“The gifts heaped on your shoulders just keep mounting, Coop, you lucky dog. Either that, or this figurative hole you spoke of is growing deeper.”
“Shut up, Darby. All right, Mother, since you insist. Now why don’t you retire to your chamber, where I’m certain Rose has laid out some sort of refreshment.”
“Perhaps even turnip pie,” Darby said quietly. Too quietly for Minerva to hear, but close enough for Coop to not only hear but be forced to manfully repress a laugh.
Minerva looked from one to the other. “He said something, didn’t he? Something amusing. What did he say?”
“Nothing Min—Mother. Darby’s mouth moves, but he rarely says anything of importance.”
Minerva smoothed the front of her gown, clearly settling herself in for the duration. “Well, at least we agree on something. Now, shall we travel back to the problem that isn’t your problem, because it definitely seemed very much your problem when I arrived? Come on, lads, one of you open your mouth and say something important, because I’m not leaving here until you do.”
“Race you to the door,” Darby whispered, careful not to move his lips. “Unless you can come up with a convincing fib? Because you’re wrong about the countess’s retirement to her bedchamber, Coop—you need Miss Foster out and about in Society.”
And that, Cooper was to tell himself later, was how Darby helped him dig that lifelong figurative hole even deeper, until he thought he could see a Chinaman’s straw hat.
DRAT THE MAN, Dany thought, standing in front of the pier glass in the hallway just outside the drawing room, slapping her gloves against her thigh. And drat Mari, so firmly sunk beneath the covers that it would take an expedition to find her.
Does one have one’s gloves on before her escort’s arrival? Does one appeared gloved and hatted and panting like a puppy eager to be put to the leash? Does one race back upstairs, only to descend—gracefully, of course—when the gentleman is announced? Which would be past ridiculous, since that would mean his horses would be left standing while he waited for her to become gloved and hatted and fill the awkward silence with inane chatter such as, “Oh, dear, how the time has flown,” or “Gracious, I had entirely forgotten I’d agreed to drive with you in the park.”
Whopping great help Mari had been, only lamenting, “For the love of heaven, why won’t she go away,” when Dany had sat herself on the bed and asked these questions.
So here she stood, still not gloved, although she’d decided the military-type shako might take more than one attempt to settle it jauntily enough over her right eye and finally donned it. Amazingly, with her hands trembling ever so slightly, she managed the perfect level of jaunty in one try.
Did Emmaline ride with her? Did she, hopefully not, plunk herself down on the seat between the baron and her mistress? If he brought an open town carriage, there would be two seats, and she could have the maid facing her—and watching her—for the entire time. And wouldn’t that be above all things wonderful, since Emmaline possessed an alarming tendency to giggle.
But no. Young gentlemen didn’t favor such equipages. He was bound to show up with some outlandish curricle, or high perch phaeton (and wouldn’t climbing up into that be interesting, while attempting to keep her ankles covered and her rump inconspicuous?). What about a tiger? Did the baron have one, some poor, terrified young lad in garish livery, balancing on a small step and hanging on to the back of the curricle for dear life? Did a tiger constitute a chaperone? Why would anyone need a chaperone in the middle of London, surrounded by everyone else in Society who had decided taking the air at Hyde Park was just the jolliest thing anyone could do at this hour?
Dany hadn’t had time to ask those questions of Mari, although she had tried, even as her sister’s maid was none too gently pushing her toward the door.
She’d ask Timmerly, but he’d only smirk at her in that obnoxious way he had, and make her feel twice the fool. Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d positioned his smug self at the head of the stairs, pretending not to notice her for the past ten minutes? Honestly, some kind soul should bundle up all the rules of Society in one...
“Blast! Why didn’t I think of that sooner?” she asked herself as she turned to the stairs, having remembered the thick tome her sister had handed her, commanding she commit every word to memory. The title, as she recalled, was nearly a small book in itself, and contained such words as Circumspection, Comportment, Proper. Dany had waited until Mari departed the room before kicking the offensive thing beneath the bed-skirts. Her big toe had hurt for three days.
She’d just put her hand on the railing when a footman called up, “Mr. Timmerly, sir, the hero baron has pulled to the curb. Miss shouldn’t keep such a fine pair of bays standing.”
“Miss Foster,” the curmudgeonly old family retainer intoned gravely, “if you’ll excuse my boldness, the foyer lies the other way.”
“You enjoy this, don’t you?” she accused as she headed for the curving staircase leading down to the foyer.
“You might wish to be more gentle with the countess, miss, now that she’s in a delicate condition.”
Dany halted with one foot already hovering over the first step, her right hand thankfully clutching the iron railing or she would have pitched face forward to the marble floor below. “My sister is not— Dear God, perhaps she is. It would be just like Mari not to know.” She looked at Timmerly. “What do you know?”
“It isn’t proper to discuss such things with young ladies.”
Dany’s mostly unpleasant day was growing worse by the moment. “It isn’t proper for young ladies to plant butlers a facer, either, but if you were to apply to any of my family they would inform you I’ve never put much stock in proper.”
The butler cleared his throat, clearly fighting a blush. “It is sufficient to say that Mrs. Timmerly is certain we’ll be welcoming the Cockermouth heir before the king’s birthday.”
Dany counted along her top teeth with her tongue until she got to nine (she might be young, but she wasn’t entirely stupid). “Oh, that isn’t good. That isn’t good at all.”
Timmerly straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “I beg your pardon!”
“Oh. Sorry. It’s the greatest of good news, isn’t it? The earl will be over the moon when he returns.” Unless he believes his wife had taken a lover. “I’ll be going now, not that you care a button what I do. Mustn’t keep the horses standing.”
The footman was just opening the door for the baron when Dany went flouncing past him. “You’re late,” she told him before he could say the same to her, which the briefest glance at his expression warned her he was about to do. “We’ve a new problem to discuss.”
“O happy day,” Cooper said, following after her, and then standing back to allow his tiger—really, the livery wasn’t so bad—to assist her up onto the seat of an admittedly fine yet sober curricle. No yellow wheels for the baron Townsend, clearly. And the bays were near to extraordinary.
“You’ve a lovely pair,” she admitted once he’d gone around the equipage and boosted himself onto the seat.
His look was nearly comical. “I beg your pardon?”
“The bays are lovely, perfectly matched,” she expounded further, wondering if the baron had possibly drunk away his afternoon. It wouldn’t do well for either of them if she had to explain everything twice. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“If I have, clearly not enough. Shall we be off?”
“I suppose so. The sooner we’re off, the sooner we’re back, which should please you enormously.”