Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(61)

In Bath, Camille handed the invitation to Joel without any comment and watched his face as he read it.

“Unless memory is failing me,” he said, “we do not have any official booking here that week.”

“We do not,” she said.

“It would be a long journey for the children,” he said.

“And for us.” She smiled at him. “And you have only recently returned from another long journey, you poor thing.”

“Winifred would be thrilled,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “So would Sarah. And Jacob would sleep.”

“Perhaps your Grandmama Kingsley would like to come with us,” he said. “I expect she has been invited too.”

“I remember the Marquess of Dorchester from the spring months I used to spend in London,” she said, “though he was plain Mr. Lamarr then. He is fearfully handsome.”

“Fearfully?”

“Yes,” she said. “Fearfully. I suppose you did not notice. I still find it hard to believe that Mama is going to marry him.”

“Or anyone?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she said after thinking about it. “It is hard to imagine one’s mother wanting to marry anyone. We will go, then?”

“Of course,” he said.

And of course Mrs. Kingsley was happy to go with them. “I need to take a look at that young man,” she said. “I do not like the few things I have heard of him.”

In Dorsetshire, the Reverend Michael Kingsley conferred with his wife. He had just taken a far longer leave of absence than he had originally intended. They had gone to Bath supposedly for a few days to attend the christening of his great-nephew and had stayed for a few weeks after the disappearance of his sister. He would need to take leave again over Christmas—the very worst time, with the exception of Easter, for a man of his calling—in order to attend Viola’s wedding. He really could not make a good case for going all the way to Northamptonshire in October just to attend her betrothal party.

“Could I, Mary?” he asked.

“She is your only sister,” his wife reminded him. “When she came to live with you here for a while a couple of years ago, she was dreadfully hurt. She was all locked up inside herself, as I remember you telling me. And I agreed, though we were not married at the time and I did not see a great deal of her. You want to go, do you not? You want to see him. You are worried.”

“Riverdale—her husband—was the lowest form of human life,” he said, “and may I be forgiven for passing such judgment upon a fellow mortal. I could not abide being within ten miles of him. Consequently, and to my shame, I did not see much of Viola during those years, or of my nieces and nephew. I cannot bear the thought that she might be making the same mistake all over again, Mary. I spoke with the present Riverdale while we were still in Bath and with Lord Molenor—husband of one of the Westcott sisters, you will recall—and the Duke of Netherby. Dorchester is the sort no man of sense would wish upon his daughter or sister. But there is nothing I can do, is there, if she is determined to have him?”

“Except be there,” she said. “You cannot be certain that your presence will be meaningless, Michael. If nothing else it will assure Viola that she is loved, that her family cares. And perhaps you will be surprised. Perhaps all your fears will be put to rest. The marquess is, after all, willing to do the decent thing.”

“But only because he was caught red-handed,” he said.

“You do not know that,” she said, taking his hand across the breakfast table. “You will be miserable if you do not go, Michael. You will feel that somehow you have failed her.”

“Again.” He frowned.

“Besides,” she said, smiling at him, “I cannot wait until Christmas to get my first glimpse of the notorious Marquess of Dorchester. Camille told me he is fearfully handsome.”

“Fearfully?”

“Her very word,” she said.

It was she who sat down a little later to write an acceptance while her husband stood behind her chair. His hands were clasped at his back, a frown on his face, as he resisted the inappropriate temptation to lean down to kiss the back of her neck.

At Morland Abbey, country seat of the Duke of Netherby, Louise Archer, née Westcott, the dowager duchess, waved her invitation in the air as the duke and duchess joined her and her daughter, Jessica, at the breakfast table.

“You have one too,” she said, indicating the small pile of mail that had been placed between Anna’s plate and Avery’s.

“I am overcome with joy,” Avery informed his stepmother, his voice sighing with ennui. “And what exactly is it we have one of? You may save Anna from having to read it for herself.”

“An invitation to Redcliffe Court,” Jessica blurted, “to a betrothal party for Aunt Viola and the Marquess of Dorchester. I thought only Aunt Viola and Abby were invited, but I think we all are. Lady Estelle Lamarr would hardly send invitations to us and to no one else in the family, would she? We must go, Mama. Please, please, Avery. I cannot wait to see the marquess. Camille says he is fearfully handsome despite the fact that he must be old.”

“My love,” her mother said reproachfully.

“Fearfully?” Avery’s quizzing glass hovered near his eye.