“Haven’t had one of these in an age.” Arthur sighed with pleasure as he polished off the last of the butterscotch brownies. “Old Uncle Tom baked ‘em up every Sunday before his ticker went west. Miss him. And the brownies.” He leaned back to brush crumbs out of his beard and his fragile chair emitted a tiny groan. “Uncle Tom’d enjoy meeting Cousin William. Good chap. Certainly hope he sends in reinforcements. Could use ’em.”
“Reinforcements?” I repeated, the light beginning to dawn. “Arthur, did my father-in-law talk to you about moving to England?”
“What?” Arthur cast a furtive glance in my direction, as though he’d only just remembered who I was. “Can’t say. No. Certainly not. Not a word. Ahem.” The arms of Arthur’s chair bowed dangerously as he heaved himself to his feet and strolled over to peer out of the windows. “Talked Lucy’s ear off, though. Poor old Lucy. That’s who I feel sorry for.”
“Why?” I half-turned on the settee to watch Arthur as he lumbered back and forth before the windows.
Arthur shrugged. “Ancien régime pooped out all at once. Aunt Anthea retired early, Uncle Tom took sick, m‘father went bonkers. Then Gerald left. Hasn’t been easy on her. Love the law, myself—set your own hours, dine well. Not much good at it, though. Detail work, not my forte. Great disappointment to m’father.”
“Lucy’s sisters ... ?” Nell asked.
“Sprats,” said Arthur. He wandered over to examine Lucy’s books. “Only just sprung from university, both of ‘em.”
“You’re not much older than that yourself,” Nell pointed out.
“Ah, but I’m a man. Different set of rules. Old trouts prefer an idiot male to a clever young woman. Stupid, but true.” He pointed to the portrait above the mantelpiece. “ ‘S’why Lucy makes such a fuss about old Julia Louise. Strong woman. Respected in her day. So Lucy says.”
I finished my first cup of tea and poured a second. I’d consumed an embarrassingly large number of the tiny sandwiches, but consoled myself with the thought that Lucy would assume Arthur had eaten most of them. Turning to him, I said sympathetically, “I can understand why you were all so upset with Gerald when he left.”
Arthur swung around to face me. “Did she tell you?” he said, his hand flying to his head. “Imagine that. Not Lucy’s style to moan. Still, if the love of my life went over the moon for a whey-faced old cow, suppose I’d want to howl about it every now and then. Good of you to lend her an ear.”
I sipped my tea and waited for my brain to finish translating Arthur’s staccato patter into standard English. Then I choked. Good Lord, I thought, coughing into a napkin, Lucy’s in love with Gerald, too.
I should have seen it coming. Lucy had given a different set of signals from those of poor red-faced Miss Coombs, but the signs had been there all along, if only I’d had the wit to interpret them correctly. The irony made me wince. Lucy Willis, champion of an exceptional woman, was herself enacting one of the most traditional roles of all: a woman scorned.
“Ger-Gerald told us he was looking after his father,” I managed, wheezing.
“Looking after Uncle Tom? Up in Bedfordshire?” Arthur’s laughter rumbled up from deep within his barrel chest and burst out in a series of hearty guffaws. “Suppose he had to tell you something, but ... What’s he doing? Commuting from Surrey? Good old Gerald. Looking after Uncle Tom ...”
“Mr. Digby told us that he takes the train to London twice a month,” said Nell.
“Who’s Mr. Digby?” Arthur asked, wiping his eyes.
“The porter at the Georgian Hotel,” Nell replied. “His daughter works at the train station, and she said—”
“Infernal cheek!” Arthur exclaimed. “You tell Mr. Digby and his daughter to mind their own business and not go spreading rumors about old Gerald.” Arthur returned to his chair and accepted a third cup of tea from Nell. “Truth is,” he confessed after a moment’s thought, “Gerald asks for it. Can’t imagine what he sees in the wretched hag. Little round dumpling of a woman—peg legs, no waist, dyed hair. Not in the first bloom of youth, either. Pretends to be all sweetness and light, but one look at those eyes ...” Arthur shuddered. “Hard as flint. Worst part is, Gerald gives her lunch where we used to take our clients. Hard on Lucy, poor old thing.”
Nell offered the plate of petits fours to Arthur, who selected three and popped them into his mouth, one after another.