perhaps she would be able to come back and help her loyal friend.
Like a candle flame on a dark winter’s night, Christopher guided her towards his carriage with gentle sympathy.
‘Where now?’ she asked, too tired to care.
‘Now we go to Evernden Place on Mount Street,’ he said and lifted her into the curricle.
Chapter Seven
T he wall sconces remained unlit in his mother’s upstairs withdrawing room. Christopher was not surprised to see his mother stretched out on a chaise asleep. She liked to nap before dinner and dance until dawn.
In repose, she looked younger than her forty and some summers. The gathering gloom gave her skin a fine and delicate appearance and her pale green gown showed off her still youthful figure.
‘Mother,’ he murmured.
Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start, reaching to straighten her cap, a mere wisp of lace perched on silver-stranded blonde curls. ‘Christopher, darling. What on earth are you doing back in town so soon?’
He strode to her side and carried her proffered hand to his lips. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’
She waved her handkerchief at him. ‘Naughty boy. Of course I am. I am merely surprised. You intended to visit friends, did you not? I did not look to see you for at least a fortnight.’
‘Unfortunately, things did not turn out quite as expected,’ he replied, unable to fully obliterate the wryness in his tone.
An expression of dismay crossed her face. ‘Were things sovery bad at Cliff House? It just seemed so disrespectful for no one from the family to attend.’
Christopher sat down on the chair next to the chaise . ‘Aunt Imogene and Uncle George put in an appearance.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, you poor dear. Now I’m sorry I asked you to go. It must have been simply dreadful.’
Dreadful didn’t quite describe the past two days. Interesting, challenging, but as the face of Miss Sylvia Boisette intruded on his thoughts, he knew he would not have missed it for the world.
‘It wasn’t so bad. Aunt Imogene finally got the ormolu clock, so we’ve heard the last of it.’
‘But why did you return home?’
His face heated under her intense scrutiny. She always knew when he was keeping something from her. He had better get this over with. ‘Something happened.’
Her eyes lit with interest. ‘You met someone?’
Christopher stemmed a groan. For the past few months, his mother had been trying to match him up with one suitable female after another. He’d been running the gauntlet of gently bred débutantes dressed in white at every function he attended. Hence his planned flight to the country. Unfortunately Miss Boisette and her problems had put it all out of mind.
‘It is a little difficult to explain. You see, Uncle John left me with the care of his ward, Mademoiselle—’
‘His ward?’ his mother shrieked.
She never raised her voice except at Garth, and never in a shriek. Damn. ‘Mother, you must listen. Uncle John left Miss Boisette in my care and I offered to drive her to a friend of hers in Tunbridge Wells.’
With a small sigh of relief, she raised a languorous hand to her temple. ‘My word, child, you had me thinking you had brought that dreadful woman here.’
‘Er…actually, I did.’
She sat bolt upright. ‘You did what?’
He could not see a way to cushion the blow and readied himself for the peal she would ring over his head. ‘I brought her to London with me.’
Twin spots of colour glowed on her cheeks. ‘You brought his paramour to London?’
‘Miss Boisette is downstairs in the drawing room.’
‘Downstairs in my drawing room?’
Better she sound like a parrot than a banshee. ‘Yes, Mother, that is what I have been trying to tell you. Her friend had left the Wells. I brought Miss Boisette here because she had nowhere else to go.’
His mother reached for his hand. ‘Is it not enough for your brother to have no morals—now you, too? I always thought better of you,
Like a candle flame on a dark winter’s night, Christopher guided her towards his carriage with gentle sympathy.
‘Where now?’ she asked, too tired to care.
‘Now we go to Evernden Place on Mount Street,’ he said and lifted her into the curricle.
Chapter Seven
T he wall sconces remained unlit in his mother’s upstairs withdrawing room. Christopher was not surprised to see his mother stretched out on a chaise asleep. She liked to nap before dinner and dance until dawn.
In repose, she looked younger than her forty and some summers. The gathering gloom gave her skin a fine and delicate appearance and her pale green gown showed off her still youthful figure.
‘Mother,’ he murmured.
Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start, reaching to straighten her cap, a mere wisp of lace perched on silver-stranded blonde curls. ‘Christopher, darling. What on earth are you doing back in town so soon?’
He strode to her side and carried her proffered hand to his lips. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Are you not pleased to see me?’
She waved her handkerchief at him. ‘Naughty boy. Of course I am. I am merely surprised. You intended to visit friends, did you not? I did not look to see you for at least a fortnight.’
‘Unfortunately, things did not turn out quite as expected,’ he replied, unable to fully obliterate the wryness in his tone.
An expression of dismay crossed her face. ‘Were things sovery bad at Cliff House? It just seemed so disrespectful for no one from the family to attend.’
Christopher sat down on the chair next to the chaise . ‘Aunt Imogene and Uncle George put in an appearance.’
She pursed her lips. ‘Oh, you poor dear. Now I’m sorry I asked you to go. It must have been simply dreadful.’
Dreadful didn’t quite describe the past two days. Interesting, challenging, but as the face of Miss Sylvia Boisette intruded on his thoughts, he knew he would not have missed it for the world.
‘It wasn’t so bad. Aunt Imogene finally got the ormolu clock, so we’ve heard the last of it.’
‘But why did you return home?’
His face heated under her intense scrutiny. She always knew when he was keeping something from her. He had better get this over with. ‘Something happened.’
Her eyes lit with interest. ‘You met someone?’
Christopher stemmed a groan. For the past few months, his mother had been trying to match him up with one suitable female after another. He’d been running the gauntlet of gently bred débutantes dressed in white at every function he attended. Hence his planned flight to the country. Unfortunately Miss Boisette and her problems had put it all out of mind.
‘It is a little difficult to explain. You see, Uncle John left me with the care of his ward, Mademoiselle—’
‘His ward?’ his mother shrieked.
She never raised her voice except at Garth, and never in a shriek. Damn. ‘Mother, you must listen. Uncle John left Miss Boisette in my care and I offered to drive her to a friend of hers in Tunbridge Wells.’
With a small sigh of relief, she raised a languorous hand to her temple. ‘My word, child, you had me thinking you had brought that dreadful woman here.’
‘Er…actually, I did.’
She sat bolt upright. ‘You did what?’
He could not see a way to cushion the blow and readied himself for the peal she would ring over his head. ‘I brought her to London with me.’
Twin spots of colour glowed on her cheeks. ‘You brought his paramour to London?’
‘Miss Boisette is downstairs in the drawing room.’
‘Downstairs in my drawing room?’
Better she sound like a parrot than a banshee. ‘Yes, Mother, that is what I have been trying to tell you. Her friend had left the Wells. I brought Miss Boisette here because she had nowhere else to go.’
His mother reached for his hand. ‘Is it not enough for your brother to have no morals—now you, too? I always thought better of you,
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