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toplofty valet. That worthy’s already pasty complexion took on a greenish cast when confronted with this latest Mainwaring casualty. Heavens, Findley thought. Did they never win?
After a long soak in a hot tub, a nourishing meal, and half a bottle of the duke’s Burgundy, the viscount took to his bed for a long night’s rest. He awoke—and instantly declared that was miracle enough for the day. He felt, and looked, worse than he had since a cannonball sent him flying off the HMS Fairwind’s deck, ending his naval career.
He couldn’t bear to stay inside, where the housemaids tiptoed around him, their eyes averted. He didn’t dare go outside, where children could get nightmares from a look at his face, horses might bolt, ladies swoon. He had to get out of the London fishbowl.
As soon as his brother was declared fit to travel, Forrest bundled Brennan into the coach for the ride to Sussex. He and Bren would be better off recuperating in the country under their mother’s tender care. There would be fewer questions, at any rate. They could give out that there had been a carriage accident. Or two.
* * * *
Two beefsteaks for Wally every morning, for his training. Three cases of the general’s favorite port. Enough macaroons and almond tarts and seed cakes for the legions of morning callers and afternoon teas. A small dinner party for Lord Scoville? No, that would be too coming. Besides, she’d have to invite Aunt Harriet.
Sydney was making lists and spending money. What joy! She and her sister had already been to the Pantheon Bazaar where, Annemarie the maid informed them, they could get the best bargains on ribbons and lace and gloves and stockings. The Lattimore ladies had patronized fabric warehouses, plumassiers, milliners, and shoemakers. They had not visited a single dressmaker, saving money as fast as they spent it. Annemarie’s emigré connections could whip up the most fetching outfits, à la mode and meticulously crafted, for a quarter of the price of a haughty Bond Street modiste. Annemarie herself was a wizard with a needle, changing a trimming here, a mesh overskirt there. She removed ribbons and sewed on spangles, making each of the girls’ gowns appear as many.
At Sydney’s insistence, most of the attention and expense was devoted to her sister’s wardrobe. No one noticed the little sister anyway, when Miss Lattimore was such a beauty. Winifred went out more, too. She did not seem to mind interminable visits with Aunt Harriet and Trixie, while Sydney preferred to stay home, reading the newspapers to the general and reveling in every gossip column’s mention of the new star rising on the social horizon.
Sydney did allow herself to be persuaded to purchase a dress length of jonquil muslin, which then required the most dashing bonnet she’d ever owned: a cottage straw with a bouquet of yellow silk daisies peeping from under the brim, two russet feathers a shade darker than her hair curling along her cheek, and green streamers trailing down her back and under her chin. It looked elegant, sophisticated, alluring—more so once she had her ragged locks trimmed by a professional coiffeur.
“Oh, Sydney, your beautiful hair,” Winifred cried. “And you did it for me!”
Sydney thought that cutting her hair was the least of what she’d done. She would never discuss her visit to Fleet Street with her sensitive sister, though, especially not this afternoon, when Winnie was due to go for a drive in the park with Baron Scoville. Sydney couldn’t trust the watering pot not to have a crise de nerfs right in front of him.
“Hush, you peagoose,” Sydney teased. “We can’t have the baron see you with swollen eyes and a red nose. He might think you the kind of woman to be enacting him scenes all the time. No gentleman would like that.” She did not add, Especially one so concerned with his consequence as the baron. Winnie seemed pleased by the attention of the self-important peer; far be it from
After a long soak in a hot tub, a nourishing meal, and half a bottle of the duke’s Burgundy, the viscount took to his bed for a long night’s rest. He awoke—and instantly declared that was miracle enough for the day. He felt, and looked, worse than he had since a cannonball sent him flying off the HMS Fairwind’s deck, ending his naval career.
He couldn’t bear to stay inside, where the housemaids tiptoed around him, their eyes averted. He didn’t dare go outside, where children could get nightmares from a look at his face, horses might bolt, ladies swoon. He had to get out of the London fishbowl.
As soon as his brother was declared fit to travel, Forrest bundled Brennan into the coach for the ride to Sussex. He and Bren would be better off recuperating in the country under their mother’s tender care. There would be fewer questions, at any rate. They could give out that there had been a carriage accident. Or two.
* * * *
Two beefsteaks for Wally every morning, for his training. Three cases of the general’s favorite port. Enough macaroons and almond tarts and seed cakes for the legions of morning callers and afternoon teas. A small dinner party for Lord Scoville? No, that would be too coming. Besides, she’d have to invite Aunt Harriet.
Sydney was making lists and spending money. What joy! She and her sister had already been to the Pantheon Bazaar where, Annemarie the maid informed them, they could get the best bargains on ribbons and lace and gloves and stockings. The Lattimore ladies had patronized fabric warehouses, plumassiers, milliners, and shoemakers. They had not visited a single dressmaker, saving money as fast as they spent it. Annemarie’s emigré connections could whip up the most fetching outfits, à la mode and meticulously crafted, for a quarter of the price of a haughty Bond Street modiste. Annemarie herself was a wizard with a needle, changing a trimming here, a mesh overskirt there. She removed ribbons and sewed on spangles, making each of the girls’ gowns appear as many.
At Sydney’s insistence, most of the attention and expense was devoted to her sister’s wardrobe. No one noticed the little sister anyway, when Miss Lattimore was such a beauty. Winifred went out more, too. She did not seem to mind interminable visits with Aunt Harriet and Trixie, while Sydney preferred to stay home, reading the newspapers to the general and reveling in every gossip column’s mention of the new star rising on the social horizon.
Sydney did allow herself to be persuaded to purchase a dress length of jonquil muslin, which then required the most dashing bonnet she’d ever owned: a cottage straw with a bouquet of yellow silk daisies peeping from under the brim, two russet feathers a shade darker than her hair curling along her cheek, and green streamers trailing down her back and under her chin. It looked elegant, sophisticated, alluring—more so once she had her ragged locks trimmed by a professional coiffeur.
“Oh, Sydney, your beautiful hair,” Winifred cried. “And you did it for me!”
Sydney thought that cutting her hair was the least of what she’d done. She would never discuss her visit to Fleet Street with her sensitive sister, though, especially not this afternoon, when Winnie was due to go for a drive in the park with Baron Scoville. Sydney couldn’t trust the watering pot not to have a crise de nerfs right in front of him.
“Hush, you peagoose,” Sydney teased. “We can’t have the baron see you with swollen eyes and a red nose. He might think you the kind of woman to be enacting him scenes all the time. No gentleman would like that.” She did not add, Especially one so concerned with his consequence as the baron. Winnie seemed pleased by the attention of the self-important peer; far be it from
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