“Well, until last year, Slotten House was his to inherit, and I have the town house in Bath for the same reason—with a career eventually in law. It is what is expected of a third son, as well you know.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” This was the first time that Miss Elaine had looked at him with genuine interest and, therefore, forgot to giggle. “What changed?”
This was a subject Robert did not like to discuss. The pain was still too raw. Even after seven months, the shock was not yet behind him. His life had changed in a flash—a flash of gunpowder. An imagined insult and hotheaded idiocy had taken Lloyd’s life.
“My eldest brother was killed last August.” He spoke the words with tight lips, hoping that that would end it. He would not discuss the whys and wherefores—not only was dueling illegal, it was as great a folly as any that had been invented.
“What do you think of the venison, Cora? Has Cook not outdone herself?” Lydia smiled and nodded, as if encouraging her friend to speak.
“Indeed. Very good.” Miss Shipley lifted her cheeks briefly and then returned her gaze to the table.
Lydia stared at the top of Miss Shipley’s head, her brow folded. She sighed softly and then turned back to the company. “Do you enjoy living in Bath, Mr. Newton?”
Appreciating her efforts to lead the conversation to safer ground, Robert smiled. “Yes, I do. Although my work often keeps me too busy to enjoy its diversions.”
“That is a shame. No frivolity for you, then?”
“On occasion.” He nodded incrementally as an acknowledgment of her kindness and, on close observation, watched her return the motion.
“So Slotten will be yours on your father’s death.” Mrs. Kemble, however, was not sensitive to the emotions of others and brought the topic right back where Robert didn’t want it to be. “Your other brother will take the title and seat of Wissett. What is the name of your ancestral manor … Tonington Hall?”
“Please, Aunt Freya, you are talking about the death of Mr. Newton’s father. It is a subject best avoided.” Lydia gave her head a vigorous shake and glared at the foot of the table. Then, after visibly taking a deep breath, she turned back toward Robert. “Would you be able to take time to attend a ball? We are going to celebrate my birthday with a moderate gathering of two hundred or so in the Lower Rooms in May.”
She grinned with such enthusiasm that a polite acceptance was out of Robert’s mouth before he even considered it. Fortunately, when he did, he came to the same conclusion. Yes, it would be something he would be pleased to attend. Very pleased, indeed.
Lydia talked for several minutes about the plans for the big day until, at last, the other ladies were infected. The discussion then bounced from person to person, with opinions getting louder and laughter that was truly contagious. Robert could add little to the discussion. He knew nothing of the latest fashions, what punches were best served at a ball, or how many nights’ accommodation would be required before the big day. And yet he enjoyed their excitement—the way Lydia’s eyes lit up when she talked about seeing friends and her smile of patience as she listened to her cousin describe her dancing slippers in excruciating detail.
Just when it seemed that the meal would conclude in this general sense of goodwill, a voice penetrated the doors and, suddenly, the dining room was silent. When the voice shouted again, Mrs. Kemble flushed and glanced at her sister-in-law.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I believe I am needed.”
Robert stood as the lady gathered her skirts and slipped into the hallway. For the brief period that the door was open, Mr. Kemble’s irritation echoed through the cavernous entrance and bounded into the dining room. The reverberation and the slur of his tongue distorted the meaning of his words, but there was no doubt of his inebriated state.
“Dear me, I believe Arthur and the Major might have indulged a little too much.” Mrs. Whitfield looked uncomfortable and offered Robert a waxen smile. “It happens so rarely that we must overlook it.”
Lydia snorted—in a most unconventional manner—while Miss Elaine began a loud summary of a letter that had been received from an acquaintance. Her oration drowned out the voices from the other room, as it was meant to, but it also left the rest of the table uninvolved, staring at the plates in front of them. By the time dessert was finished, so was the letter’s summary and the hallway conversation, but rather than adjourn to the other room, Mrs. Whitfield suggested calling it a night.
After having made his bows, Robert climbed the stairs mulling over the day and all that had transpired. He didn’t mean to overhear the conversation between Lydia and Mrs. Whitfield, but the entrance, with its grand stairway, had the acoustics of a theater.
“Mama. You have to do something about Uncle’s overindulgence.”
“No, Lydia, I don’t. It will all come right in the end.”
“Ignoring a problem does not make it go away. It can, and likely will, make the situation worse.”
“That sounds like something your father would say.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”
“I know. But I will take it as such.”
Robert, who had unintentionally paused at the head of the stairs, smiled and went about the business of finding his room.
*
As agreed, Robert waited in the study for Eric Drury at precisely—Lydia’s qualifier, not his—nine in the morning. He was not surprised when the clock on the mantel chimed the hour and the man did not appear. Rising to his feet, Robert opened the door and found the hallway was not empty as he expected, though the person without was not Drury.
Suddenly his mouth was dry, and his heart thrummed in a quick-time march.
“Drury isn’t here, is he?” Lydia looked fresh as a daisy for such an early hour; ladies didn’t usually make an appearance until midmorning.
“No, Miss Whitfield, I’m afraid not.” Robert took a calming breath, disguising it as a sigh.
“I will find him and bring him here, even if he is at the far reaches of the estate. I will not have you forced to stay another night when you have more important things to do.”
Robert could think of nothing significant when placed beside the needs of the lovely Miss Lydia Whitfield, and he was about to offer to stay another night … or two … when she continued.
“I am so convinced that this has to be settled today that I will forgo my usual period of correspondence between half past nine and ten minutes after the hour of ten—”
“Precisely?”
“Yes. What? Pardon?”
“Excuse me. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, well, where was I?”
“Forgoing your letters.”
“Yes, that’s right. And Mama might need to review the menu at eleven, if Uncle wants to play the same game. Not her favorite task, but if I am otherwise occupied, she will have no choice. It is a topsy-turvy day, Mr. Newton. Everything is in a muddle, at sixes and sevens.… Well, we shall overcome. One day of confusion will not set the world aflame.”