The words came out rapidly and defiantly as Evie and Lewis gazed at Lily in horror.
Ash stared at them, stunned. Did they believe he was more interested in his schedule than his own children? Had he made them believe so?
And they thought the way to relax him was to find him a wife? Amusement seeped through Ash’s shock and mortification, and he let it take over. He would assess their claims and see that he did better in future, perhaps changing his schedule to see them earlier in the evening and for a bit longer.
“Very admirable for you to worry about me,” he said. “But entirely unnecessary. My life admittedly runs like clockwork, but this makes me happy. Now, to bed, the three of you. Mr. Crusoe awaits.”
He thought that would be the end of it. Nanny had patiently let the children speak, and now Ash expected her to take over and continue the routine.
Instead, Lewis stepped forward. “We have taken the liberty of drawing up qualities we believe will make the best wife for you. Sir.”
Lewis held out a folded sheet of foolscap, sealed with wax, and addressed in his son’s large and painfully neat hand to His Grace of Ashford, Berkeley Square, Mayfair.
Ash stared down at the paper, trying to keep his anger at bay. The anger was not directed toward Lewis, but at himself. What had Ash done to make his children believe he needed saving? By marriage?
He would have to nip this idea in the bud. Ash took the letter politely and slid it into his pocket.
“Very well. Now, enough. To bed.” He sent a stern look to Nanny, who came to life.
“Your father is correct, your lordship, Lady Evie, Lady Lily. In your beds now. Make haste.”
Lewis and Evie complied, but Lily hesitated, her blue-gray eyes troubled. “You’ll read it, won’t you, Papa? It took us ever so long to write.”
“I give you my word,” Ash said to her solemnly. He’d look at what they’d written—Ash never lied to his children.
To his relief, they at last went obediently to their cots. As Nanny tucked them in, Ash read another chapter in the continuing adventures of the castaway, and then left them.
It was a little after nine of the clock—the ritual had taken ten minutes longer than usual—when Ash shut himself into the library, ready to go over his notes on treaties and other business of the ministry until one in the morning. After that, he would retire. He would rise again at half past seven, wash and be shaved, dress, eat his breakfast, and walk back to St. James’s.
He removed the children’s letter from his pocket and set it on his desk near his other correspondence. He would read it, as he promised, but not now. There was much work to do.
When the clock struck eleven, Edwards opened the door. “The Honorable Mr. Lovell, Your Grace.”
Guy Lovell, second son to the Marquess of Keeling, breezed in with his usual verve. Distant cousin to Ash’s late wife, the two men had become close friends during the Peninsular War and had remained close through Ash’s marriage and Olivia’s death.
“Not here to disturb you—just after a restorative.” Guy helped himself to brandy from a side table as Edwards retreated.
Guy was Ash’s opposite in many ways—profligate where Ash was frugal, spending his evenings in clubs gambling for high stakes and downing bottles of port while Ash sipped strong coffee and pored over papers regarding the future of Great Britain. At one time, Ash had been as fun-loving as Guy, until responsibility had swept away the man-about-town he’d been.
Guy settled himself into a chair and swung his feet over its arm as he imbibed the brandy. He let out a quiet “Ah,” of satisfaction, but said nothing more. Guy had learned not to speak while Ash was working, and Ash didn’t mind Guy’s silent company.
Sometimes not so silent. “What’s this?” Guy asked abruptly. “Precious missive from the king?”
Ash glanced up as Guy came off his chair and swept a paper from the ground, pushed aside by Ash’s work. The seal had broken, and Ash saw with alarm that Guy held the letter his son had given him.
Ash rose as nonchalantly as he could and reached for it. “The children. Bit of nonsense.”
Guy spun away from him, an interested gaze on the words. “Item one: She must be tall so she does not have to stand on her tiptoes to kiss you. What the devil, Ash?”
“I told you, a bit of nonsense.” Ash stopped himself trying to snatch away the paper. He pretended indifference. “Lewis has decided I need a wife.”
“Has he indeed?” Guy’s dark eyes glittered. “Wise lad. Item two: She must not be too thin or too wide. Hmm, very specific. Item three: She must like children, even when they are loud and less than punctual.”
Ash folded his arms, something punching him in the gut.
“Item four: She must know how to sew so she can mend tears in your shirts and spare Edwards, who is tired of you throwing them at him.” Guy broke off in admiration. “That boy is destined for greatness.”
Ash was torn between pride and annoyance. “Leave it, my friend.”
Guy ignored him. “Item five: She must not adhere to timetables, and must teach you to leave off them. Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter.”
Ash cleared his throat. “It is possible I’ve grown too fond of my routine.”
Guy burst out laughing. “Too fond of your routine? Give me strength. All in London set their watches by it. Those who don’t know you believe you mad, or at least eccentric. I defend you every night to ignorant fools.” Not noticing Ash’s firming mouth, Guy returned to the paper.
“Because we know, dear Papa, how little time you have to pursue the matter, we will ask a person to assist you.”
“What? Who on earth would they ask?” Ash tried to hide his unease. “You? A recipe for disaster. I’ve met your volatile mistresses, and you’ve never been inclined to matrimony.”
“No, they have someone entirely different in mind. Lewis says, We have written to Mrs. Courtland and asked her to help find a suitable woman to marry you, which will be handy as she lives next door.” Guy looked up, smile wide. “Oh dear.”
Anything amusing about the situation rapidly dropped away. Ash, blood cold, advanced on Guy and ripped the paper from him. He turned it around to see the words in plain black ink, scrawled in Lewis’s young penmanship.
Helena Courtland. The widow next door, an unmistakable busybody. Talkative, gossipy, and absolutely the last person in the world who should be involved in Ash’s private life.
Mrs. Courtland was a fairly young woman, not yet thirty, having buried a husband nine years ago. She had no children of her own and had taken to Ash’s offspring rather too well. They enjoyed regaling Ash with her many and bizarre opinions on everything from the latest in clothing to the governing of the British Empire.
“Dear God, not Mrs. Courtland.” The paper crumpled under Ash’s big hand. “I forbid it,” he said hotly, with a sinking sense of futility. “I absolutely forbid it.”
His words were drowned by Guy’s loud and prolonged laughter.
Helena finished reading the letter the footman had delivered to her breakfast table and rang the bell for Evans. When her lady’s maid appeared, Helena said, “Fetch my wrap, Evans. Quickly. I will just catch him.”