knocking on her door. Alas, her lady’s maid had answered it, a dragon of a creature determined to open the door no more than six inches wide while she spoke to him.
“How can I help you, my lord?” Her words said one thing, but her tone indicated quite the opposite intent.
“So kind of you to ask.” Henry had encountered this type before and knew how to engage in battle. “I came to inquire how Miss Malcolm was feeling this afternoon? Is there anything she needs that I could have the housekeeper send up for her?”
“No, thank you, your lordship. Very good of you.”
Henry smiled. The woman’s face had a distinctively suspicious cast to it—he supposed that “good” was the antithesis of what she considered him. He wondered if Eliza had confided in her maid about the incident with Constance yesterday morning….
“I have a book here that perhaps Miss Malcolm would like to borrow—something to pass the time.”
The maid took the book and held it gingerly. Henry hoped that she would not leaf through it. It was a novel, although the plain cover concealed that fact admirably, an older book that he had enjoyed many years ago. The title was Pamela or Virtue Rewarded, and he hoped that the second of those names would pass muster with the sergeant in charge of this camp.
“I look forward to seeing your mistress at dinner.”
There was no response to that, so Henry retreated and allowed the maid to close the door. He snapped his fingers in frustration as he walked down the corridor. If only she had opened the door a little wider and let him catch a glimpse of the room’s occupant. At breakfast Miss Malcolm’s hair had been pulled up into a bun, with a few pieces falling down around her face. It was probably all unpinned now. He wondered if she really did have a headache—brought on by having to choose between Rufus’ plan and his own.
The rest of the afternoon Henry whiled away playing billiards with his half-brother Robert and Sir Arthur. “So, Robert, I hear you’re in deep waters,” he said in an undertone while Sir Arthur was distracted with the decanter of brandy.
“Who says so? Nonsense,” replied Robert. He squinted at the table and knocked a billiard ball into a hole with more force than he had hitherto exerted.
“Mother says so. Rufus has your note? And it expires soon?”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “He’ll put a stay on the repayment—he has before. And with any luck, I’ll get him to invest some more in this engine I’ve told you about—I’ve got a sure thing, this time!” He laid down his billiards stick and brushed an invisible speck off his lace cuffs.
Henry shrugged. “Suit yourself, Robert. But be advised that Rufus is by no means a benevolent philanthropist.”
“I’m sorry, Henry,” said Robert, reading more into the comment than Henry had intended. “I cannot think of a more unfair event than two inheritances and three sons. Your father’s plan to provide for you made a mull of everything, and for that we must all be disappointed.”
“Never mind that,” said Henry, in no way desirous or deserving of his half-brother’s pity.
“Another game?” said Sir Arthur, sloshing his drink down onto a table in the corner and seizing upon an unclaimed billiards stick.
“Of course,” said Robert.
“Not I,” said Henry. “I want to see if my valet has arrived with my clothes—perhaps I will have something presentable to wear for dinner tonight.”
Robert and Sir Arthur waved Henry good-bye as they set up the billiard balls. Henry went down the hallway and started up the stairs. He had just reached the landing by his brother Rufus’ portrait, when he heard Rufus himself in the entryway below. Rufus and Walter had been gone all day, either setting up the details of the upcoming hunt or shooting some fowl themselves.
“Plenty of time to dress for dinner,” Henry heard Rufus remark. “I’ll have a bath first, I think.”
“Good plan,” said Walter,
“How can I help you, my lord?” Her words said one thing, but her tone indicated quite the opposite intent.
“So kind of you to ask.” Henry had encountered this type before and knew how to engage in battle. “I came to inquire how Miss Malcolm was feeling this afternoon? Is there anything she needs that I could have the housekeeper send up for her?”
“No, thank you, your lordship. Very good of you.”
Henry smiled. The woman’s face had a distinctively suspicious cast to it—he supposed that “good” was the antithesis of what she considered him. He wondered if Eliza had confided in her maid about the incident with Constance yesterday morning….
“I have a book here that perhaps Miss Malcolm would like to borrow—something to pass the time.”
The maid took the book and held it gingerly. Henry hoped that she would not leaf through it. It was a novel, although the plain cover concealed that fact admirably, an older book that he had enjoyed many years ago. The title was Pamela or Virtue Rewarded, and he hoped that the second of those names would pass muster with the sergeant in charge of this camp.
“I look forward to seeing your mistress at dinner.”
There was no response to that, so Henry retreated and allowed the maid to close the door. He snapped his fingers in frustration as he walked down the corridor. If only she had opened the door a little wider and let him catch a glimpse of the room’s occupant. At breakfast Miss Malcolm’s hair had been pulled up into a bun, with a few pieces falling down around her face. It was probably all unpinned now. He wondered if she really did have a headache—brought on by having to choose between Rufus’ plan and his own.
The rest of the afternoon Henry whiled away playing billiards with his half-brother Robert and Sir Arthur. “So, Robert, I hear you’re in deep waters,” he said in an undertone while Sir Arthur was distracted with the decanter of brandy.
“Who says so? Nonsense,” replied Robert. He squinted at the table and knocked a billiard ball into a hole with more force than he had hitherto exerted.
“Mother says so. Rufus has your note? And it expires soon?”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “He’ll put a stay on the repayment—he has before. And with any luck, I’ll get him to invest some more in this engine I’ve told you about—I’ve got a sure thing, this time!” He laid down his billiards stick and brushed an invisible speck off his lace cuffs.
Henry shrugged. “Suit yourself, Robert. But be advised that Rufus is by no means a benevolent philanthropist.”
“I’m sorry, Henry,” said Robert, reading more into the comment than Henry had intended. “I cannot think of a more unfair event than two inheritances and three sons. Your father’s plan to provide for you made a mull of everything, and for that we must all be disappointed.”
“Never mind that,” said Henry, in no way desirous or deserving of his half-brother’s pity.
“Another game?” said Sir Arthur, sloshing his drink down onto a table in the corner and seizing upon an unclaimed billiards stick.
“Of course,” said Robert.
“Not I,” said Henry. “I want to see if my valet has arrived with my clothes—perhaps I will have something presentable to wear for dinner tonight.”
Robert and Sir Arthur waved Henry good-bye as they set up the billiard balls. Henry went down the hallway and started up the stairs. He had just reached the landing by his brother Rufus’ portrait, when he heard Rufus himself in the entryway below. Rufus and Walter had been gone all day, either setting up the details of the upcoming hunt or shooting some fowl themselves.
“Plenty of time to dress for dinner,” Henry heard Rufus remark. “I’ll have a bath first, I think.”
“Good plan,” said Walter,
Similar Books
