Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Chapter 9

It was probably a good thing that he’d still had rather too much liquor in his veins when Amelia came across him, Thomas reflected, because he hadn’t had the good sense to be mortified. And now-when the only remnant of his night of drunken excess was a pounding in his left temple (and a throb in the right)-he reckoned she’d already seen the worst and hadn’t gone off screaming. In fact, she seemed quite content to ride along in the carriage with him, gently scolding and rolling her eyes at him.

The thought would have made him smile, if the sudden bump in the road hadn’t sent his brain jostling against his skull-if indeed that were possible. He was not a scholar of anatomy, but this scenario seemed far more likely than what it felt like, which was an anvil flying through the window and impaling itself in his left temple.

As to why his right temple was pounding in a similar manner, he could only assume it was out of sympathy.

He let out an unattractive groan and pinched hard at the bridge of his nose, as if the pain of that might be enough to blot out the rest of it.

Amelia didn’t say anything, and in fact didn’t even look as if she thought she ought to be saying something-further reinforcing his newly arrived belief that she was a most excellent female. She was just sitting there, her face remarkably placid, given that he must look like death itself, ready to spew noxious substances all over her.

Not to mention his eye. It had looked rather vicious the night before. Thomas couldn’t imagine what sort of hue it had turned overnight.

He drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes, glancing at Amelia’s face around his hand, which was still doing its completely ineffective magic on his nose.

“Your head?” she asked politely.

She’d been waiting for him to acknowledge her, he realized. “Pounds like the devil.”

“Is there something you can take for that? Laudanum, perhaps?”

“God, no.” He almost passed out at the thought. “It’d do me in completely.”

“Tea? Coffee?”

“No, what I need is-”

A Gladdish Baddish.

Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier?

It was a ridiculous name, but as it was only needed when one had behaved in a ridiculous manner, he supposed it was fitting. Harry Gladdish had perfected it the summer they were eighteen.

Thomas’s father had elected to spend the season in London, leaving him to his own devices at Belgrave. He and Harry had run wild. Nothing too debauched, although at the time they fancied themselves the worst sorts of profligates. After having seen how other young men chose to ruin themselves in London, Thomas now looked back at that summer with some amusement. By comparison, he and Harry had been innocent lambs. But even so, they had drunk far too much and far too often, and the Gladdish Baddish, administered in the morning (with a pinched nose and a shudder), saved them more than once.

Or at the very least, rendered them able to walk straight enough to make it back to their beds, where they could sleep off the last of their miseries.

He looked at Amelia. “Can you spare another half an hour?”

She motioned around her. “Apparently I can spare the entire day.”

It was a bit embarrassing, that. “Ah, yes”-he cleared his throat, trying to hold himself very steady as he did so-“sorry for that. I hope you were not forced to abandon important plans.”

“Just the milliner and the cobbler.” She pretended to pout, but anyone could see it was really a smile. “I shall be poorly hatted and shod for the winter, I’m afraid.”

He held up a finger. “Just one moment.” Then he reached across the carriage and gave the wall two pounds with his fist. Immediately, they rolled to a halt. Normally, he would have hopped down to redirect the driver, but surely this time he could be forgiven for trying to limit his movements. The last thing any of them wanted was for him to lose his stomach in a closed carriage.

Once the new arrangements had been made, and the driver had got them back on their way, he resettled himself in his seat, feeling decidedly more chipper just at the thought of the Baddish that awaited him. Harry would wonder why he’d been drinking and why he’d been drinking somewhere else, but he would never ask. At least not this afternoon.

“Where are we going?” Amelia asked.

“The Happy Hare.” It was a bit out of their way, but not drastically so.

“The posting inn?”

Indeed. “I shall be cured.”

“At the Happy Hare?” She sounded dubious.

“Trust me.”

“Said by a man reeking of gin,” she said, shaking her head.

He looked over at her, lifting one of his brows into the famously regal Wyndham arch. “I wasn’t drinking gin.” Good Lord, he had more breeding than that.

She looked as if she might smile. “So sorry. What were you drinking, then?”

He was quite certain this wasn’t the sort of conversation one ought to conduct with one’s fiancée, but nothing about this meeting was the sort of thing one ought to do or see or say with one’s fiancée. “Ale,” he told her. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not.”

“Tsk tsk. Such outrage.”

“That wasn’t outrage,” she shot back, outraged now. “It was simple fact. Who would have ever served me ale?”

