Marquesses at the Masquerade(110)
“How many children does he have?” his lordship asked.
“Mr. Throckmorton? Four, including twins.”
“Twins.”
Twins, spoken in that tone, with that expression, suggested somebody had committed a dire offense.
“Will you leave us to help him raise his twins, Miss Fletcher?”
The notion that Giles had been looking for a governess—an English governess experienced at dealing with grieving children—had only begun to form in Lucy’s mind. If so, he’d have been better off approaching her in writing with an offer of a post instead of pretending to call on an old friend.
Much less presuming to kiss her hand, for pity’s sake. “I haven’t been offered that opportunity.”
His lordship brought the music to a sweet, stately close rather than carry on to the more tempestuous, contrasting theme.
“I am confident that you will be offered that opportunity. If it’s in your best interests to pursue such a post, then you should.”
That was what a true friend ought to say, and what nobody ever had said to Lucy. “I thought you sought to keep my services, not toss me onto the first boat bound for Lisbon.”
His lordship closed the cover over the keys. “You will be tempted, by the children in his nursery who are doubtless struggling for want of their mama’s love, by the notion that an old friend deserves your loyalty at a trying time, and—we have always been honest with each other, have we not, Miss Fletcher?—by the excuse to leave a situation here which has come to mean much to you.”
He rose, and Lucy thought he was finished expounding on her motivations, which he’d identified more clearly than she could have herself.
“What is wrong with being useful?” she asked.
Lord Tyne drew her to her feet and again kept hold of her hand. Unlike Giles, he wasn’t flirting. Lucy wasn’t sure exactly what his lordship was about. He didn’t seem angry, exactly, but then again, when Sylvie had gone missing, he hadn’t shown any sign of anxiety either.
“Being useful is a worthy goal,” he said. “Compassion and service should figure prominently in any meaningful life, but what of joy? What of pleasure, dreams, hopes, and wishes? Children grow up, Miss Fletcher, and devoting yourself to their well-being while ignoring your own is a scheme that will leave you old and lonely. Fond memories are some compensation for decades of your life, but you deserve more than that.”
Thor would have admonished her thus, and at that moment, Lord Tyne put Lucy in mind of her Norse god.
“What were you about to say to me in the garden, my lord?”
“In the—? Ah, that. I’m not sure those sentiments are relevant now. Perhaps after Captain Throckmorton has returned to the wonders of Portugal, I might recall what point I was trying to make.”
I will kill Giles. “Whatever you have to say is of interest to me, sir. Your happiness matters to me too.”
His brows rose. “A cheering revelation. I’ll see you at dinner, Miss Fletcher.”
He leaned down to brush a kiss to her cheek and strode out, closing the door softly behind him.
Chapter Six
* * *
Lucy heard not a word of Vicar’s sermon, so preoccupied was she trying to sort out emotions, options, and innuendos.
Lord Tyne had kissed her cheek, which for him amounted to a bold declaration, but of what? Good wishes on a venture in Portugal? Support for Lucy’s ability to choose a course? His attachment to her as a member of the household?
Something more?
She should ask him, she meant to ask him, except that he’d again become the remote, reticent man whom she’d met when she’d first joined his household. The children must have sensed his mood, for they didn’t exchange a single whisper during the service.
After church, his lordship took the children for Sunday dinner at Lady Eleanor’s house, leaving Lucy to begin and then tear up three different letters to her oldest brother’s wife. What was Giles about? What had shifted in his lordship’s regard for his children’s governess?
And what was Lucy to do about Tuesday night’s assignation with Thor?
About her Tuesday afternoon meeting with Giles?
The life of an adventuress is complicated. Freya would have known that. Lucy was making a fourth attempt at correspondence when she heard the jingle and clatter of the coach in the mews. Curiosity had her setting aside her pen and capping the ink, because the children hadn’t been gone long enough to enjoy a Sunday meal with family.
“Manda is sick,” Sylvie announced before Lucy had untied the child’s bonnet ribbons. “Papa said I might get sick too, but when I asked him if he could get sick, he didn’t answer me.” Sylvie gave her father a half-hopeful, half-peevish look.
“Your father has a very strong constitution,” Lucy said. “Illness befalls us all, but his lordship appears to enjoy great good health. Amanda, what’s amiss?”
“Her throat hurts,” his lordship replied. “She’s congested, she aches. Every symptom of the blasted flu, in other words.”
Illness terrified this household, and for good reason. The marchioness had been well one day and at death’s door a fortnight later. The best physicians, the most fervent prayers, had been useless against the sickness that had befallen her.