Marquesses at the Masquerade(108)
Giles was a father, older, wiser, and undoubtedly sadder. Lucy had been desperately upset over his only letter, but eventually, she’d seen that he’d done her a kindness. The war had gone on for years, and too many soldiers had never come home.
Waiting for him could have been so much futility ending in bereavement.
“Twins are always a challenge,” she said. “I’ve noticed that if I make the effort to refer to them as individuals, using their names rather than simply calling them ‘the twins,’ or ‘you two,’ I have fewer problems. I’ve also noticed that always dressing them alike, in the manner of matched footmen on display, isn’t wise.”
Giles sat back as if startled. “I had never thought… I had never considered… But then, in the army, when the drill sergeants are dressing down the recruits, the sergeants refer to the lads in collective insults—‘you lot,’ ‘you disgraces.’ When they praise a man, they always single him out by name.”
“It’s a detail,” Lucy said. “Probably of no significance at all.”
“I doubt that, and yet, none of the nurses, tutors, and governesses I’ve employed ever once put forth these insights.”
An odd moment went by, during which Lucy had the sense she was being reassessed, and that old affection—or whatever Giles had brought to this reunion—was being supplemented by new respect. The clock chimed the hour, and he stood.
“Might I call on you again, Lucy? We haven’t nearly begun to catch up. I have much to tell you about Portugal and about the business of making port. The land is beautiful in a way I can’t describe, not as tame as dear England, and the people are wonderful.”
“I am torn,” Lucy said, rising. “While I am glad to know you prosper, and I wish you every joy, I do not want to create any mistaken impressions. I love my life here, Giles, and I love Lord Tyne’s children. I am prospering too, in my way, and the terms of my employment do not contemplate that I will be socializing with many gentleman callers.”
“I do believe I have just been given a preemptory spanking,” he said. “I understand your situation, Lucy, but even a governess is entitled to meet an old friend on her half day.”
Where was the harm in that suggestion? He’d go back to Portugal, and Lucy would be able to close the door on a youthful indiscretion that she’d never quite come to terms with.
“I can meet you for an ice at Gunter’s on Tuesday at two of the clock. If I’m not there, assume my duties intervened, as they sometimes do.”
Or she might have changed her mind, as she seldom did.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Giles said, bowing over her hand. When Lucy would have withdrawn her fingers from his grasp, he smoothed a caress to her knuckles, then kissed the back of her hand. No other gentleman had ever taken such a liberty—nobody except Giles, who apparently hadn’t lost all of his youthful audacity.
Lucy snatched her hand back, ready to deliver a sound scold, but Giles strode to the door.
“Until Tuesday, Lucy. I’ll be counting the hours.”
*
Tyne met Miss Fletcher’s guest at the door, for Captain Throckmorton by rights ought to have called upon Tyne, then asked after Lucy. He ought, in fact, to have brought a mutual acquaintance to make introductions between host and caller too. That he hadn’t observed those courtesies made the whole question of chaperoning the call awkward. The housekeeper was out for the afternoon, and the senior maid enjoyed her half day on Saturday.
Tyne took an interest in these details of the household schedule because Miss Fletcher had informed him months ago that he must. No lady of the house was on hand to maintain domestic order. The staff had to know somebody was in charge or slacking—a transgression sufficient to threaten the peace of the realm—might ensue.
“Captain Throckmorton, good day.”
Throckmorton was a good-looking devil and several years younger than Tyne, damn the luck.
The captain bowed. “Do I have the pleasure of encountering Lord Tyne?”
“You do.” A purely masculine pause ensued. Tyne took control of the figurative snorting and pawing by handing Throckmorton his hat. “Any friend of Miss Fletcher’s will always be welcome under my roof, provided that friend comes in good faith. We cherish Miss Fletcher, and her happiness matters here.”
Throckmorton apparently had little experience with parliamentary flag signals. What sounded like a pleasantry could be a threat, which Miss Fletcher’s caller would understand the instant he misstepped.
“Lucy is an old and very dear friend,” Throckmorton replied. “I’ve been remiss to let the connection lapse in recent years, but my regard for her is of long standing. I rejoice to know that her situation here is so comfortable.”
Tyne all but shoved Throckmorton’s walking stick against his chest. “She is Miss Fletcher to you.”
“I beg your pardon. You are right, sir. Miss Fletcher.”
Never had Tyne wanted so badly to smash his fist into another man’s jaw, but Miss Fletcher would scold him about fisticuffs in the foyer, setting a bad example, and jeopardizing the decorum of a peer’s household. She might even assign him a list of sums. The altercation would be worth the set-down, if she’d scold Throckmorton as well; but, alas, Tyne was the host. Miss Fletcher had firm ideas of how hosts should behave.