S
ebastian was careful to wait until after twelve o’clock to pay a call on the Park Street home of his aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Claiborne. The house was not, technically, the property of the Dowager but belonged to her son, the present Duke of Claiborne. But the Duke, a stout, mild-mannered man well into his middle years, knew himself to be no match for his formidable mother. Rather than assert his rights of ownership, he simply lived with his growing family in a much smaller house in Half Moon Street, leaving Henrietta in possession of the grand pile over which she had reigned as mistress for more than half a century.
Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the elder sister of the current Earl of Hendon, she was one of the few people who knew that she was not actually Sebastian’s aunt, although the world believed her to be. But neither Sebastian nor Henrietta was the type to allow technicalities to interfere in their affections.
He found her seated at her breakfast table, a half-eaten piece of toast and a cup of tea before her. Like her brother, she was big boned and fleshy, with a broad, plain face and the piercing blue eyes that were the hallmark of the St. Cyr family. She had never been a pretty woman, even when young. But she was every inch the earl’s daughter and made a splendid duchess. Always exquisitely groomed and imperious in manner, she was one of the grandes dames of society. And if at all possible she never left her dressing room before one o’clock.
“Good heavens, Aunt,” said Sebastian, bending to kiss her rouged cheek. “The clocks have barely struck twelve and I find you already on the verge of setting forth into the world. How . . . dreadfully unfashionable.”
She rapped him affectionately on the ear, chuckling as she straightened the towering purple turban he’d knocked slightly askew. “Impertinent jackanapes. As it happens, I did not sleep well last night. All that banging and booming; I swear it was enough to wake the dead. Now, stop looming over me and sit down and tell me why you are here. No, don’t bring him a cup of tea, you foolish man,” she told the hapless footman who was about to do just that. “Get him some ale.”
Sebastian drew out the seat beside her. “What makes you so certain I’m not here simply for the pleasure of your company?”
“Because I know you. And because I read the papers.” She paused, a hint of apprehension tightening the lines around her mouth. Henrietta might be leery of his recent marriage to the daughter of Lord Jarvis, but she had never approved of his relationship with Kat either. Sebastian knew she would frown on anything likely to bring him once more into the orbit of his ex-mistress.
She leaned forward, her gaze hard on his face. “But first, I want you to tell me how your new bride gets on. Is she well?”
“Hero? I doubt she’s ever been sick in her life. I wanted to ask—”
“I saw her in Bond Street the other day,” said Henrietta, ignoring his attempt to change the subject. “She looked ravishing—positively glowing, in fact, which is not a word I ever thought I would use to describe Hero Jarvis. She’s not by chance increasing, is she?” She looked at him archly.
Sebastian stared back at her. Her capacity to ferret out other people’s secrets had always struck him as bordering on the uncanny. He said, “Bit soon for that, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
Sebastian paused while her man placed a tankard of ale before him, then drank deeply. “I’m here to ask what you can tell me about the Hopes.”
A faint, enigmatic smile touched her lips. She took a delicate sip of her tea, then said, “Which ones?”
“Henry Philip and Thomas.”
“Ah. Well, there isn’t much to say about Henry Philip. He’s never married, you know, and seldom ventures out into company. Queer little man.”
“I understand he’s something of a gem collector.”
“He is, yes. I’ve heard it said he has the largest private collection of jewels in Europe, although I’ve never seen it personally.”
“What about Thomas? Does he share his brother’s interest in gems?”
“Not to my knowledge. Oh, he buys the odd piece for that wife of his.” Henrietta’s nose quivered in a way that told him Louisa Hope was not one of her favorites. “But for the most part he fancies himself something of an antiquary and patron of the arts.”
“Tell me about his wife.”
“Louisa de la Poer Beresford. Her uncle is the Earl of Tyrone and the Marquis of Waterford.”
“And her father?”
“Some clergyman. In Ireland, of all places.”
“So Thomas Hope was quite a catch for her.”
“He was, yes. Although I’ve heard there were tears when the match was first suggested to her.”