for an appointment with his wigmaker; Pascoe Church adding that he too was needed elsewhere, although he did not offer up a name or direction. Salt wasn’t sorry to see them depart and watched the two noblemen waddle off in their high heels, huddled together as if in need of mutual propping up. And he was under no illusions about the thin-shouldered nobleman’s ability to be vexatious. Pascoe, Lord Church might have turned frigid with fright and lost his breath at Salt’s angry outburst, but once recovered and at a safe distance he would use his waspish tongue to good effect to ensure Polite Society was fully appraised of the Earl of Salt Hendon’s upcoming marriage.
Cursing himself for such lack of restraint, Salt ordered a bottle of claret from a passing soft-footed waiter and resumed his seat only to be on his feet within five minutes to warmly clasp the hand of his closest friend, the younger brother of Lady St. John, Sir Antony Templestowe. A large handsome gentleman held in high regard by all who knew him, Sir Antony was considered by the Foreign Department, where he held a lucrative sinecure, to have a good head on his shoulders, and thus certain to rise to the rank of Ambassador one day. No two siblings could be more opposite in temperament than the diffident Sir Antony and his social butterfly sister, the beautiful and gregarious Diana, Lady St. John.
“It’s just as well Bedford could spare you from the Peace negotiations for a couple of weeks,” Salt commented, looking Sir Antony up and down. “Paris has added inches to your girth.”
“A couple of hours running about your tennis court should take care of M’sieur Chef’s fine cream sauces and delectable choux pastries,” Sir Antony replied good-naturedly as they both made themselves comfortable in wing chairs. He unbuttoned two silver buttons of his striped saffron silk waistcoat and accepted the glass of claret from a blank-faced waiter. “But I’m surprised the tournament is to go ahead. I thought it’d be left to Ellis to take your place on the court, what with you on your honeymoon—”
“There isn’t going to be a honeymoon,” stated Salt, taking out his gold snuffbox but not flicking open the enamel inlaid lid. “Parliament still sits, which means I’ve too much business to attend to here in London to go gallivanting about the countryside, this side of the Channel or that.”
Sir Antony pulled his chin into his lace cravat and studied his friend a moment. “To say your letter informing me of your immediate intention to enter the matrimonial state knocked me off my chair would be an understatement, dear fellow. But I’m a diplomatist, so understatement is my forte. That you want to keep the occasion hush hush is your affair, and I’ll ask you no questions, if that is your wish, but surely I’m not the only one going to attend the ceremony to, as it were, prop up your elbow?”
Salt took snuff, frowning into the middle-distance. “The least fuss the better.”
“What does Diana have to say about your sudden leap into the matrimonial fire?”
“I haven’t told her.
Sir Antony hid his astonishment behind a frown. “Haven’t told Diana?” he repeated mildly. “You’re not getting leg-shackled without her approval, surely? God! She’ll have a fit of the sullens that neither of us will manage very well. I wish I was still in Paris. You know what an interest she takes in you—”
“—and my earldom.”
Sir Antony pursed his lips and counted to five. “Yes, you can be cynical if you choose,” he commented. “But is it any wonder she takes an interest when she’s the mother of your heir? Little Ron will one day succeed you. Up until four years ago it was her husband who stood to inherit your earldom. St. John’s untimely death affected her greatly, as it did all of us.” Sir Antony shifted uncomfortably on the wingchair adding flatly, “And you know as well as I that she married St. John in a fit of pique because
Cursing himself for such lack of restraint, Salt ordered a bottle of claret from a passing soft-footed waiter and resumed his seat only to be on his feet within five minutes to warmly clasp the hand of his closest friend, the younger brother of Lady St. John, Sir Antony Templestowe. A large handsome gentleman held in high regard by all who knew him, Sir Antony was considered by the Foreign Department, where he held a lucrative sinecure, to have a good head on his shoulders, and thus certain to rise to the rank of Ambassador one day. No two siblings could be more opposite in temperament than the diffident Sir Antony and his social butterfly sister, the beautiful and gregarious Diana, Lady St. John.
“It’s just as well Bedford could spare you from the Peace negotiations for a couple of weeks,” Salt commented, looking Sir Antony up and down. “Paris has added inches to your girth.”
“A couple of hours running about your tennis court should take care of M’sieur Chef’s fine cream sauces and delectable choux pastries,” Sir Antony replied good-naturedly as they both made themselves comfortable in wing chairs. He unbuttoned two silver buttons of his striped saffron silk waistcoat and accepted the glass of claret from a blank-faced waiter. “But I’m surprised the tournament is to go ahead. I thought it’d be left to Ellis to take your place on the court, what with you on your honeymoon—”
“There isn’t going to be a honeymoon,” stated Salt, taking out his gold snuffbox but not flicking open the enamel inlaid lid. “Parliament still sits, which means I’ve too much business to attend to here in London to go gallivanting about the countryside, this side of the Channel or that.”
Sir Antony pulled his chin into his lace cravat and studied his friend a moment. “To say your letter informing me of your immediate intention to enter the matrimonial state knocked me off my chair would be an understatement, dear fellow. But I’m a diplomatist, so understatement is my forte. That you want to keep the occasion hush hush is your affair, and I’ll ask you no questions, if that is your wish, but surely I’m not the only one going to attend the ceremony to, as it were, prop up your elbow?”
Salt took snuff, frowning into the middle-distance. “The least fuss the better.”
“What does Diana have to say about your sudden leap into the matrimonial fire?”
“I haven’t told her.
Sir Antony hid his astonishment behind a frown. “Haven’t told Diana?” he repeated mildly. “You’re not getting leg-shackled without her approval, surely? God! She’ll have a fit of the sullens that neither of us will manage very well. I wish I was still in Paris. You know what an interest she takes in you—”
“—and my earldom.”
Sir Antony pursed his lips and counted to five. “Yes, you can be cynical if you choose,” he commented. “But is it any wonder she takes an interest when she’s the mother of your heir? Little Ron will one day succeed you. Up until four years ago it was her husband who stood to inherit your earldom. St. John’s untimely death affected her greatly, as it did all of us.” Sir Antony shifted uncomfortably on the wingchair adding flatly, “And you know as well as I that she married St. John in a fit of pique because
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