No Griffin has ever married outside of England. “That seems a bit stuffy of them,” Sarala returned lightly, smoothing her skirt and throttling the urge to touch her lips again. As she’d suspected, Charlemagne’s kiss had been a strategic maneuver. Lady Gerard’s comments confirmed it. “I suppose, though, that with the best of England’s females to choose from, they’ve never needed to look elsewhere.”
“You don’t seem disappointed to hear your poor prospects of marrying the duke,” the baroness noted.
“I’ve only seen him twice, and have certainly never spoken to him.” She smiled, warming even further to the elderly woman in the dark green muslin gown. “Actually, I’ve barely spoken to anyone Mama’s friends have mentioned. At least all the chaos should afford me the opportunity to meet more people.”
“You are a practical lass, aren’t you?”
“I attempt to be. I’ve learned to lead with my mind rather than my heart, at any rate.”
Lady Gerard took a sip of tea, eyeing her from over the rim of the cup. “How old are you?”
“Two-and-twenty.”
“That’s a hard lesson to be learned by one as young as you are.”
Sarala forced a laugh. As if she had any intention of telling anyone how she’d learned that particular lesson. But it was another reason she’d never marry anyone as well known as the Duke of Melbourne. “It’s something that makes sense,” she offered instead. “After all, I’ve been in London for less than a fortnight, and already my name’s been changed and my mother’s trying to marry me to a granite figurehead to whom I’ve never even been introduced. If I were a silly girl, I could well be overset by now.”
The baroness burst into laughter, drawing the attention of the other ladies in the room. “What’s so amusing over there?” Lady Allendale asked, furrowing her thin, straight brows. “You must include us in your jests.”
“That would overset her,” Lady Gerard whispered. “Oh, it was nothing,” she continued in a louder voice. “Merely an agreement on the sad weather we’re having this year.”
“It is sad, indeed.” Lady Allendale took Lady Hanover’s hand. “You weren’t here, but this past winter the Thames nearly froze over. All the young people made a huge game of the weather, but I thought it was dreadful. Dreadful and cold.”
“Please, ladies, we must keep our eyes on the target,” Mrs. Wendon broke in. “Namely on how Lady Sarah is to attract Epping’s attention.”
“You mean Lord John Tundle.”
“I most certainly meant Epping.”
“This is exciting,” Sarala’s mother chortled. “Do you think it could actually work? And I haven’t ruled out Melbourne, yet.”
“Our task is to make it work. Now, as I was saying…”
“Is anyone home?” Charlemagne asked, handing over his sopping wet greatcoat to Stanton.
The butler managed to look stoic and dismayed all at the same time as he took the garment with two fingers. “His Grace is away at a meeting, and Lady Penelope is upstairs protesting the necessity of learning French. And you have a note sent over from Gaston House.”
Charlemagne frowned, accepting the folded missive from his personal London residence and trying not to get it wet. “It’s from Oswald.” He glanced at Stanton’s carefully blank face. “I’ll be in the billiards room. I’d appreciate if you’d have Cook send up some hot soup. Chicken, preferably.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler turned for the servants’ hall, then hesitated. “Do you wish me to send Caine up to tend you? If I may be so bold, you appear to be rather…damp.”
“Soaked to the skin, actually. Yes, have Caine meet me in my bedchamber.”
“I’ll see to it at once, my lord.”
Still dripping from his hair and boots, Charlemagne climbed the Griffin House stairs to his trio of private rooms at the back of the house. Stanton’s litany of the location of family members used to take much longer, but now with first Eleanor and then Zachary married and living elsewhere, the butler’s task had become a little easier.
His own hadn’t, however. And that was why he should never have kissed Sarala once, much less twice. Flirtations and the occasional lover were one thing, but whatever it was about Sarala that had confounded him so, didn’t feel casual or something to be pursued on slow evenings. And she tasted like cinnamon, though that might have been his imagination.
Shaking out his hair and attempting to clear his waterlogged brain at the same time, Shay set aside the Gaston House butler’s note and shed his jacket and cravat. Business and the Griffin family and ancient artifacts and writings. Those were his interests, though not necessarily in that order. Playing about at getting those silks back wasn’t precisely good business, but at least he could honestly declare that it was somewhat business-related.
Kissing Sarala, though—he couldn’t categorize, justify, or clarify anything about it. She could claim he’d done it to coerce her, and at least that explanation made some sort of sense. Otherwise he would just have to admit he’d been seized by an odd and hopefully temporary madness.
Caine scratched at the door, thankfully rousing him from his pointless reverie. “Enter,” he called, going to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Stanton said you were caught in the rain, m’lord,” the valet said, his Irish accent deepening in obvious amusement.
“Yes. My own fault—I decided to walk home.”
“No worries, m’lord. I’ve already sent for the coach, and we’ll have you to White’s in good time.”
Charlemagne frowned. “White’s?”
Nodding, Caine pulled a folded paper from his pocket as a brief look of concern crossed his narrow face. “I always make a note of all your appointments, since I admit to my shame that my memory’s not as solid as yours.” He unfolded the paper and glanced at the numerous chicken scratches. “Yes. Last week you said you’d moved your monthly meeting with your brother the duke to—”
“—to one o’clock today at White’s,” Shay finished. “Damnation. I forgot.”
