And of course, he’d had a few improper thoughts about Mrs. Cavendish himself. If he scolded Justin for being mesmerized by a pretty female, he’d be the biggest hypocrite in Britain. He said nothing.
But when the butler appeared soon afterward to conduct them to their rooms, things took another turn for the worse. They hadn’t even made it across the hall before a patter of footsteps and a rustle of skirts heralded the arrival of not one, not two, but four young ladies, including the mischievous Lady Bridget at the rear.
“Lord Winterton,” said one of them, who seemed to be the leader from the way she stepped forward. Tall and slim, she was striking rather than beautiful, with very dark eyes and hair, but fair skin. “Lord Newton. Welcome to Kingstag Castle.” As one, all four of them curtseyed, and Wes and Justin bowed. “I am Lady Alexandra Cavendish. My cousin Viola tells me you are here to see my brother Wessex, who has been called away.”
“Yes,” Wes replied. “We shan’t intrude.”
“Oh no.” Her gaze moved to Justin, who seemed to be holding himself unusually erect, his chest puffed out a little. “We would be delighted to have you join our party. We’re putting on a play, you see, and haven’t enough gentlemen to fill all the parts.”
“A capital idea,” said Justin before Wes could speak. “Thank you, Lady Alexandra, we would be honored.”
She smiled. “Excellent. Bridget will assign you lines.” She curtseyed again. “Until dinner, my lords.”
Justin stared as they left in a troop. Lady Alexandra glanced over her shoulder once to smile at him. Wes took one look at his nephew’s face, and began shaking his head. “We’re leaving tomorrow.” He’d have to come back later in pursuit of the atlas. Making the trip twice was far preferable to spending his time watching Justin like a hawk. The last thing he needed was a scandal between his nephew and one of Wessex’s sisters. The duke would never sell him the atlas then.
“No!” Justin grabbed his arm. “Please not, Uncle.” He cleared his throat. “And, er, I just gave my word to be in the play.”
“You’ve no idea what the play is.”
“Does it matter?”
Wes ran one hand over his face. Four very pretty young ladies, without enough gentlemen to fill all the parts. His sister, Justin’s mother, would be calling for the carriage—for the sleigh, if necessary—immediately.
But. On the other hand, the young ladies were obviously well-born. Wes would have to keep a close eye on his nephew, but perhaps this would motivate Justin to improve his manners. The Newton viscountcy made him an eligible match, after all, even if his sullen behavior did not. It might be a good lesson for the boy to see what sort of behavior appealed to decent young ladies.
And then Mrs. Cavendish’s face flashed through his mind. Cousin Viola, Lady Alexandra called her. Not merely a secretary after all. She seemed to be in charge of the place. Staying for a few days would probably thrust him together with her, as the only adults supervising this play . . .
“Very well,” he said. “We can stay.”
Chapter 2
Viola personally took the dowager duchess’s dinner to her on a tray. The duchess had been sick in bed for a few days now, but still insisted every evening she would be on her feet in the morning. Tonight Viola said a fervent prayer that it was true this time.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” She set the tray on the table near the bed.
“Thank you, Viola.” The duchess’s voice was hoarse from coughing.
“Some visitors arrived today.” Viola tidied the tray and uncovered the dishes. “The Earl of Winterton and his nephew, Viscount Newton. Lord Winterton had an appointment with the duke.”
“Oh dear.” The dowager coughed, and Viola handed her a cup of steaming tea. “Wessex will not be pleased to have missed him.”
Nor was Viola especially pleased to have two more guests to entertain. “I thought Mr. Martin would have written to cancel their visit, but they must have set out before his letter reached them.”
The duchess made a sound of dismay. “How regrettable.”
Viola brought the tray over to the bed. The dowager was propped up on a number of pillows, looking older than usual. Her face was pale except for the flush of fever in her cheeks, and her eyes looked sunken and glassy. She’d fallen ill several days earlier and seemed to be in the worst of it. “Ma’am, perhaps we should send for the doctor—”
The duchess gave her a wan smile. “So says Ellen,” she murmured, referring to her maid. “I’ve seen what doctors do, you know. I prefer to take my chances with the fever.”
Viola frowned in worry. “Yes, ma’am, but . . .”
The duchess pushed herself a little more upright and pulled the tray toward her. “I have no plans to succumb to it, mind you. If I go into a decline and hope begins to wane, you and Ellen may send for the doctor, but as long as I have my appetite and can sleep, I intend to brave it out.” She inspected the tray and sighed. “More blancmange. Tell Cook I would like something with flavor next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Viola hesitated. “What ought I to do with Lords Winterton and Newton?”
The duchess blinked. “Oh yes. I suppose they must stay the night.”
She wet her lips. “It’s snowing, Your Grace, and it shows no signs of stopping. The roads may not be fit for travel tomorrow.”
“Then they must stay until the roads are fit.” The duchess gave her a reproving glance. “You didn’t think otherwise, surely?”
Viola blushed. She’d already told the gentlemen they were welcome to stay. “No, no. I only worried about the inconvenience to Lady Serena and her friends.”
Something of the older woman’s usual perception returned. “Are these gentlemen by any chance handsome, rakish fellows?”
“Rakish! Oh my, I’ve no idea,” Viola babbled. “But . . . Lord Newton is rather young—near Lady Alexandra’s age, I would suppose—and he is a handsome gentleman.”
“Oh dear.” Another fit of coughing seized the duchess, and Viola hurried to fetch a clean handkerchief. “And Winterton?” rasped the duchess a moment later, reaching for her tea. “Tell me he’s a somber older gentleman capable of keeping his nephew in check.”
“Er.” Viola shifted her weight, picturing the man in question. “I wouldn’t call him much older . . .”
The duchess closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows. “Is there a Lady Winterton? Send Ellen to fetch Debrett’s, Viola.”
Viola rang for the maid, who returned a short time later with the tome listing all the aristocracy of Britain. She paged through it to the Earl of Winterton’s entry and read it aloud to the duchess. “Wesley Edward Fitzallen Morane, Earl of Winterton, Viscount Desmond, Baron Lyle; born August 31, 1784; succeeded his father, Allen, the late earl, on March 12, 1810.”
“No countess,” said the duchess on a sigh. “And he’s handsome.” Viola opened her mouth to protest that she’d never said that, realized it was true, and said nothing. The earl was a man who drew the eye—at least her eye—with coal-black hair and vivid blue eyes in a lean, tanned face. He looked like a man of bold action and passionate interests.