She did have a point. “Very well,” he said, everything gracious. “But it wasn’t gin.”

She rolled her eyes, and he almost laughed. They were like an old married couple. Not that he’d had much cause to witness old married couples doing anything but insulting (his father) and accepting it (his mother), but Grace had told him that her parents had been wondrously devoted to each other, and from what he’d seen of Lord and Lady Crowland-Amelia’s parents-they seemed to get on reasonably well, too. Or at the very least, neither seemed consumed with desire to see the other one dead.

“Do your parents like each other?” he asked quite suddenly.

She blinked several times in rapid succession, obviously surprised by the change of topic. “My parents?”

“Do they get on?”

“Yes, I suppose.” She paused, and her brow wrinkled adorably as she considered it. “They don’t do very much together-their interests really don’t mesh-but I do think they hold each other in some affection. I haven’t given it much thought, to be honest.”

It was not exactly a description of a grand passion, but still, it was so entirely different from his own experience that Thomas could not help but be intrigued.

She must have noticed the interest on his face, because she continued, “I suppose they must get on. If they didn’t, I probably would have given it much thought, wouldn’t you think?”

He thought about the endless hours he’d wasted thinking about his own parents. He nodded. For all her innocence and guileless speech, she could be extraordinarily astute.

“My mother can nag a bit,” she said. “Well, more than a bit. But my father seems not to mind. He knows it is only because she feels it her duty to see all of her daughters settled. Which is of course his wish as well. He just doesn’t wish to be involved in the details of it.”

Thomas found himself nodding approvingly. Daughters had to be an incredible amount of work.

“He humors her for a few minutes,” Amelia continued, “because he knows how much she likes an audience, but then he most often just shakes his head and walks away. I think he is happiest when out of doors, mucking about with his hounds.”

“Hounds?”

“He has twenty-five of them.”

“Gad.”

She grimaced. “We keep trying to convince him it’s got a bit excessive, but he insists that any man with five daughters deserves five times as many hounds.”

He tried to suppress the image in his mind. “Please tell me none are included in your dowry.”

“You should verify,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ve never seen the betrothal papers.”

His eyes held hers for a long, steady moment, then he said, “That means no.” But she held her blank expression for long enough to make him add, “I hope.”

She laughed. “He could not bear to part with them. Me, I think he will be happy to get off his hands, but his dogs…Never.” And then: “Did your parents get on well?”

He felt himself go grim, and his head began to pound anew. “No.”

She watched his face for a moment, and he was not sure he wanted to know what she saw there, because she looked almost pitying when she said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said briskly. “It is done, and they are dead, and there is nothing to be done about it now.”

“But-” She stopped, her eyes a little sad. “Never mind.”

He didn’t mean to tell her anything. He had never discussed his parents with anyone, not even Harry, and he’d been witness to it all. But Amelia was sitting there so silently, with an expression of such understanding on her face-even though…well, she couldn’t possibly understand, not with her gloriously boring and traditional family. But there was something in her eyes, something warm and willing, and it felt as if she knew him already, as if she’d known him forever and was merely waiting for him to know her.

“My father hated my mother.” The words fell from his lips before he even realized he was saying them.

Her eyes widened, but she did not speak.

“He hated everything she stood for. She was a cit, you know.”

She nodded. Of course she knew. Everyone knew. No one seemed to care much anymore, but everyone knew that the most recent duchess had been born without even a connection to a title.

The title. Now that was rich. His father had spent his entire life worshipping at the altar of his own aristocracy, and now it seemed he’d never really been the duke at all. Not if Mr. Audley’s parents had had the sense to marry.

“Wyndham?” she said softly.

His head jerked toward her. He must have drifted off in his own thoughts. “Thomas,” he reminded her.

A faint blush spread across her cheeks. Not of embarrassment, he realized, but of delight. The thought warmed him, deep in his belly and then deeper still, to some little corner of his heart that had lain dormant for years.

“Thomas,” she said softly.

It was enough to make him want to say more. “He married her before he gained the title,” he explained. “Back when he was the third son.”

“One of his brothers drowned, did he not?”

Ah yes, the beloved John, who might or might not have sired a legitimate son of his own.

“The second son, was it not?” Amelia asked quietly.

Thomas nodded, because there was nothing else he could do. He was not about to tell her what had transpired the day before. Good God, it was madness. Less than twenty-four hours earlier he’d been happily kissing her in the garden, thinking it was finally time to make her his duchess, and now he didn’t even know who he was.