“It’s no matter, m’lord. You’ll be there on time.”
“Thank you, Caine. And please tell Cook I won’t be needing the soup.”
“Of course, m’lord.”
As Charlemagne dried himself off and dressed in a dark brown jacket with light gray waistcoat and dark gray trousers, his frown deepened. He knew better than anyone how unusual it was for him to forget an appointment. Even worse, he and Sebastian met for luncheon monthly—their chance to discuss business and family without siblings or nieces or distractions other than fellow diners who felt they had to stop by and say hello.
What the devil was wrong with him? He and Melbourne had made their monthly meetings a five-year-long tradition. Charlemagne checked the knot of his cravat, nodded at Caine, then at the last minute remembered Oswald’s note and crammed it into his pocket to read in the coach as he went downstairs. Stanton had found a dry greatcoat for him, and with another nod he headed outside to the coach. In a moment he was rumbling down the street on the way to White’s.
“Good afternoon, Lord Charlemagne,” the maitre d’ at White’s greeted him as he shed his poor weather gear.
“Peabody.”
“His Grace just arrived a moment ago, and is at your usual table.”
“My thanks. Send some rum by, if you please. I need to warm my bones a little.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Sebastian looked up from a small stack of papers as Charlemagne approached. “I told you not to take the barouche this morning.”
Charlemagne seated himself. “I made it worse by walking home. Apologies for being late.” A silent footman delivered the rum. “I think Caine was devastated at the carnage to my wardrobe, but he hid it well.”
“Mm-hm. As long as you didn’t drip water all over the new Persian carpet in the billiards room.”
“So you made the purchase. You have a certain sideways sensibility about you, you know.”
“Becaus
e I inquired about the carpet before I asked about your health?” Sebastian sliced off a section of table cheese and bit into it. “My thanks for noticing.”
“You’re welcome. And your carpet and I are both fine.” He pulled the Gaston House note from his pocket and nudged it in Sebastian’s direction. “It’s from Oswald.”
“Your butler?”
Charlemagne nodded. “Apparently someone tried to break into Gaston House last night. Oswald and a pair of footmen heard the noise and drove them off, but a window was broken.”
“That’s odd,” the duke commented, reading the note before he handed it back over. “I would think most of London would know not to break into a house owned by one of the Griffins.”
“Yes, well, apparently I’m not as terror-inspiring as you are.” Gaston House had been their maternal grandmother’s, and though technically it was his London residence, he barely spent more than a fortnight there each year—and that was mostly when he had negotiations to straighten out and couldn’t do it in noisy Griffin House. Not that Griffin House was nearly as noisy as it used to be.
“Considering that your butler could break an elephant in half, hopefully the culprits are terrified now. By the by, I ordered the lamb and kidney for you. And I may have some good news.”
Charlemagne looked from the papers at his brother’s elbow to Melbourne. “Prinny and Liverpool liked the canal expansion idea?”
“They did, but that’s not what I was talking about. Do you remember Reginald Burney-Smythe?”
“Viscount Dannon’s brother? He’s a banker, isn’t he?”
“Investor, these days. He has some connections in Madrid. One, in particular, who’s expressed an interest in acquiring fine quality silk. Apparently he’s willing to buy at up to six quid per bolt.”
His mind already working on a suitable response, Charlemagne reminded himself that despite his younger siblings’ claims, Melbourne could not read anyone’s thoughts. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, “but at the moment I have a lead on an even better deal.”
“You should let Burney-Smythe know, then. He could be a good source of information.”
“If you have the address, I’ll send him a note.”
“Good.” Melbourne gazed at him for a moment. “How many possible buyers do you have, Shay? I have to admit, all this interest has made me a bit curious to see the finest silk ever to come out of China.”
“I’ll conduct a tour of the warehouse when Nell and Caroline come to choose their dress material.”
“You’re not using any of our warehouses to store them.”
Of course Sebastian would know that; he kept detailed records of what was where, and when. With the amount of commerce the Griffins conducted, that in itself was a daunting task. “I have my own storage facilities. Why so curious?”
“No reason.” The duke gave a rare smile. “Since you’re obviously cooking up something secretive and highly profitable, I’ll change the subject. Peep apparently broke into your study yesterday morning.”
Charlemagne nodded, unconcerned, as two plates of lamb and kidney appeared before them. “I told her I’d already bought her birthday present. She was probably looking for it.”
“I think she found it.”
“I doubt it. I didn’t hide it in my rooms. I hid it in hers.” Grinning, Charlemagne dug into his luncheon. “She won’t get the best of me this year.”
“She wore a necklace into the breakfast room. A ruby pendant. I told her to put it back so she wouldn’t spoil your surprise.”
Damnation. “Oh, that,” he returned, keeping the smile on his face. “That was a bit of a token for someone else.”
“A very nice-quality token. Anyone in particular?”
