by Joan Smith
“Surely not that one!” Prance exclaimed. “I’d be scared to death to put a leg over it.”
“It was just an idea,” Black said. “I figure he’d be going cheap since Jasper won’t be keeping him. Mind you, he was pretty frisky.”
But he meant to buy some handsome mount. He had got decent clothes now, and was learning French. He couldn’t afford a carriage yet, and didn’t need one with Mr. Pattle having two since he set up his curricle. But that five hundred would more than pay for a handsome gentleman’s mount of some sort. He’d come a long way. As he looked around at his friends, he could hardly believe it. He might as easily have ended up in gaol, or on the gibbet.
Prance turned to Coffen. “What will you do with your inheritance, the house on Nile Street, Coffen?”
“Sell it, if I can find anyone fool enough to buy it.”
“After you fill in the tunnel and brick up the opening,” Luten said. “That sort of thing is just asking for trouble.”
“Oh I don’t know,” Prance said. “I think it’s rather romantic — in a gothic sort of way.”
“A piece of rubbish,” Coffen said. “I never want to see it again. I’ll let Weir handle the selling of it.”
Luten looked at his wife and said, “Would you like a rest, my dear? All this excitement isn’t good for you.”
“I’m fine, Luten.”
A quick frown seized Prance’s face. He subjected Corinne to a close scrutiny and said to Coffen, “I think it’s time for us to leave. Shall we see you this evening, folks?”
“Not tonight,” Luten said at once. “But we’ll definitely attend your friend’s play tomorrow evening.”
“A demain soir, donc,” Prance said, and herded the others out.
Corinne looked at Luten and said, “No, I don’t want to have a lie down, Luten. But I shall take Evelina out to the garden for a bit.”
“You think it’s a girl? You’ve named her already? Why Evelina?”
“Evelina is a novel, Luten. I shall try very hard to give you a son and heir, and I shan’t name him without consulting you.”
“Ah, excellent. I’ll join you in the garden.” She gave a despairing sigh. The hovering had begun.
As they walked along Marine Parade Prance said, “She’s enceinte.”
“I’ve thought so since we got here,” Black said. “Not pushing herself into the middle of things as she usually does. Very quiet, for her.”
“And that remark about having a rest in the middle of the day. The mention of going to Ireland. Not a doubt in my mind.”
“Who are you talking about?” Coffen asked.
“Corinne. She’s enceinte.”
“What, having a baby?”
“Certainly a baby. She will hardly give birth to a mountain, or a tree.”
Black scowled. Coffen said, “I didn’t hear that! When did she tell you?”
“She didn’t,” Prance replied. “It must be a vast relief for her, after having failed to perform all those years for deCoventry. I wonder when we’ll be allowed to know.”
“We know now,” Coffen said. “Are we sure?”
“Ninety-nine percent sure. The question is, do we let on we don’t know?”
“Why?” Coffen said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a perfectly natural thing. They’re married after all.”
“Yes, but they haven’t told us yet,” Prance said. “We don’t want to seem to pry. They can’t keep it a secret for long. It must be a relief to her and Luten.”
Black didn’t add anything to this discussion. He was wondering how being a father would work into his phantasy life as Lord Blackmore, until it occurred to him that he still hadn’t emptied that keg of brandy in the cellar of Coffen’s house. Now where could he get hold of a dozen bottles? Very likely Mrs. Partridge could help him.
Copyright © 2015 by Joan Smith
Electronically published in 2015 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads [ISBN 9781610849340]
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.