“John,” he forced himself to say. “He was my grandmother’s favorite. His ship went down in the Irish Sea. And then a year later a fever took the old duke and the heir-both within a week-and suddenly my father had inherited.”

“It must have been a surprise,” she murmured.

“Indeed. No one thought he’d be the duke. He had three choices: the military, the clergy, or marriage to an heiress.” Thomas let out a harsh chuckle. “I cannot imagine anyone was surprised that he chose as he did. And as for my mother-now here’s the funny part. Her family was disappointed as well. More so.”

She drew back, faint surprise coloring her face. “Even marrying into the house of Wyndham?”

“They were wildly rich,” Thomas explained. “Her father owned factories all across the North. She was his only child. They thought for certain they could buy her a title. At the time, my father had none. With little hope of inheriting.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. My mother was pretty enough. And she was certainly wealthy enough. But she did not take. And so they had to settle for my father.”

“Who thought he was settling for her,” Amelia guessed.

Thomas nodded grimly. “He disliked her from the moment he married her, but when his two older brothers died and he became duke, he loathed her. And he never bothered to hide it. Not in front of me, not in front of anyone.”

“Did she return the sentiment?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas replied, and he realized that it was odd, but he had never asked himself the same question. “She never retaliated, if that is what you are wondering.” He saw his mother in his mind’s eye-her perpetually stricken face, the constant exhaustion behind her pale blue eyes. “She just…accepted it. Listened to his insults, said nothing in return, and walked away. No. No,” he said, remembering it correctly. “That’s not how it happened. She never walked away. She always waited for him to leave. She would never have presumed to quit a room before he did. She would never have dared.”

“What did she do?” Amelia asked softly.

“She liked the garden,” Thomas recalled. “And when it rained, she spent a great deal of time looking out the window. She didn’t really have many friends. I don’t think…”

He’d been about to say that he could not recall her ever smiling, but then a memory fluttered through his head. He’d been seven, perhaps eight. He’d gathered a small posy of flowers for her. His father was enraged; the blooms had been part of an elaborately planned garden and were not for picking. But his mother had smiled. Right there in front of his father, her face lit up and she smiled.

Strange how he had not thought about that for so many years.

“She rarely smiled,” he said softly. “Almost never.”

She’d died when he was twenty, just a week before her husband. They’d been taken by the same lung fever. It had been a terrible, violent way to go, their bodies wracked by coughs, their eyes glazed with exhaustion and pain. The doctor, never one to speak delicately, said they were drowning in their own fluids. Thomas had always thought it bitterly ironic that his parents, who spent their lives avoiding each other, had died, essentially, together.

And his father had one last thing to blame her for. His final words, in fact, were, “She did this.”

“It is why we are here now,” he said suddenly, offering Amelia a dry smile. “Together.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He shrugged, as if none of it mattered. “Your mother was supposed to marry Charles Cavendish, did you know that?”

She nodded.

“He died four months before the wedding,” he said softly and without emotion, almost as if recounting a bit of news from the newspaper. “My father always felt that your mother should have been his wife.”

Amelia started with surprise. “Your father loved my mother?”

Thomas chuckled bitterly. “My father loved no one. But your mother’s family was as old and noble as his own.”

“Older,” Amelia said with a smile, “but not as noble.”

“If my father had known he was to be duke, he would never have married my mother.” He looked at her with an unreadable expression. “He would have married yours.”

Amelia’s lips parted, and she started to say something utterly deep and incisive, like, “Oh,” but he continued with:

“At any rate, it was why he was so quick to arrange my betrothal to you.”

“It would have been Elizabeth,” Amelia said softly, “except that my father wished his eldest to marry the son of his closest friend. He died, though, so Elizabeth had to go to London to look for a match.”

“My father was determined to join the families in the next generation.” Thomas laughed then, but there was an uncomfortable, exasperated note to it. “To rectify the unfortunate mongrelization caused by my mother’s entrance into the bloodlines.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Amelia said, even though she had a feeling he was not being silly at all. Still, she ached for the boy he must have been, growing up in such an unhappy household.

“Oh, no,” he assured her, “he said it quite often. I must marry a noble bride, and I must make certain my sons did the same. It was going to take generations to get the bloodlines back to where they should be.” He grinned at her then, but it was an utterly awful expression. “You, my dear, were meant to be our savior, even at the ripe old age of six months.”

