Still, he looked forward to this afternoon when he would visit Blakemore and have tea with his wife and her companion. He considered asking Lady Blakemore’s permission to take the young lady for a drive, but decided such a move would have to wait until he learned of her family connections. And he really must do that today.
“Meet anyone interesting?” Edgar took the chair adjacent to Winston’s and laid a linen serviette across his lap. He leaned toward Winston and arched his eyebrows to punctuate his question, as if he knew the answer.
Winston almost choked on his buttered roll. Edgar had always seemed able to read his mind. To deflect the question, he eyed his cousin’s plate, which held a single sausage and one roll. “Is that all you want?” As sanguine as he felt this morning, he would gladly feed the world. After months of fruitless searching for a wife, perhaps he was close to achieving his goal.
Edgar accepted a cup of coffee from the footman. “I never know whether Blakemore will invite me to join him for breakfast or not.” He sipped his beverage. “It’s always best to arrive for work a little hungry so as not to offend him. Unfortunately, I cannot depend upon his feeding me, so I must eat something.” He emitted a rueful chuckle.
“Indeed?” Winston grimaced at the thought. His cousin was as thin as a banister spindle and could ill afford to miss a meal. As Blakemore’s secretary, surely he had the liberty to nourish himself in the kitchen in the course of a day’s work. “Well, you must eat your fill here as often as you like before going to work.”
“I thank you for your generosity. But let us not dwell upon my eating habits. Must I repeat my question, cousin?” Edgar gave him a knowing smirk. “Did you meet anyone interesting last evening? A young lady, perhaps?”
Winston bit into a sausage to avoid answering, savoring the blend of spices with which his chef had seasoned it. How annoying that Edgar was so persistent. But then, this was his dear cousin, who had known him all his life. Surely he could confide in him.
“Very well, yes, I did meet a young lady.” He waved to the footman to refill his coffee cup, then made a great ceremony of adding sugar and cream before taking a sip. Then adding more sugar.
Edgar laughed. “You know I will not leave until you tell me everything.”
Winston’s heart lightened at this prompting. Edgar cared deeply for him, even though his birth had displaced his cousin as Father’s heir. Any other gentleman might resent it, but Edgar had never appeared to covet the title or the wealth, even though he had been relegated to the edges of Society and forced to earn his living, a shame for any aristocrat.
“Her name is Miss Hart, and she is Lady Blakemore’s companion.” There. He confessed it. Now he sat back and waited for the honest opinion that would doubtless be forthcoming.
Edgar gaped at him for a full ten seconds. “That chit? Why, my dear, naive cousin, I never would have imagined that quiet little mouse would dare to set her cap for a peer of the realm.” He snorted out his disgust. “Why, she has no family to speak of. No name, no dowry. Why would you permit some scheming girl like that to engage your heart?” He rose from his chair and paced the length of the table and back. “Well, then, go ahead. Fall in love with her. But do not speak of marriage. Set her up in her own house and...you know.”
For several moments, Winston could only watch his cousin in stunned silence. Then heat blasted up his neck and into his face. He stood and slammed his serviette down on the table. “You will not speak of her in that manner. I am convinced she is a lady. Do you even know her?” Hands fisted, he took a step toward his cousin.
Edgar blinked but did not move. Then his breath seemed to go out of him. “Forgive me, cousin.” He set a hand on Winston’s shoulder. “She and I are employed in the same house, but we have barely spoken two words to one another. And I must admit that I have never observed anything but proper comportment on her part.” He gave Winston a sad smile. “Please permit me to explain myself. I wish only the best for you. With your ancient and well-respected title, you could marry an earl’s daughter, even a duke’s, someone to advance your position in Society and give you connections and influence in that diplomatic career you aspire to. Perhaps even snare that earldom Old Farmer George promised your father. Why choose a girl who is doubtless a mere gentlewoman and can provide none of that?”
Despite his disapproval of Edgar’s impertinent reference to their poor, mad sovereign, Winston’s anger evaporated, replaced by gratitude for his cousin’s concerns. “I cannot disagree with what you say. Be assured that I am not in any hurry to marry Miss Hart after chatting with her for a single evening. I merely find her appealing. And, after all, one does hope to possess some degree of affection for his wife, as you feel for Emily.”
Edgar’s expression seemed to twist into disgust, and he turned away. Had Winston been mistaken about Edgar’s love for his wife? Yet when his cousin faced him again, his genial smile had returned. “Yes, one does wish to love and be loved. So what is your plan to woo this little...this young lady?” His words dispelled Winston’s concerns.
“After my appointment with Lord Blakemore, for which I thank you, dear cousin—” he punctuated his gratitude with a nod and received one in return “—I will take tea with Lady Blakemore and Miss Hart. If all goes well and Miss Hart’s family connections prove acceptable, I may ask the countess for permission to take her for a carriage ride. That is, if you do not think it too soon...or improper...for such an outing.”
“You may be certain that Lady Blakemore will decide what is proper regarding Miss Hart. But you must remember that ladies hire companions to keep at their sides for their own convenience, not to marry them off.” Edgar blew out a sigh of apparent frustration, and Winston felt for a moment like a foolish schoolboy. “But if you insist upon this plan, which carriage will you take? What have you purchased since coming to London?”
Consternation swept over Winston. “I never thought to purchase a new carriage for town. Father’s old ones stored in the mews could use some repair, but—” He had already spent a large sum to replace the roof of this town house, which had languished uninhabited for six years during Father’s final illness.
“But nothing!” Edgar huffed with indignation. “How can you take a young lady out for a drive in a shabby conveyance? You would become Society’s laughingstock. No, no, you must postpone your outing until you have a new one. A landau, a barouche, a coach. No, not a coach. It must be an open carriage to protect the young lady’s reputation. You must have a landau. And a matched pair of horses, of course. You do have a matched pair?” He clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his pacing across the parquet floor, as if the fate of England depended upon the matter.
“Yes, of course. Some of Father’s best cattle from home.” Winston scratched his chin, partly amused by Edgar’s antics, partly chagrined by his own lack of forethought. “But there’s no time to order a new landau. My appointment with Lord Blakemore is in a few hours, and Lady Blakemore will expect me to stay for tea, as I promised. Perhaps I can borrow Mrs. Parton’s new landau.”
Edgar chewed his lip. “Yes, that’s just the thing. You must send her a note straightaway, and I’ll wager she will give you whatever you wish. All of our relatives have always done that, have they not?” A hint of pain clouded his thin features, a haunted look that often appeared when they discussed their family.
Winston never knew how to answer his cousin in this matter. In truth, Mrs. Parton, their distant relation, had spoiled Winston, except in the matter of Lady Beatrice, for whom she had favored Lord Greystone. But she had also been kind to Edgar. Perhaps Edgar feared Winston would neglect their friendship if...when he married.
His cousin’s ingratiating smile canceled such concerns. “Now, what about your clothes?”
Winston looked down at his black suit, which was miraculously free of cat hair thanks to the labors of his valet and the footmen keeping Crumpet out of the breakfast room. The little rascal was an excellent mouser, but he did love to get into mischief and was not always easy to apprehend when he escaped Winston’s suite. “Yes? What about them?”
“Dear