Abigail took her a cup of coffee. “Are you worried about something, Mama?” she asked with a frown.
“No,” her mother said quickly. “Why should I be? I just wish to have this morning over with. Goodness knows what it is all about. I must advise Harry to change his solicitor. Avery will not object. He finds Mr. Brumford tedious beyond endurance. If the man has business to discuss, then he ought to come here and discuss it in private.”
The sisters sipped their coffee, exchanged glances, and regarded their mother in thoughtful silence. Something was worrying her.
*
Edwin Goddard, His Grace of Netherby’s secretary, had seen to the setup of the rose salon. Chairs had been arranged in three neat rows to face a large oak table from behind which Brumford presumably intended to hold court at the appointed hour. Avery had viewed the room with distaste earlier—so many chairs? But now he stood out in the tiled hall, awaiting the arrival of the last of his guests. At least, all these people must be called guests, he supposed, though it was not he who had invited them. Standing out in the hall was preferable, however, to being in the salon, where his stepmother was playing the part of gracious hostess to an alarmingly and mysteriously large number of her relatives, and Jessica was in transports of delight at seeing Harry and his sisters and was talking to them at great speed and at a pitch high enough to have brought a frown of censure from her governess if that worthy woman had been present. She was not, however, Jess having been released from the schoolroom for the occasion.
Brumford was in the hall too, though he had taken up a position at some distance from the duke and was uncharacteristically silent—mentally practicing his speech, perhaps?—and easily ignored. Avery had asked him upon his arrival if this family gathering had anything to do with the delicate and very private matter the countess had entrusted to his skill and discretion a few weeks ago. But Brumford had merely bowed and assured His Grace that he had come on a matter of grave concern to the whole Westcott family. Beyond regarding the man in silence for a little longer than was strictly necessary through his quizzing glass, Avery had not pressed him further. Brumford was, after all, a man of the law and could therefore not be expected to give a direct answer to any question.
Avery tried not to think of any of the dozen or so more congenial ways in which he might be spending his morning. He raised his eyebrows at a burst of merry laughter from the rose salon.
There was a knock upon the outer doors, and the butler opened them to admit Alexander Westcott, Mrs. Westcott, and Lady Overfield. Westcott was looking his usual immaculate, dignified self. Avery had known him since they were boys at school together, and if Westcott had ever had a hair out of place, even after the most rugged scrimmage out on the playing fields, or set one toenail out of line behavior-wise in all the years they had spent there, Avery had certainly never witnessed it. Alexander Westcott and gentlemanly reserve and respectability were synonymous terms. The two men had never been friends.
Westcott nodded briskly to him, and Mrs. Westcott and her daughter smiled.
“Netherby?” he said.
“Cousin Avery,” both ladies said simultaneously.
“Cousin Althea.” He stepped forward, extended one languid, beringed hand for the elder lady’s, and raised it to his lips. “A pleasure indeed. Cousin Elizabeth.” He kissed her hand too. “Looking ravishing as always.”
“As are you.” The younger woman’s smile had acquired a twinkle.
He raised his eyebrows. “One does one’s utmost,” he said on a sigh, and released her hand. He had always liked her rather more than he did her brother. She had a sense of humor. She had a good figure too. She had inherited both from her mother, though not the mother’s dark good looks. The son had got those.
“Westcott,” Avery said by way of greeting.
Brumford, bowing reverentially from the waist, was ignored.
The butler ushered the new arrivals into the salon, and there was a swell of greetings from within and even a squeal or two. It was time he went to join them, Avery thought with an inward sigh, taking his snuffbox from a pocket and flicking open the lid with a practiced thumb. Everyone was present and accounted for. But before he could move, the knocker rattled once more against the outer doors and the butler hurried to open them.
A woman stepped inside without awaiting an invitation. A governess—Avery would wager half his fortune on it. She was young and thin and uncompromisingly straight backed and clad from head to toe in a darkish blue, with the exception of her gloves and reticule and shoes, which were black. None of her garments was either costly or stylish, and that was a kind assessment. Her hair was scarcely visible beneath the small brim of her bonnet, though there appeared to be a large bun at the back of her neck.