His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(36)

“You have become positively devoted to your constitutionals, Penelope.”

The truant appeared in the parlor doorway looking appropriately guilty. “Good day, Mrs. Braithwaite.”

“Well, come in,” Roberta said. “I’ve no objection to you enjoying a bit of the air, provided you took Thomas with you.”

“I did, of course. Just for a turn in the park.” Penelope hovered in the doorway, while Roberta made herself a sandwich from the offerings on a tray. “You hadn’t come down for breakfast, ma’am, so I thought luncheon would be set back. I’m sorry if I’ve upset the household schedule.”

Whoever Penelope was meeting in the park, he’d put some color in her otherwise pale cheeks.

“Your outing has left you flushed,” Roberta said. “Have a seat and let’s get some sustenance into you. You must help me plan my next assault on the citadel of Grampion’s stubbornness. What sort of man keeps a grieving child from her only female relation?”

Penelope perched on the edge of an armchair. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, ma’am. His lordship was not exactly approachable, was he?”

“Earls. The only thing worse is a new viscount for being contrary and self-important. Marquesses and dukes tend to be secure enough in their stations that they needn’t put on airs, and barons know their places.”

Roberta took a bite of ham with watercress and mustard. The bread was yesterday’s and would have done better as toast.

“His lordship was quite informal with the children in the park today,” Penelope said. Her sandwich consisted of butter and watercress, not a slice of beef or even a nibble of cheese.

More for me, Roberta thought, finishing her sandwich. “Grampion was frolicking in the park?”

“He was in the company of Miss Lily Ferguson, and they were supervising two small girls. I assume one of the girls was Amy Marguerite.”

Roberta washed down her sandwich with lemonade that could have used more sugar. “How do you know Miss Ferguson?”

“You’ve pointed out her uncle, ma’am. You said Mr. Leggett was the brother of an old friend, and I’ve noticed that he seldom appears socially without his niece. I adore fresh butter.”

As if Roberta would allow the kitchen to send up any other kind. “Lily Ferguson is the closest thing Walter has to a hostess. Miss Ferguson’s mother died years ago, left the poor girl orphaned and positively awash in money.”

Lady Nadine Leggett had been excessively pretty, but also so friendly, Roberta hadn’t been able to resent her. Then Lady Nadine had married a ducal spare and shortly ended up a wealthy, titled widow.

Any woman would have found those turns of fortune deserving of a bit of jealousy. “She had little time to be a merry widow, though, more’s the pity.”

And Lady Nadine had been merry. Exceedingly merry. Roberta had had a letter or two from her confessing as much.

“Would you like more lemonade, ma’am?”

Roberta would have liked a nice, cool glass of hock, but German wines were not cheap. No wine worth drinking was cheap, no cheese worth serving, no dresses worth wearing…

“The lemonade is too tart. I am quite vexed with Lord Grampion. How dare he be gamboling in the park like some schoolboy on holiday when Amy Marguerite has been dealt such a grievous blow?”

Penelope began assembling a second sandwich. “If I may say, Amy Marguerite looked to be having a capital time. She was laughing and racing about, if that was her.”

“Blond hair, about seven years old—or six, I forget which—on the petite side?”

“That sounds like her. The other girl was either older or of sturdier conformation. They got on famously, from what little I saw.”

“Did Grampion snatch my poor Amy Marguerite away from her friend?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, but I did not want to tarry in the park in case you awoke and had need of me.”

What a parcel of lies. Whatever callow swain Penelope had met had likely spared the poor thing only a moment or two of his time. Men were like that.

“I wonder if Walter Leggett knows what a baggage his sister was.”

Penelope helped herself to a glass of lemonade. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

Nobody ever said why one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. The living were on hand to take offense and mete out retribution for impolite talk. The dead were too busy strumming their harps.

“Lady Nadine—then Lady Alfred, for she married Lord Alfred Ferguson—got to enjoying her widowhood, and little more than a year after losing her husband, she was off on an extended stay in Rome. You know what that means.”

Penelope peered at Roberta over one of the last two crystal glasses in everyday use. “She needed to work on her Italian?”

Roberta helped herself to a tea cake, though she’d had several already. “Was that an attempt to be humorous? Lady Nadine was an earl’s daughter. Her skill with languages was impeccable, while her common sense was never sufficiently in evidence. She’d got herself in trouble, and while a child appearing directly after a man’s death might be considered his offspring, Nadine’s problem presented itself too long after any claim of legitimacy might have been made.”

Penelope set down her glass. “That must have been very difficult for all concerned.”