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Authors: M. C. Beaton
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said Peter, replying to each of Lord Philip’s points in turn.
Lord Philip’s thin eyebrows raised in distaste. “Servants’ gossip, Peter. I had thought better of you. A gentleman should never listen to servants’ gossip.”
“Why not?” exclaimed Peter in surprise, removing the end of the quizzing glass from his mouth and beginning to scratch his head with it. “I always do. I wouldn’t dream of having my morning chocolate without it,” he added with the air of someone advocating rhubarb pills. “I like your coat. Weston, I suppose. I wish they would take away that little bag at the back of the neck. No need for it now. It ain’t as if we still wear periwigs. Come to think of it, your own hair’s too long for a man of fashion. Why don’t you get a Brutus crop? Then you wouldn’t have to tie it back in that bow. Mine is called the Windswept. Do you like it?”
“What’s left of it,” said his lordship dryly, watching the quizzing glass wrecking havoc with the hairdresser’s art. “Why don’t you use that thing properly? You’re supposed to look through it. But, by George, you’ve done every other curst thing. Why don’t you scratch your armpits?”
“You’re in love with her. That’s what’s making you so twitty,” said Peter, rising to meet the arrival of his man with his boots.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Lord Philip. “I may have a certain
tendre
for Amelia Godolphin. But I am certainly not in love with her.”
“I meant Constance,” said Peter. But by that time he had drifted off into the other room to have his boots pulled on and so his words went unheard by Philip.
Lord Philip was cursed with the tenacity of the typical English aristocrat—a single-minded pursuit of the desired goal. He wanted to bed Lady Amelia; he was vaguely surprised that Constance should annoy him so much. But nonetheless, he wanted Lady Amelia and meant to have her.
He accordingly crossed to the fireplace and took down several cards from the card stand and began to flick through them. His sister was holding a breakfast which had already begun, since the hour was now four in the afternoon and all fashionable breakfasts began at three. He cordially detested his sister, but he felt sure that Amelia would somehow manage to be there. He collected his hat and his cane and set out, forgetting his friend, Peter, with an absent mindedness worthy of that gentleman himself.
The breakfast was to be held at his sister’s villa in Kensington where she could erect marquees on the lawn for eating and dancing which she could not do in the pocket-sized garden which graced the back of her town house.
Kensington, with its pretty villas lining the Chiswick Road, was soon reached. It had all the charm of being not quite in town and not quite in the country. The mist had dispersed to be replaced with a gray drizzle. Water dropped from the great trees by the side of the road, and sooty sparrows squabbled and splashed in the puddles.
As soon as he arrived, Philip could sense that the occasion was not a success. Although the marquees were bedecked with flowers and draped with rose silk, the damp gray day seemed to have permeated everything. The reason was quickly discovered. His sister had turned her autocratic face from strong drink and had decided to serve only negus, ratafia and lemonade.
He found his sister, twisting the fringe of her shawl nervously in her fingers and fighting between her strong principles and the desire to make her breakfast a success. Philip looked at her worried face with some amusement as she surveyed her nearly silent guests.
“Give in,” he said gently, “or it will be all over London on the morrow that you have turned Methodist.”
“Oh, no,” cried Lady Eleanor, “they wouldn’t
dare!
”
“The trouble with this curst affair,” came the booming voice of one of the guests, the elderly Earl of Murr, “is it’s damn wet and dreary outside and curst damp, wet and dreary on the
Lord Philip’s thin eyebrows raised in distaste. “Servants’ gossip, Peter. I had thought better of you. A gentleman should never listen to servants’ gossip.”
“Why not?” exclaimed Peter in surprise, removing the end of the quizzing glass from his mouth and beginning to scratch his head with it. “I always do. I wouldn’t dream of having my morning chocolate without it,” he added with the air of someone advocating rhubarb pills. “I like your coat. Weston, I suppose. I wish they would take away that little bag at the back of the neck. No need for it now. It ain’t as if we still wear periwigs. Come to think of it, your own hair’s too long for a man of fashion. Why don’t you get a Brutus crop? Then you wouldn’t have to tie it back in that bow. Mine is called the Windswept. Do you like it?”
“What’s left of it,” said his lordship dryly, watching the quizzing glass wrecking havoc with the hairdresser’s art. “Why don’t you use that thing properly? You’re supposed to look through it. But, by George, you’ve done every other curst thing. Why don’t you scratch your armpits?”
“You’re in love with her. That’s what’s making you so twitty,” said Peter, rising to meet the arrival of his man with his boots.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Lord Philip. “I may have a certain
tendre
for Amelia Godolphin. But I am certainly not in love with her.”
“I meant Constance,” said Peter. But by that time he had drifted off into the other room to have his boots pulled on and so his words went unheard by Philip.
Lord Philip was cursed with the tenacity of the typical English aristocrat—a single-minded pursuit of the desired goal. He wanted to bed Lady Amelia; he was vaguely surprised that Constance should annoy him so much. But nonetheless, he wanted Lady Amelia and meant to have her.
He accordingly crossed to the fireplace and took down several cards from the card stand and began to flick through them. His sister was holding a breakfast which had already begun, since the hour was now four in the afternoon and all fashionable breakfasts began at three. He cordially detested his sister, but he felt sure that Amelia would somehow manage to be there. He collected his hat and his cane and set out, forgetting his friend, Peter, with an absent mindedness worthy of that gentleman himself.
The breakfast was to be held at his sister’s villa in Kensington where she could erect marquees on the lawn for eating and dancing which she could not do in the pocket-sized garden which graced the back of her town house.
Kensington, with its pretty villas lining the Chiswick Road, was soon reached. It had all the charm of being not quite in town and not quite in the country. The mist had dispersed to be replaced with a gray drizzle. Water dropped from the great trees by the side of the road, and sooty sparrows squabbled and splashed in the puddles.
As soon as he arrived, Philip could sense that the occasion was not a success. Although the marquees were bedecked with flowers and draped with rose silk, the damp gray day seemed to have permeated everything. The reason was quickly discovered. His sister had turned her autocratic face from strong drink and had decided to serve only negus, ratafia and lemonade.
He found his sister, twisting the fringe of her shawl nervously in her fingers and fighting between her strong principles and the desire to make her breakfast a success. Philip looked at her worried face with some amusement as she surveyed her nearly silent guests.
“Give in,” he said gently, “or it will be all over London on the morrow that you have turned Methodist.”
“Oh, no,” cried Lady Eleanor, “they wouldn’t
dare!
”
“The trouble with this curst affair,” came the booming voice of one of the guests, the elderly Earl of Murr, “is it’s damn wet and dreary outside and curst damp, wet and dreary on the
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