I would like confirmation that you are truly finished attempting to save him from his poor choices.
I have asked my messenger to wait for your response as time is of the essence.
Sincerely,
Lord Damion
Elliott read the letter a second time before leaving the room in search of his wife, Amelia.
He found her in the kitchen making bread, a task she insisted on continuing a few times a week despite the glares she received from the cook each time she darkened the kitchen flagstones. Mrs. Galloway had already had to make space for Mohammed, the cook Elliott had brought back from India, who prepared most of Elliott’s dinners, and now she had to allow Amelia to make bread. She showed her displeasure at having her domain invaded in every sharp movement as she chopped vegetables for a meal for the servants. To Elliott’s delight, Amelia quite liked the Indian fare that had ruined him for bland English food—though he still enjoyed a good English breakfast every morning and tea every afternoon. Nothing could compete with Mrs. Galloway’s treacle tarts and lemon buns.
Elliott centered his attention on Amelia. “Ah, there’s my countess.”
Amelia looked up from the dough and gave him a wry smile as she pummeled the mass. “My lord,” she said with as much derision as possible. But there was a smile there, and he winked to acknowledge it. She was not entirely comfortable with her rise in station since their marriage four months ago and seemed to feel it necessary to act put out by the formalities. He knew, however, that she did not mind having the best pew at church or a carriage at her disposal any time she liked.
“I’ve received a letter regarding Harry. Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes, please,” she said, waving a flour-covered hand his way.
Amelia had not been supportive of the marriage campaign Elliott had devised to help his family rise to their potential when she first learned of it, but a great deal had changed since then.
Julia, Amelia’s daughter who had married his nephew and heir, Peter, was expecting a child. And Timothy now lived with his bride of six months in Somerset, having quickly developed a fondness for sailing and sea bathing. He wrote the most effusive letters to Amelia and Elliott every month and planned to bring his new wife to Howard House for Christmastide.
Amelia sometimes pointed out that the joy his nephews had found in love was despite the campaign, but Elliott would remind her that the campaign had played a significant role in each courtship all the same. She argued her position less and less as time went on and she better understood Elliott’s concern for his remaining unmarried nieces and nephews.
He was not sharing this letter with Amelia for her own sake, however, but rather because he found it nearly impossible to make a decision without asking her opinion now that it was available to him. Even when they did not agree, the debate would bring him clarity that influenced his decision for the better. He’d been the lone head of his family for more than thirty years. To have a partner was manna from heaven.
Elliott cleared his throat and read the letter while Amelia’s kneading slowed, then stopped.
“How very odd,” she said when he finished.
“Yes. I’m not sure what to think of it.”
“There’s no request for money, so I don’t see why you should be unsettled, aside from the fact that Harry is often unsettling.”
Elliott nodded. Harry had written him last month—after nearly a year of silence—and all but demanded that Elliott step in and save him. It had been harder to say “No” than Harry would ever understand.
Amelia returned to her bread. “I’m relieved he’s found what seems to be a good option and that he’s been honest with her about the inheritance. Perhaps this is the beginning of some positive changes in his life.”
Elliott stared at his wife. “‘Her’?”
“Well, yes, surely you can see that Lord Damion is a woman.” She waved toward the letter. “Her turns of phrase are very feminine.”
Elliott looked back to the letter. “For the life of me, I have no idea what you mean.”
Amelia smiled gently. “You read the letter without consideration that it could be a woman, while I—as soon as it said nom de plume—immediately suspected the possibility. That is the trouble with men: they think they know everything from the start and therefore miss the most obvious of clues. Surely you noticed she could have said what needed