Amelia looked away from him, trying to take this all in. No wonder he had been so uneager to set a date for the marriage. Who would want to marry her, when it was put in such terms?

“Don’t look so somber,” he said, and when she turned back to face him, he reached out and touched her cheek. “It isn’t your fault.”

“It isn’t yours, either,” she said, trying to resist the urge to turn and nuzzle his hand.

“No,” he murmured. “It isn’t.”

And then he leaned forward, and she leaned forward…because she couldn’t not lean forward, and even then, as the carriage rocked gently beneath them, he brushed his lips against hers.

She tingled. She sighed. And she would have gladly melted into another kiss, except that they hit an exceptionally vicious rut in the road, which sent both of them back to their respective seats.

Amelia let out a frustrated snort. Next time she’d figure out how to adjust her balance so she’d land on his seat. It would be so lovely, and even if she happened to find herself in a scandalous position, she’d be (almost) completely blameless.

Except that Thomas looked dreadful. Quite beyond green. The poor man was puce.

“Are you all right?” she asked, very carefully scooting across the carriage so she was not sitting directly across from him.

He said something, but she must have misheard, because it sounded like, “I need a radish.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’d kiss you again,” he said, sounding very droll and perhaps a bit queasy at the same time, “except that I’m quite certain you would not appreciate it.”

While she was trying to formulate a reply to that, he added, “The next kiss-”

(Brief moment of silence, followed by a grunt, both brought on by another rut.)

He cleared his throat. “The next kiss, you will appreciate. That, Amelia, is a vow.”

She was quite sure he was right, because the statement alone made her shiver.

Hugging her arms to her chest, she peered out the window. She’d noticed they were slowing down, and indeed, the carriage had wound into the small courtyard in front of the posting inn. The Happy Hare dated from Tudor times, and its black and white exterior was well-kept and inviting, each window adorned with a flower box, blooming all shades of red and gold. From the jettied upper story hung a rectangular sign featuring a toothsome rabbit, standing upright in his Elizabethan doublet and ruff.

Amelia found it all rather charming and intended to comment, but Thomas was already making for the door.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the carriage to come to a complete stop?” she asked mildly.

His hand went still upon the door handle, and he did not say a word until they had halted completely. “I’ll be but a moment,” he said, barely looking at her.

“I believe I will accompany you,” she replied.

He froze, then his head turned slowly toward her. “Wouldn’t you prefer to remain in the comfort of the carriage?”

If he had been trying to douse her curiosity, he was going about it the wrong way.

“I would like to stretch my legs,” she said, affixing her favorite bland smile onto her face. She’d used it with him a hundred times at least, but not since they had got to know each other a bit. She was no longer sure how well it would work.

He stared at her for a long moment, clearly baffled by her placid demeanor.

Like a charm, she decided. She blinked a couple of times-nothing too coy or obvious, just a couple of flutters in a row, as if she were patiently waiting for him to respond.

“Very well,” he said, sounding resigned in a way she did not think she’d ever heard in his voice before. He always got everything he wanted. Why would he ever feel resigned?

He stepped down with far less bounce than his usual hop, then held up a hand to assist her. She took it gracefully and stepped down herself, pausing to smooth her skirts and take stock of the inn.

She’d never been to the Happy Hare. She’d passed it dozens of times, of course. It was on a main road, and she’d spent her entire life, save for two seasons in London, in this particular corner of Lincolnshire. But she’d never gone in. It was a posting inn, and thus primarily for travelers passing through the district. And besides that, her mother would never have stepped foot into such an establishment. As it was, there were only three inns that she would deign to visit on the way to London, which did make travels somewhat restricted.

“Do you come here often?” Amelia asked, taking his arm when he offered it to her. It was surprisingly thrilling, this, to be on the arm of her betrothed, and not because it was a requirement he felt he must fulfill. It was almost as if they were a young married couple, off on an outing, just the two of them.

“I consider the innkeeper a friend,” he replied.

She turned to him. “Really?” Until this very day, he had been the Duke to her, raised high on a pedestal, too rarefied to converse with mere mortals.

“Is it so difficult to imagine that I might have a friend who is of inferior rank?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she replied, since she could not tell him the truth-that it was difficult to imagine him with a friend of any stripe. Not, of course, because he was lacking. Quite the contrary. He was so splendid in every way that one could not imagine walking up to him and uttering anything benign or banal. And wasn’t that how friendships were usually formed? With an ordinary moment, a shared umbrella, or perhaps two seats next to each other at a bad musicale?

