What a Spinster Wants - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,26
be too great a risk to take on.
How in the world had Lady Edith’s family agreed to the match?
Sir Archibald hadn’t been in the match long, dying after a drunken ride on his horse shortly after his wedding. The details of the thing weren’t all that clear to the public, and he suspected only Lady Edith and the local magistrate in York knew the full truth. In many respects, life should have improved for Lady Edith with her new bridegroom gone.
By present accounts, however, that was not the case.
This was going to be complicated, and it would, undoubtedly, be a mistake.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the London home of the Ingrams, prompting a rough exhale from Graham as he eyed the façade.
Too late now.
He rose and pushed out of the carriage, not bothering to pause before striding up the few steps to the door. He rapped his knuckles on the surface twice and was let in before he could go for a third.
Clearly, he was expected.
Graham nodded at the butler as he handed his cloak and gloves to a footman nearby. “Am I the last to arrive?”
“You are, sir,” the older man confirmed. “Word has been sent to some others, but I understand they are not expected this evening.”
Interesting. Unless Graham was mistaken, nothing Lady Edith had suffered at the hands of the weasel would require a meeting of such urgency that others would need to be roused from their beds. But perhaps whatever evils that were afoot had been going on for such a length of time that enough was enough.
One instance would have been enough, surely.
But he was not here to judge; he was here to learn.
Silently, he was led down the corridor by the butler, taking fleeting notice of the details of the Ingram home. Nothing overly ostentatious, but perhaps more embellishments to the simple structure of the place than Graham would have made. Tastefully done, though, and fairly refined.
He would chalk that up to the tastes of Lady Ingram and think all the better of her for it. She was from one of the more prominent families in Society, though hardly the wealthiest, and in Graham’s limited experience, the more prominent families had peculiar, if exorbitant, tendencies. He hadn’t known much of Lady Ingram before her marriage to Lord Ingram, so he couldn’t have said prior to this if she followed suit.
It seemed the Ingrams were not of that sort.
A soft clearing of the throat brought Graham’s attention up, and he felt a faint level of heat enter his cheeks. It was rare that he was caught gaping at anyone or anything, but to do so at this moment seemed somehow worst of all. He knew that some butlers doubled as spies for their masters, and the inference that Graham was somehow in awe of the Ingrams was not something he would be pleased to have spread about.
The butler moved to a nearby doorway and stood at attention.
“Lord Radcliffe.”
Graham raised a brow. Formality? At this time of night? He mentally shook his head as he strode forward and bowed to the general room without pausing to look at anyone within.
“What’s he doing here?” Lady Edith cried, her rich Scottish brogue ringing out prominently. “Aubrey!”
“Thank you, Locke,” Ingram replied mildly, unruffled by the protests to Graham’s presence. “Radcliffe, please come in.”
Graham nodded once, finally looking around as he stepped into the room. The same individuals from their group at the theatre were present now, and, but for the pale look of sheer horror on the face of Lady Edith, all appeared the same as before. Interestingly, he did note that all held small plates in their laps or near them, bearing parts or crumbs of an evening repast.
Perhaps they should have met in a dining room, instead.
“Would you care for some refreshment, my lord?” Lady Ingram asked, gesturing to the spread atop the sideboard in the room.
Not really, no, but if everyone else was…
“Thank you,” he murmured as he nodded to her, moving to the food.
“I ask again, wha’ in the devil’s wee pockets is he doing here?” Lady Edith demanded.
“I don’t recall hearing that one the first time,” Mr. Vale mused aloud, shifting his weight as he stood behind the couch his wife sat upon. “I think I would have remembered it.”
Mrs. Vale reached up to cover his hand on her shoulder with a slender hand of her own, no doubt silently shushing him.