Well, thank God for that since he had no intention of telling. “Pray, let me get up and dressed. I have an appointment.”
“Yes. To luncheon with the Smitherbees. There must be some eligible lady—”
“No, Mother. I never said I’d go, as I am promised to walk with an entirely different lady.”
If his head weren’t throbbing, he wouldn’t have made such a grievous error. Never would he have spoken of any lady at all, but he had, and now his mother pounced on the word as if it were a prize horse for her to examine before a race.
“What lady is this? Where is she from? Do I know her? How could you not tell me of this earlier? I insist on meeting her.”
“She is not a marriage prospect,” he said with some exasperation. “She is assisting me with a…a political matter.”
“Every woman is a marriage prospect,” she said with equal exasperation.
Now that was patently untrue. Except looking at his mother’s face, he realized that she was indeed becoming desperate, though about what he couldn’t fathom. Their finances were in decent shape, her health was good as was everyone else’s in the household, and they were heading toward spring, the most robust time of the social season. She ought to be in a fine state, but something had turned her into a nervous woman who burst into his bedchamber unannounced.
“Mother, what is going on?”
She exhaled in a dramatic rush, then raised a handkerchief to her eye to wipe away a pretend tear. “You never listen!”
He had to give her that one. He’d ceased listening to her years ago. “Enlighten me, Mother. I am paying attention.”
“You need to marry, so there is someone to help Gwendolyn!”
Off all the people in this house, Gwen was the most self-sufficient. Give her a book on some rare plant, and she was happy for days, if not weeks. “Lilah is here to give help and whatever companionship Gwen needs.”
“A companion cannot make her attend parties! Or meet a husband! I have given up asking you to help.”
Oh, good. It had only taken four years for that message to get through.
“—Diana cannot leave her husband’s side.”
More’s the pity, and may the old bastard die soon. Diana will very much enjoy being a widow.
“—And so, it must be your wife, as Gwen will not listen to me. Nobody listens to me!”
He couldn’t argue with her there, either. Only that she had created this very problem with her endless sense of dramatics.
Elliott rubbed a hand over his face, trying to focus his thoughts even as he scratched at his growing beard. “This has been true for years,” he finally said as gently as he could. “Why the hysterics now?”
She glared at him with true hatred in her eyes. It was clear that his question was a grievous mistake, but he couldn’t fathom why. In the end, he had to mollify her with an apology he didn’t feel. “I am terribly sorry. I am feeling particularly obtuse this morning—er, today. Please explain this to me again?”
She rolled her eyes but obliged. “It is Gwen’s birthday next month.”
Yes, he knew. “I have specially arranged a visit to the royal botanical gardens for her as a present. She will—”
“Did you make sure there would be eligible bachelors there?”
Elliott frowned. “She despises eligible bachelors. Why would I give her a present she would despise?”
“Because she is turning nine and twenty! You cannot want to have an ape leader as a sister. Think of the humiliation.”
As much as he knew that his mother was thinking of her own humiliation, Elliott had to acknowledge that she had yet another point. The title of spinster (he would not think the other insulting phrase) would not help his sister come out of her shell. Though she might appear to be content with her current, insular ways, he did believe she was lonely. And he did not like to think of her as unhappy, so he conceded his mother’s point.
“I shall find someone suitable to join us at the royal gardens.”
His mother rolled her eyes. “That’s all well and good for you. I’m sure whomever you pick will have excellent financial prospects, a level head, and probably an interest in science.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“But that has nothing to do with what would interest a girl!”
He did not know how to respond to that. In his opinion, his sister wasn’t the typical sort of girl at all. So, whatever would interest some generic girl would definitely not appeal to Gwen. But then again, he was a man, and therefore, unable to appropriately judge what Gwen or any other girl would want in a man. The preferences of the many women he’d met over the years had never made sense to him.
Which left him unable to satisfy his mother and thereby get her out of his bedroom. “Mother, what do you want me to do?”
“Get married to a girl who can help Gwen!”
“Seems a rather roundabout way of doing things.”
She threw up her hands. “I give up. There is no talking to you.”
Which is exactly what he had been thinking but would never say out loud. And then—in an absolute miracle—his mother spun on her heels and walked out. He stared after her, determined to memorize the conversation so he could repeat it whenever he wished to be alone. But in the meantime, he had his morning toilet to accomplish, plus he had remembered a few more tidbits from last night that he must get to his secretary before he forgot. It was the endless lifeblood of his political career, this memorizing of useful facts about people and families. Who had a talent for what and who was in need of it? If he could match the one with the other, then both owed him a favor, which he then applied to his political desires.
He would get his resolution passed no matter how many favors he had to curry because his conscience demanded it of him. And because his father had never fully recovered from his battle wounds—in mind or in body. In the end, Elliott believed that is what had killed him. Not the pneumonia, but the weakness that came from frequent nightmares and a pain in the hip and back that never eased.
If his father, despite all his advantages, had died from his military service, then what was to become of all the other soldiers? Those not well fed and with more grievous wounds? They were dying, or they were turning to thievery and worse to survive. It was a national disgrace, and so he would end it if he could. And in order to do that, he needed to return a blasted brooch to get a vote. Which meant he had best dress to meet Miss Gold right away.
He arrived barely on time and in his high perch phaeton. If anyone saw him—and he was sure they would—he planned to create a bit of mystery around who was the unknown woman sitting so openly in his carriage. His political influence traded on secrets, and it never hurt to dangle a bit of drama in front of gossipmongers just to see what other information he could glean in return.
He hopped down from his seat and entered the Dragon’s Hoard jewelry store. It was a modest place but kept sparkling clean. The windows were nearly transparent as the sun streamed through to illuminate display cases of stunning jewelry fashioned in traditional and fantastic designs. And in the middle of the room sat Mrs. Dove-Lyon in her widow’s weeds as she sipped her ever-present cup of tea. Standing nearby was Miss Gold’s father, who looked refined and severe. Elliott had the brief impression that he was reporting to the headmaster’s office for a hard dressing down.