will return to the house by nightfall; there is no need to put yourself into such anxiety.”
“I only wish that were the case,” she cried, her voice rising a little. “Yet I must admit that I know Perdita better than you do. She is nothing if not amenable—until she—”
Fletch caught the flash of Lady Flora’s white teeth. “She had it from my late husband, may God rest his soul,” Lady Flora said. “I very much doubt that Poppy will return to your house, Your Grace.”
“Of course she will!” Fletch growled, moving backwards so that her hand fell from his sleeve. “Now if you will allow me, madam, I will ask Quince to accompany you to your house himself, since you are distressed.”
She smiled at him as if she hadn’t heard him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll speak to the house keeper and get everything under control immediately. I won’t have you discomforted in the slightest by this absurd flight on the part of my daughter!”
There wasn’t even a twitch in her eye to admit that there was something incongruous about a mother offering to replace a daughter. The only thing Fletch could imagine was that Lady Flora, like her daughter, was the sort of person who never thought of bedroom matters.
Fletch’s only thought was of flight. “I do apologize, Lady Flora. I am due at an urgent appointment.”
She smiled at him with all the warmth of a ravening tiger. “Do make yourself comfortable wherever you wish to go. Everything will be in order for you in this house.”
Sure enough, she turned away and began barking at Quince about house keeping and menus and her maid and sheets. It was amazing how quickly her smooth tone peeled away when she addressed a servant.
“Oh, Your Grace!” she carrolled, as a footman was opening the door.
He turned back to her once more.
“Do give my best to my daughter, should you happen to speak to her.”
Fletch bowed. The funny thing was that Lady Flora’s hair was a still vibrant golden color; it didn’t look as if it were made of snakes. But surely…
His butler bowed by the door, holding out the coat he had just taken off. “Quince,” he said, pausing, “who was that goddess whose hair was made of snakes?”
“Medusa, Your Grace,” Quince said. “One glimpse at her hair and a man was struck to stone.”
“Just so,” Fletch said thoughtfully, heading toward his carriage. Poppy would understand that she had to come home.
Chapter 14
May 1
T he wig was damnably heavy, but no itchier than the one he wore every day. The hooped petticoat was more of a problem. “How do you sit down in this?” he asked Mrs. Ferrers, the house keeper.
“You’ve nothing but small side panniers,” she observed. “Now those of twenty years ago were something terrible, they were. This will do little more than give you a woman’s shape.”
Finchley glanced down at the bodice of his sky-blue gown and snorted. “My hips aren’t the only part in need of padding, Mrs. Ferrers.”
“It would be much easier if you’d allow one of the house maids to do it for you,” she said. “Betty, now. She has a properly dramatic way with her.”
He shook his head. “The duke would never forgive me for allowing a woman to see him in his current state. Never.”
Mrs. Ferrers pursed her lips. “Betty can’t afford to lose her place. She’s got those three sisters of hers.”
“There you are, then.”
“Your arms look terribly hairy, Mr. Finchley, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Perhaps a shawl? I tried to get into that red gown with the long sleeves, but it didn’t fit.”
“Well, you look as best a man can look in a woman’s costume. I’ll give you a shawl, and we’ll tuck a lace fichu into the bodice; you’ve a bit of hair showing there as well.”
“I suppose I could shave it off,” Finchley said doubtfully.
Mrs. Ferrers backed up and eyed him.
“His Grace is dreadfully feverish. He hardly opens his eyes.”
“All he’d have to do was
“I only wish that were the case,” she cried, her voice rising a little. “Yet I must admit that I know Perdita better than you do. She is nothing if not amenable—until she—”
Fletch caught the flash of Lady Flora’s white teeth. “She had it from my late husband, may God rest his soul,” Lady Flora said. “I very much doubt that Poppy will return to your house, Your Grace.”
“Of course she will!” Fletch growled, moving backwards so that her hand fell from his sleeve. “Now if you will allow me, madam, I will ask Quince to accompany you to your house himself, since you are distressed.”
She smiled at him as if she hadn’t heard him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll speak to the house keeper and get everything under control immediately. I won’t have you discomforted in the slightest by this absurd flight on the part of my daughter!”
There wasn’t even a twitch in her eye to admit that there was something incongruous about a mother offering to replace a daughter. The only thing Fletch could imagine was that Lady Flora, like her daughter, was the sort of person who never thought of bedroom matters.
Fletch’s only thought was of flight. “I do apologize, Lady Flora. I am due at an urgent appointment.”
She smiled at him with all the warmth of a ravening tiger. “Do make yourself comfortable wherever you wish to go. Everything will be in order for you in this house.”
Sure enough, she turned away and began barking at Quince about house keeping and menus and her maid and sheets. It was amazing how quickly her smooth tone peeled away when she addressed a servant.
“Oh, Your Grace!” she carrolled, as a footman was opening the door.
He turned back to her once more.
“Do give my best to my daughter, should you happen to speak to her.”
Fletch bowed. The funny thing was that Lady Flora’s hair was a still vibrant golden color; it didn’t look as if it were made of snakes. But surely…
His butler bowed by the door, holding out the coat he had just taken off. “Quince,” he said, pausing, “who was that goddess whose hair was made of snakes?”
“Medusa, Your Grace,” Quince said. “One glimpse at her hair and a man was struck to stone.”
“Just so,” Fletch said thoughtfully, heading toward his carriage. Poppy would understand that she had to come home.
Chapter 14
May 1
T he wig was damnably heavy, but no itchier than the one he wore every day. The hooped petticoat was more of a problem. “How do you sit down in this?” he asked Mrs. Ferrers, the house keeper.
“You’ve nothing but small side panniers,” she observed. “Now those of twenty years ago were something terrible, they were. This will do little more than give you a woman’s shape.”
Finchley glanced down at the bodice of his sky-blue gown and snorted. “My hips aren’t the only part in need of padding, Mrs. Ferrers.”
“It would be much easier if you’d allow one of the house maids to do it for you,” she said. “Betty, now. She has a properly dramatic way with her.”
He shook his head. “The duke would never forgive me for allowing a woman to see him in his current state. Never.”
Mrs. Ferrers pursed her lips. “Betty can’t afford to lose her place. She’s got those three sisters of hers.”
“There you are, then.”
“Your arms look terribly hairy, Mr. Finchley, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Perhaps a shawl? I tried to get into that red gown with the long sleeves, but it didn’t fit.”
“Well, you look as best a man can look in a woman’s costume. I’ll give you a shawl, and we’ll tuck a lace fichu into the bodice; you’ve a bit of hair showing there as well.”
“I suppose I could shave it off,” Finchley said doubtfully.
Mrs. Ferrers backed up and eyed him.
“His Grace is dreadfully feverish. He hardly opens his eyes.”
“All he’d have to do was
Similar Books