She had seen the way people treated him. Either they fawned and preened and begged his favors, or they stood to the side, too intimidated to attempt a conversation.

She’d never really thought about it before, but it must be rather lonely to be him.

They entered the inn, and although Amelia kept her face politely forward, her eyes were darting this way and that, trying to take it all in. She wasn’t sure what her mother had found so repellent; everything looked respectable enough to her. It smelled heavenly, too, of meat pies and cinnamon and something else she couldn’t quite identify-something tangy and sweet.

They walked into what had to be the taproom, and were immediately greeted by the innkeeper, who called out, “Wyndham! Two days in a row! To what do I owe your gilded presence?”

“Stuff it, Gladdish,” Thomas muttered, leading Amelia to the bar. Feeling very risqué, she sat atop a stool.

“You’ve been drinking,” the innkeeper said, grinning. “But not here with me. I’m crushed.”

“I need a Baddish,” Thomas said.

Which didn’t really make any more sense than a radish, Amelia thought.

“I need an introduction,” the innkeeper returned.

Amelia grinned. She’d never heard anyone speak to him in this manner. Grace came close…sometimes. But it wasn’t like this. She would never have been so audacious.

“Harry Gladdish,” Thomas said, sounding supremely irritated that he was being made to dance to someone else’s tune, “may I present the Lady Amelia Willoughby, daughter of the Earl of Crowland.”

“And your affianced bride,” Mr. Gladdish murmured.

“I am most delighted to make your acquaintance,” Amelia said, holding out her hand.

He kissed it, which made her grin. “I’ve been waiting to meet you, Lady Amelia.”

She felt her face light up. “You have?”

“Since…Well, da-dash it all, Wyndham, how long have we known that you were engaged?”

Thomas crossed his arms, his expression bored. “I have known since I was seven.”

Mr. Gladdish turned to her with a devilish smile. “Then I have known since I was seven as well. We are of an age, you see.”

“You have known each other a long time, then?” Amelia asked.

“Forever,” Mr. Gladdish confirmed.

“Since we were three,” Thomas corrected. He rubbed his temple. “The Baddish, if you will.”

“My father was assistant to the stable master at Belgrave,” Mr. Gladdish said, ignoring Thomas completely. “He taught us to ride together. I was better.”

“He was not.”

Mr. Gladdish leaned forward. “At everything.”

“Recall that you are married,” Thomas bit off.

“You’re married?” Amelia said. “How delightful! We shall have to have you and your wife over to Belgrave once we are wed.” She caught her breath, feeling almost light-headed. She’d never anticipated their life as a married couple with such certainty. Even now she could not quite believe she’d been so bold as to say it.

“Why, we would be delighted,” Mr. Gladdish said, giving Thomas a bit of a look. Amelia wondered if he’d never invited him over.

“The Baddish, Harry,” Thomas almost growled. “Now.”

“He’s drunk, you know,” Mr. Gladdish told her.

“Not anymore,” she replied. “But he was. Quite.” She turned to Thomas and grinned. “I like your friend.”

“Harry,” Thomas said, “if you do not place a Baddish upon this counter within the next thirty seconds, as God is my witness, I shall have this place razed to the ground.”

“Such an abuse of power,” Mr. Gladdish said, shaking his head as he went to work. “I pray that you will be a good influence on him, Lady Amelia.”

“I can only do my best,” Amelia said, using her most prim and pious voice.

“Truly,” Mr. Gladdish said, placing a hand on his heart, “it is all any of us can do.”

“You sound just like the vicar,” Amelia told him.

“Really? What a compliment. I have been cultivating my vicarish tone. It aggravates Wyndham, and is thus something to aspire to.”

Thomas’s arm shot across the bar and he grabbed his friend’s collar with strength remarkable in one so impaired. “Harry…”

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,” Mr. Gladdish said, and Amelia nearly laughed aloud at the sight of her betrothed being scolded by an innkeeper. It was marvelous.

“No one likes a surly drunk,” Mr. Gladdish continued. “Here you are. For the sake of the rest of us.” He plunked a short glass on the counter. Amelia leaned forward to inspect the contents. It was yellowish, and rather slimy-looking, with a dark brown swirl and a few flecks of red.

It smelled like death.

