Marquesses at the Masquerade(109)
Hosts should show a polite interest in every guest. “Will you be in England long, Mr. Throckmorton?” Tyne had consulted with Drummond, who as butler had gleaned that Throckmorton was visiting from his vineyards in Portugal and had known Miss Fletcher before deploying to Spain as a captain in Wellington’s army.
Drummond was overdue for an increase in wages.
“I haven’t decided how long I’ll stay,” Throckmorton said. “I’d forgotten how lovely the land of my birth is, and now that my children are once again in need of a mother, I’ll likely be spending more time here.”
Meaning Throckmorton was in need of a wife. “My condolences. All I can tell you is that the pain of losing a spouse fades, but the ache never entirely leaves you.”
Throckmorton’s expression of genteel sorrow faltered, suggesting he’d alluded to his widower status out of something other than paternal devotion to the children he’d abandoned hundreds of miles away.
He pulled on his gloves. “My thanks for that sage observation. Army life gives a man some perspective where death and loss are concerned, but your view is also appreciated.”
How bloody gracious of him. “My years in Lower Canada afforded me the same perspective. The winter alone cost us many good soldiers.” Tyne had served for only two years and mostly in peacetime. Papa had decreed that a man destined to help run an empire ought to see something besides sheep pastures and ballrooms before he sat in the Lords.
In the military, Tyne had become proficient in all manner of card games, perfected his aim with a rifle, and learned to tolerate cold the like of which no self-important grape farmer would ever encounter.
“I’ll wish you good day,” Throckmorton said, bowing. “Until next we meet, my lord.”
“Until that happy occasion,” Tyne said, signaling Drummond to open the door. “Should I not have the pleasure of encountering you again, safe and swift journey home when you rejoin your children.”
Tyne summoned the same smile he used on junior MPs spouting radical notions. Out you go, lad, and mind your manners around Miss Fletcher.
Throckmorton had no choice but to accept his dismissal, and Drummond closed the door.
“Is Miss Fletcher to be at home to Mr. Throckmorton in future, sir?” Drummond asked.
If Tyne said yes, he was admitting into his home a potential competitor for Miss Fletcher’s services as a governess. A nursery full of bereaved little souls in Portugal would call to her, as they should to anybody with half a heart.
Throckmorton was also a competitor for her affections. His posturing, his attempt to circumvent propriety, his use of informal address… Tyne had every sympathy for a grieving widower, and no patience at all for a manipulative bounder.
And yet, if Tyne said no, that Miss Fletcher was not at home if Mr. Throckmorton called again, then Tyne was disrespecting the lady’s independence. After all she’d done for Tyne and his children, she was owed, and she surely had earned, his respect.
“You must ask Miss Fletcher,” Tyne said, “and inquire of her as well whether our housekeeper ought to join any future calls that Mr. Throckmorton pays on my household.”
More than that, Tyne could not in good conscience do—not until he’d completed the awkward conversation with Miss Fletcher that Mr. Throckmorton’s arrival had so inconveniently interrupted.
*
We cherish Miss Fletcher, and her happiness matters here.
Lord Tyne had spoken at sufficient volume that Lucy had heard him in the formal parlor. Giles’s half of the conversation had been harder to discern, which was just as well. Eavesdroppers never heard any good of themselves.
Though, to be cherished… His lordship did not posture for the sake of impressing anybody, least of all a casual caller.
“I have seen Mr. Throckmorton out,” the marquess said, wandering into the formal parlor. “If you’d like a chaperone for any future calls, please let the housekeeper know.”
“Thank you.”
He took the piano bench. “What are you thanking me for, Miss Fletcher?”
Being yourself. “Being protective. Giles is an old, old friend, but I hadn’t seen him for years. People can change over time.”
His lordship spun around and opened the cover over the keys. “You call him Giles.”
What mood is this? “I knew him when I was a girl, and before he left for Spain, we had something of a flirtation.”
“Are you being delicate?”
“Yes.” And euphemistic. A mutual pawing would have been a more accurate description. The thought made Lucy smile, which, where Giles was concerned, was a relief. What a pair of young nodcocks they’d been.
“You recall him fondly, in other words.” His lordship began the slow movement from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, often called Pathétique. The first theme was lyrical and lovely, and he played it at the flowing, calm tempo the composer had intended.
“Mr. Throckmorton would like me to recall him fondly.” Lucy had come to this realization somewhere amid Giles’s recitations regarding his children. Why was he making this effort now?
The marquess played on, and Lucy wished she might simply enjoy the music. Amanda got her musical talent from her papa apparently, and Sylvie showed signs of the same gift. Giles’s visit had further disrupted an already unsettling day, though, and Lucy had questions for the marquess.