rugged good looks. Like a sailor, she mused. Hadn’t she said exactly that? “What sort of ship?” she asked curiously.
Donovan shrugged. “Scottish merchant.”
Hollis pondered that. She wondered if she ought to pay another visit to the insufferable Mr. Kettle. “What was the name of it?”
“The Anna Marie.”
Hollis gasped. The Anna Marie! She knew that ship—everyone in Mayfair knew that ship. That was the name of the vessel that Lord Douglas had bought against his father’s wishes—Hollis had reported the purchase of it. The gossip was that he’d won so much at a gaming table he hadn’t known what to do with all that money, so he’d purchased the ship from a bankrupt merchant. Hollis knew Lord Douglas very well—they’d attended the same parish church as children. He could be quite charming when he was of a mind, but he had a notorious reputation and was abroad more often than not. He’d only recently come to London, some say to escape the very watchful eye of his father in Scotland.
“Why would four Weslorian soldiers arrive in London on a Scottish merchant ship?” she asked. “Do you suppose that—”
She did not finish her question because someone was suddenly knocking loudly on the front door. Donovan looked at the clock. “It’s half past seven. Who would come calling on a night like this?”
Hollis’s heart skipped. “You don’t think something has happened to Pappa, do you?”
“No. If Poppy were sent for you, she’d come in without knocking.”
“It wouldn’t be Caro or Eliza, not at this hour. Beck?”
Donovan snorted. “I’ve no doubt he’s completely at his leisure at this hour. I’ll see who it is.”
Hollis was suddenly filled with a sense of unease. “Let them knock,” she said, even as the person knocked again, but more insistently.
“It’s probably someone with something for the gazette,” Donovan said. “You’ve handed those calling cards to everyone, haven’t you? You’ve asked for news. You might at least hear what the person has to say.”
Hollis groaned. “I’m not prepared to receive callers. And what could it be, really? I already know that Lord Farstowe is having an affair—everyone knows Lord Farstowe is having an affair. Except Lady Farstowe, of course.”
The knock came again, only louder, as if the caller wasn’t at all certain his first knocks had been heard.
“It might be Lady Farstowe herself,” Donovan said. “I’ll just have a look.”
“Wait!” Hollis urged, but Donovan was already walking from the room.
With a groan, Hollis fell back in her chair. She pulled her wrap tightly around herself and hoped that Donovan dispatched whoever it was. The hot toddy had muddied her thoughts a little.
It seemed forever before Donovan returned to the room. “You’ve a caller, madam,” he said, rather formally. “A gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” Hollis stood up so quickly that she knocked over her footstool. “At this hour?”
“For you.”
“I’m in my stocking feet! Who is it?” She put a hand to her hair—she’d tugged out the tight curls hours ago. “Wait. I don’t care who it is, send him away. I can’t receive anyone like this.”
“He has your calling card,” Donovan said.
“Yes, yes, I gave them around to everyone, as you said. I even gave one to Mr. Ket—”