the all-too-frequent crushing disappointment of loss and uncertainty and . . .
Not that Luisa knew what that was like. Not at all.
“My dear Luisa.” Olympia patted her hair awkwardly. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
She lifted her head and pulled away. “No, nothing. Good heavens. Nothing at all. Only a trifle worn today. A long evening of rather tedious work, followed by a disturbed sleep, remembering all the things I’d forgotten to sort out . . .”
“Any news to report? Unusual activities? Notes, letters, visitors?”
“No.”
“His wife, perhaps?”
“Lady Somerton is much as she’s always been. Very lovely, very kind, and unfailingly distant to everyone except her son.”
“
Their
son.”
“Yes, their son. He’s a dear little fellow, actually. She’s an excellent mother. But she keeps him away from the earl as much as she can. I think he’d like to be a better father, but he doesn’t know how. If she’d give him the chance to get to know the boy . . .”
“Yes, all very fascinating, this . . . this familial . . . whatever.” Olympia made a little movement of his hand and looked out the window at the smudged gray February beyond. “Is it too early for sherry?”
“Decidedly too early.”
Miss Dingleby jumped from the doorway. “Never too early for that, in a London winter. The sun’s halfway down already.”
“Such as it is,” said Luisa. “I much prefer England in summer.”
“Off you go, then, Dingleby. Fetch the sherry from whatever cupboard you’ve hidden it.” He waited until her footfalls faded down the hall, and the crash of cupboard doors echoed through the wood and plaster. “Now, Luisa. Listen to me carefully. This has nothing to do with you and your sisters, I’m afraid, but the time has ripened for another plan I’ve had in contemplation for some time . . .”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” Luisa backed away and found the sofa with her black-trousered calves. She sank downward. Quincy jumped into her lap the instant it appeared and settled in with a sigh of canine contentment.
“It’s too late for that, my dear. You’re already involved.” He cast a quick glance to the parlor door. “I’ll be quick. Lord Somerton, as you know, has long harbored suspicions about his wife . . .”
“Ridiculous. She may not love him, but she’s faithful, I’ll give her that.”
“They are true.”
“True!” Luisa’s eyes widened. “But that’s impossible! She positively lives for that boy of hers. She only goes out for church and a bit of shopping and visits to her sister.”
“She has been in love with my grandson Penhallow for the past seven years.”
“Lord Roland? My cousin?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s not important. They were nearly engaged once, and I . . . that is, Lord Somerton stepped in with a better offer when Roland was . . . well, elsewhere.” He cleared his throat.
“But that doesn’t mean she’s . . . she’s . . .” Luisa searched for the right word.
“Have you ever wondered, my dear, why Lady Somerton betrays not the slightest hint of love toward her husband?”
“I don’t see why she should. He’s brutal and overbearing and secretive, and he can’t be bothered to offer more than an occasional word of affection or even approbation, and while he’s rather superbly masculine, particularly when dressed in his formal suit, if you’re the sort of female whose head is turned by a mere set of broad shoulders and a face that might have been taken from a Roman coin . . .”
“My dear girl. Remember yourself.”
Luisa closed her mouth and reached for her tea. “In any case, there’s no reason she should love him. Not at all.”
“I don’t disagree. However . . .”
The rattle of glassware in the hallway caused Olympia to turn his brilliant red-wigged head. “Ah! There we are. Just the thing to banish the odor of pigsty from the old senses, what? Have these
Not that Luisa knew what that was like. Not at all.
“My dear Luisa.” Olympia patted her hair awkwardly. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
She lifted her head and pulled away. “No, nothing. Good heavens. Nothing at all. Only a trifle worn today. A long evening of rather tedious work, followed by a disturbed sleep, remembering all the things I’d forgotten to sort out . . .”
“Any news to report? Unusual activities? Notes, letters, visitors?”
“No.”
“His wife, perhaps?”
“Lady Somerton is much as she’s always been. Very lovely, very kind, and unfailingly distant to everyone except her son.”
“
Their
son.”
“Yes, their son. He’s a dear little fellow, actually. She’s an excellent mother. But she keeps him away from the earl as much as she can. I think he’d like to be a better father, but he doesn’t know how. If she’d give him the chance to get to know the boy . . .”
“Yes, all very fascinating, this . . . this familial . . . whatever.” Olympia made a little movement of his hand and looked out the window at the smudged gray February beyond. “Is it too early for sherry?”
“Decidedly too early.”
Miss Dingleby jumped from the doorway. “Never too early for that, in a London winter. The sun’s halfway down already.”
“Such as it is,” said Luisa. “I much prefer England in summer.”
“Off you go, then, Dingleby. Fetch the sherry from whatever cupboard you’ve hidden it.” He waited until her footfalls faded down the hall, and the crash of cupboard doors echoed through the wood and plaster. “Now, Luisa. Listen to me carefully. This has nothing to do with you and your sisters, I’m afraid, but the time has ripened for another plan I’ve had in contemplation for some time . . .”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” Luisa backed away and found the sofa with her black-trousered calves. She sank downward. Quincy jumped into her lap the instant it appeared and settled in with a sigh of canine contentment.
“It’s too late for that, my dear. You’re already involved.” He cast a quick glance to the parlor door. “I’ll be quick. Lord Somerton, as you know, has long harbored suspicions about his wife . . .”
“Ridiculous. She may not love him, but she’s faithful, I’ll give her that.”
“They are true.”
“True!” Luisa’s eyes widened. “But that’s impossible! She positively lives for that boy of hers. She only goes out for church and a bit of shopping and visits to her sister.”
“She has been in love with my grandson Penhallow for the past seven years.”
“Lord Roland? My cousin?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s not important. They were nearly engaged once, and I . . . that is, Lord Somerton stepped in with a better offer when Roland was . . . well, elsewhere.” He cleared his throat.
“But that doesn’t mean she’s . . . she’s . . .” Luisa searched for the right word.
“Have you ever wondered, my dear, why Lady Somerton betrays not the slightest hint of love toward her husband?”
“I don’t see why she should. He’s brutal and overbearing and secretive, and he can’t be bothered to offer more than an occasional word of affection or even approbation, and while he’s rather superbly masculine, particularly when dressed in his formal suit, if you’re the sort of female whose head is turned by a mere set of broad shoulders and a face that might have been taken from a Roman coin . . .”
“My dear girl. Remember yourself.”
Luisa closed her mouth and reached for her tea. “In any case, there’s no reason she should love him. Not at all.”
“I don’t disagree. However . . .”
The rattle of glassware in the hallway caused Olympia to turn his brilliant red-wigged head. “Ah! There we are. Just the thing to banish the odor of pigsty from the old senses, what? Have these
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