“Good heavens,” she said, looking up at Thomas. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”

He grabbed the glass, brought it to his lips, and downed it in one gulp. Amelia actually flinched.

“Ew,” she let out, unable to suppress her groan. She felt sick to her stomach just watching him.

Thomas shuddered, and his chin seemed to tense and shake, as if he were steeling himself for something very unpleasant. And then, with a gasp, he let out a breath.

Amelia backed away from the fumes. That kiss he had promised…

He had better not be planning on it today.

“Tastes just as good as you remembered, eh?” Mr. Gladdish said.

Thomas met his gaze dead even. “Better.”

Mr. Gladdish laughed at that, and then Thomas laughed, and Amelia just looked at them with a complete lack of comprehension. Not for the first time, she wished she’d had brothers. Surely she could have used a bit of practice with the males of the species before trying to understand these two.

“You’ll be cured before long,” Mr. Gladdish said.

Thomas gave a nod. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You’ve had one of these before?” Amelia asked, trying not to wrinkle her nose.

Mr. Gladdish cut Thomas off before he could reply. “He’d have my head if I told you just how many of these he’s tossed back.”

“Harry…” Thomas said warningly.

“We were young and foolish,” Harry said, holding up his hands as if that were explanation enough. “Truly, I haven’t served him one of these in years.”

Amelia was glad to hear it; as amusing as it had been to finally see Thomas at less than his best, she did not relish the thought of marriage to a habitual drunkard. Still, it did make her wonder-just what had happened that made him want to go out and overindulge?

“Served one of these to your friend the other day,” Mr. Gladdish said offhandedly.

“My friend,” Thomas repeated.

Amelia hadn’t been paying much attention, but the tone of his voice when he replied was enough to make her look sharply in his direction. He sounded bored…and dangerous, if the combination was possible.

“You know the one,” Mr. Gladdish said. “You were in here with him just yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“Is someone visiting?” Amelia asked. “Who is it?”

“No one,” Thomas said, barely looking at her. “Just an acquaintance from London. Someone I used to fence with.”

“He is handy with a sword,” Mr. Gladdish put in, motioning to Thomas. “He trounced me every time, pains me though it does to admit it.”

“You were invited to share his fencing lessons?” Amelia said. “How lovely.”

“I shared all his lessons,” Mr. Gladdish said with a smile. It was a real smile, too; nothing teasing or silly.

“It was my father’s only generous gesture,” Thomas confirmed. “Not generous enough, of course. Harry’s education was stopped when I left for Eton.”

“Wyndham couldn’t be rid of me that easily, though,” Harry said. He leaned toward Amelia and said, “Everyone should have someone in his life who knows his every secret.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you?”

“Know his every secret? Absolutely.”

Amelia turned to Thomas. He did not contradict. She turned back to Harry with delight. “Then you do!”

“You didn’t believe me the first time?”

“It seemed only polite to verify,” she demurred.

“Well, yes, you do have to marry the old chap, whereas I must only bear his company once a week or so.” Mr. Gladdish turned to Thomas and took the empty Baddish glass off the counter. “Do you need another one?”

“One was quite enough, thank you.”

“Your color is returning already,” Amelia said with some amazement. “You’re not so green.”

“Yellow, I thought,” Mr. Gladdish put in. “Except for the purple under the eye. Very regal-like.”

“Harry.” Thomas looked quite close to the edge of his patience.

Harry leaned closer to Amelia. “Those ducal types never get black eyes. Always purple. Goes better with the robes.”

“There are robes?”

Harry waved a hand. “There are always robes.”

Thomas took hold of Amelia’s arm. “We’re leaving, Harry.”

Harry grinned. “So soon?”

Amelia waved with her free hand, even as Thomas tugged her away from the bar. “It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Gladdish!”

“You are welcome any time, Lady Amelia.”

“Why, thank you, I-”

But Thomas had already yanked her from the room.

“He’s very sweet,” Amelia said as she skipped along beside him, trying to keep up with his lengthier stride.

“Sweet,” Thomas repeated, shaking his head. “He’d like that.” He steered her around a puddle, although not so deftly that she didn’t have to take a little hop to save her boots.

The coachman was already holding the door open when they approached. Amelia let Thomas help her up, but she’d not even taken her seat before she heard him say, “To Burges Park.”

“No!” she exclaimed, popping her head back out. “We can’t.”

Good heavens, that would be a disaster.