“Not any longer. A change of plans, you might say.” And since Sarala had already given him several reasons that she wouldn’t wear it even though he’d made every effort to ensure that she could, his little attempt at bribery or whatever it was that had possessed him wouldn’t go any farther than the two of them. It didn’t need to go beyond that, since she was the one whose attention he’d been trying to get and whose mettle he’d been trying to gauge.
Melbourne finally segued to the burgeoning cotton and tobacco trade with America and the resistance they were still finding from the older and more conservative members of the House of Lords. Shay only half listened, though, as he tried to find a logical reason why he hadn’t told his brother that he’d lost the silk to another bidder. At this point and with the lies he’d already told, he didn’t know what to say.
Was it pride, embarrassment at being outmaneuvered by a barely English chit? Probably—or it had been three days ago, anyway. Now he’d piled all sorts of nonsense on top of his initial blunder, for which he had no one to blame but himself. And he’d kissed his competition, which made no sense at all.
In addition, he hadn’t done much bargaining. She’d stated her outrageously high price, he’d countered with his insultingly low one, and then they’d danced around other topics, literally and figuratively. Obviously now he needed to resolve this before the family got wind of his blundering.
“—when Zachary and Valentine killed a pair of traveling jugglers.”
Charlemagne blinked. “What?”
“So you’ve returned,” Melbourne said dryly, sipping his wine.
“I was just contemplating,” Shay replied, trying not to sound defensive.
“Contemplating what?”
“Nothing, really. You were talking about a possible blockade against the British in the United States.”
“Actually I was talking about how far we can afford to antagonize the Americans by shanghaiing and conscripting their sailors, but I suppose it’s roughly the same problem.”
“Right.” Pay attention, Shay. “I’ve spoken with Admiral Tr—”
“I rely on your counsel, you know,” the duke interrupted in a low voice. “I don’t just come to these luncheons to hear myself talk.”
“I know that, Seb.” Charlemagne stirred the fork across his plate. “I apologize. It’s…I just have several things on my mind.”
Melbourne gazed at him. “Anything you would care to discuss?”
“No.” He sat forward. “I’ll talk with the admiral again. Maybe I can convince him to see reason.”
Dark gray eyes continued studying him with an intensity that had reputedly caused several cabinet ministers to excuse themselves from meetings. Finally Sebastian nodded. “Do your best, though the damage has probably already been done. And Shay?”
“Yes?”
“We don’t have to restrict our luncheon conversations to business. I am your brother, after all. And your friend. If something is troubling you, I hope you know you can tell me.”
Wonderful. Now he had Melbourne worried. For a moment Shay debated simply confessing his stupidity. It had been only three days though. If he could salvage the negotiations with Sarala, conduct them professionally and with his usual, typical acumen, in another day or two everything would be back as it should and he would have nothing to confess. “Perhaps I’m just a bit unsettled,” he lied, “with the idea of Nell and Valentine having a child. Aside from the fact that I remember quite clearly when Nell was an infant herself, the idea of Valentine reproducing frankly frightens me.”
The duke chuckled, his shoulders lowering a little as he relaxed. “I’ve been having nightmares about that, myself. But I’ve never seen Eleanor as happy, so I suppose we’ll simply have to hope the child takes after its mother rather than its father.”
“Amen to that.” Charlemagne toasted him and took a generous swallow of rum.
Chapter 6
“Papa, surely we can find something more useful to do than attend a recital for a group of people we don’t even know.”
Sarala’s mother, bedecked in glorious yellow and probably a bit overdecorated for a recital, swept into the foyer. “Once you attend the recital, you will know them, and they will be grateful for your presence. Then befor
e you know it, you will have made friends.”
In truth, Sarala had had much the same thought. If no one in her family had any other agenda, she would have looked forward to the event. “It all sounds well and good,” she returned, clutching her cloak closer around her shoulders as the three of them left the house for the coach, “but I know your true reason for wanting us to attend.”
“And what might that be?” her father asked as he settled into the coach beside his wife.
“Mama’s friends have decided to marry me off to either Lord Epping or Lord John Tundle, and Mama’s set on the Duke of Melbourne.” Sarala grinned; the more she thought about it, the sillier it seemed. “Only the poor men don’t know it.”
“There is nothing remotely poor about the Duke of Melbourne. Keep that in mind, Sarah.”
The marquis cleared his throat. “I thought you danced the other night with the duke’s brother.”
Sarala nodded at her father. “Lord Charlemagne. He’s quite…arrogant. I imagine his brother must be ten times worse.”
“Howard, you’ve met His Grace, haven’t you? You could perform the introductions.”
The marquis took his wife’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ve exchanged a word or two with him. He’s a bright young man with far better things to do than speak with someone just getting his Town bearings again.”
“If he knew you, he would speak with you, Papa,” Sarala declared. “You are very interesting.”
He leaned forward and tweaked her cheek. “And you are very kind to say that, my dear, and I admit that at least I have hunted tigers from the back of an elephant. I doubt His Grace has ever performed that particular feat.”
“I doubt very many Englishmen at all have done that.”
“Will you two stop it?” Lady Hanover asked, her tone equal parts amusement and exasperation. “This is not a competition. Well, it is, but not the shooting tigers sort. Can you make the introductions, Howard?”
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