Hugh had gone off to bed in foul temper, muttering his unflattering opinion of the new Earl of Ardencaple. Grif determined he needed some air. He left Dudley to keep an eye on his old friend and set out with the intention of calling on the lovely young lass he’d dreamed about last night.
He had to inquire of Fynster-Allen how to find Lucy Addison, but Fynster-Allen was amused by Grif’s ardor for her, and with a chuckle sent him to Whittington House on Audley Street.
On Audley Street, Grif was slightly taken aback by the grandeur of Whittington House—not that he hadn’t seen grand houses, but when he thought of Miss Lucy, her circumstance was not exactly the first thing that came to mind.
When he lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall, a footman instantly opened the door. Behind him stood a butler. “Sir,” the butler said stoically, bowing slightly before extending a silver tray.
Grif retrieved a calling card from his breast pocket and placed it on the tray. “Good day to ye. Lord Ardencaple calling for Miss Lucy Addison.”
“Of course, sir,” the butler said, as if Grif were somehow expected. “If you will follow me.” He pivoted sharply about, strode into the ornate foyer.
Grif stepped inside, quickly tossed his hat and his gloves to a footman, and hurried to catch up with the impatient butler before he lost him.
The butler turned from the foyer into a large corridor and strode to a pair of highly polished oak doors. “If you will kindly wait here, I shall inform Miss Lucy that you’ve called,” he said, and pushed open one door; Grif barely had an opportunity to step inside before the efficient butler closed the door behind him.
“Thank ye,” he said to the closed door, and turned around to have a look about the room. Yet it seemed as if he’d scarcely begun before the butler was once again at the door. “If you will follow me, sir.”
Grif hurried after him again.
They walked to the end of the very long carpeted corridor, past portraits and large porcelain vases full of hothouse flowers and brass wall sconces. At the end of the corridor, the butler paused in front of another set of doors, pushed them open with a flourish, bowed deeply, and announced, “Lord Ardencaple calling.”
Grif stepped across the threshold and saw the angel, Miss Lucy. She was perched like a pretty bird on the edge of an embroidered chair, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. When she stood, it reminded him of the way the morning mist rose on the loch. “Lord Ardencaple, what a delight.”
“Ah, but the delight is mine, lass,” he said with a bow, and it wasn’t until he was striding forward to take her hand with a ridiculously broad grin on his face that he noticed he wasn’t the only caller in the room.
There was a man seated on a divan, who was eyeing Grif disdainfully. Directly across from him was an elderly woman with a matronly cap. The chaperone, he presumed, as her attention was on a piece of needlework in which her needle flew in and out. And there was one more person—a man standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Grif recognized him as the man with whom Miss Lucy had been in the gardens at the Darlington ball last night.
Nevertheless, Grif bent over Miss Lucy’s hand and smiled into her amber eyes.
“May I introduce you to Mr. Effington,” she said, nodding politely in the direction of the man on the divan.
Grif and Effington exchanged a curt nod.
“And Mr. Lockhart,” she said, nodding to the man at the window.
Lockhart! His English cousin. Grif stared at the man—he was so shocked that, for a fraction of a moment, he wasn’t certain what to do.
“Ardencaple, is it?” Lockhart said, strolling across the room, his eyes narrowed slightly.
“Aye. Pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Mr. Lockhart,” Grif said, quickly recovering, and extended his hand. Lockhart took his hand, peering at Grif so intently that he might have, in another circumstance, taken offense, but he wisely stepped away from him and turned a bright smile to Miss Lucy, who had resumed her perch on the edge of the chair.
“Please, my lord, be seated,” she invited him, gesturing to the chair next to her. Grif flipped the tails of his coat and sat.
“Did you enjoy the Darlington ball?”
“I did indeed,” he said with a broad smile.
“I so enjoy dancing,” she said, and as Grif wasn’t certain what to say to that, he merely nodded. “Do you enjoy dancing?” she asked.
“I do,” he said honestly. “I hope to demonstrate how very much at first opportunity, if ye’ll allow it.”
Miss Lucy smiled at that, but Grif’s cousin sneered and strolled back to the window.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Lucy, but I must take my leave,” Mr. Effington said, coming across the room to bow over her hand. “Thank you for allowing me to call.”
“Oh, but thank you for calling, Mr. Effington. Good day.”
He smiled, glanced up at the others. “Good day to you all,” he said, and strode toward the door, which a footman quickly opened, then just as quickly shut behind him.