“Honestly, Miss Valentine! Do you ever stop?”
“Mrs. Spencer,” Win said, outright grinning now.
He was entirely enchanted by Pru. Problem was, he had no capacity to enchant in return. It was not in his genetic makeup. He only hoped to not repel her altogether.
“Surely your story is fabulous,” he said. “If nothing else, you’re intriguing enough, lovely enough, that the good people of Banbury think you’re Gladys Deacon. As you must know, she was universally agreed upon as the most intelligent and beautiful woman to ever exist.”
“I’m sure she wasn’t as spectacular as all that.”
“Oh but she was! With that fine-spun, red-gold hair. Her stunning blue eyes. And that magnificent style! The bright colors … the fur, the feathers, the beads.”
Mrs. Spencer made a puffing sound but then—could that be right?—she reddened. Had Win Seton gotten to her that quickly? He was buttering up the old broad, any goat could tell. Pru found herself impressed.
“Feathers and beads?” Mrs. Spencer said. “Sounds a bit obvious. Like a damned peacock.”
“A dazzling peacock.”
“They also thought the duchess was nuts,” she said. “Did your Blenheim exploits teach you that? The duke’s family thought the great, grand Duchess of Marlborough was touched in the head.”
“Only because she went missing,” Win said. “Nearly forty years and for no discernible reason.”
“Her husband was dead. He left her alone, in a prison, with people who despised her. Is that not ample reason for you?”
“A prison? Surely you don’t mean Blenheim.”
“Of course I mean Blenheim! It’s a monolithic beast of a supposed home.”
“Lady—Mrs. Spencer—I’ve been to Blenheim countless times. It’s breathtaking. Surely the duchess would’ve been pleased by the meticulous grounds, the statues of her likeness in the gardens, those blue eyes of hers painted on the portico ceiling.”
“What’s a little paint and some plaster?” Mrs. Spencer grouched.
“Even if the palace didn’t please the duchess, surely she could’ve absconded to their London home, or her private Paris pied-à-terre. Why would a woman of her stature disappear so completely?”
“You’d have to ask her directly.”
“Please, Mrs. Spencer,” Win said. “Let me write about you. Allow me to commit your life to the page. We’d have a jolly good time in the process, the two of us.” He glanced at Pru. “The three.”
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Spencer said, and began to pace. “I’m not sure about any of this.”
“You do have fascinating stories,” Pru said, jumping in. “The German POWs who cut your trees. The years you spent in Paris. All those broken engagements.”
With that, Mrs. Spencer leaned forward and tried to wallop Pru in the head with a newspaper.
“You would be interested in broken engagements,” Mrs. Spencer harrumphed as Pru ducked out of reach. She turned back to Seton. “Well, writer, if I say yes, I suppose you’d make a gadfly of yourself and set up shop in this very house.”
“Please call me Win. And yes, that’s the idea. To stay in residence. It would enable me to get closer to the subject.”
“Also you probably don’t have a quid to your name.”
“Think of yourself as a patron to the arts,” Win said.
“Oh Lord, that must mean you fancy yourself the art. I don’t know.” She sighed. “What do you think, Miss Valentine?”
“Uh, what?” Pru said. She did not expect to be called to vote. “Me?”
“Yes, of course you! Good grief, and they say I’m touched in the head. What say you, Miss Valentine?”
It was the question, wasn’t it?
What exactly did Pru think of this unfamiliar man? The sort-of-handsome writer who’d shown up in the brush wearing pressed attire? Clothes that were, it must be said, already sullied by dog hair and slobber.
“I guess it’s fine?” she said tepidly.
He didn’t seem dangerous. Of course, just because someone wasn’t dangerous didn’t mean he wasn’t trouble.
On the other hand, it’d be nice to have another (human) body in the house. Someone to guard against the specter of Tom and, more important, help clean up after all the damned dogs.
“How do you feel about spaniels?” Pru asked.
“Wonderful creatures. Positively aces.”
Pru turned toward Mrs. Spencer.
“Let’s do a trial run,” she said. “See how it works out.”
“A trial run? Miss Valentine, you’re barely out of yours.”
Mrs. Spencer tried to frown but her resolve was splintering.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll permit this dreggy writer to live with us and pen my memoirs. What a waste of paper.”
“Brilliant!” Win said and gave a loud clap. “Who wants to help with my baggage? It’s out on the street.”
“Before you start hauling all your rubbish into my home, one thing I want to make clear, Mr. Seton.”