‘I honestly did not think Lady Theale would succeed in convincing you to take me along.’
‘I see. Well, we shall have to find you something more suitable. You won’t be much use if you fall ill.’
‘Or drown.’
‘Lady Theale would definitely hold that against me. She appears quite fond of you.’
‘Most peculiar, I know.’
‘Do you take me for a fool, Mrs Langdale?’
She looked up from the fire, her eyes wide and a little worried.
‘No. Why?’
‘Why? Because you insist on speaking to me as if I were several steps below Jamie on the scale of human understanding. These snide little darts might have worked well with the marvellously thick-skinned Uxmores, but the only effect they have on me is to make me wish I had shown more fortitude in the face of Lady Theale’s demands. If you wish to say something to me, then say it and be done with it.’
Blast, he had gone too far. Her eyes widened even further, showing a ring of dark blue around the grey and her mouth wavered out of its prim line. What the devil was wrong with him? First Jamie and now her. Now she would cry and he would have to comfort her. He had sunk low indeed to be taking out his ill humour on children and widows.
A sudden spurt of laughter escaped her.
‘You are quite right, Your Grace. I have developed some dreadful habits over the years. I am not accustomed to people showing concern for my well-being. I know that sounds dreadfully self-pitying, but it is merely to explain that I was not quite certain how to react and so, to use Alfred’s description, I prickled.’
‘I see.’
The door opened and the landlord entered with a tray. Benneit hesitated, but poured her a glass of the steaming punch.
‘To help with the prickles,’ he explained and she smiled—a full, wide and wholly surprising smile.
‘It had best be strong then,’ she answered and sipped. He watched her face, the dip of her eyelashes, as long and thick as Jamie’s and a shade lighter, which was strange with hair her colour. She was strange. A magical mouse who sometimes looked distinctly like a cat. As she did now, her eyelids a smiling curve as she savoured the hot punch. No, neither a mouse nor a cat but a pixie—it was there in the slight slant of the large eyes, the finely drawn brows and the little indentations at the corners of her mouth. It was a much more generous mouth when she smiled than when she wore her prim and proper expression.
The Uxmore women were renowned for their perfect mouths—lush and of a deep coral pink that drew the eye. Bella had made good use of her mouth, drawing attention to it with every trick in the book—a gentle tap of her fan, a little pouting sigh... No doubt in an earlier time she would have delighted in wearing a patch beside it. Mrs Langdale hadn’t inherited the Uxmore mouth, or height, or beauty, but now that he looked he realised how perfectly drawn her own mouth was. It reminded him of the petals of one of his mother’s favourite pink Centifolias, the petals in the centre curving in on themselves, the pale pink ending in a shade of warmer blush and their texture was softer than silk, warm to the touch...
She sighed and opened her eyes. ‘Perfect.’
He went to sit on the far side of the table and turned his eyes to the fire.
‘Jamie tells me I growl when I am tired. I apologise for growling at you.’
‘I think anyone would be growling after a week cooped up in a carriage.’
‘You aren’t.’
‘You just told me I did precisely that. You growl, I become snide. I do hate that word. The image it conjures is very weaselly.’
‘Like Celia the weasel in your wondrous tree tale?’
‘Oh, dear, was it that obvious? I do hope Jamie did not make the connection, I would not wish for him to repeat that in her presence.’
‘I do not think he did. He is not accustomed to deciphering romans à clef. I gathered you were the little girl taken captive by the kindly mole. I could not tell if Uxmore was the mole or the bear until you mentioned the quizzing glass and remembered Uxmore was forever misplacing his. Was that one of your tasks at the Hall?’
‘It was my chief task as far as he was concerned and I think the main reason he was not happy with Lady Theale’s plans.’
‘So who was the bear? He received a very kindly treatment, but I could not place him. It was certainly not Celia’s husband, George. There was too much strength of character.’
‘No, George was the owl. The bear was Alfred, my husband.’
‘I see. I am sorry.’
She shrugged and sipped her punch.
‘I was lucky to have had him in my life, however briefly.’
He concentrated on his punch. He should really go to his room; it would be another long and tiring day on the morrow.
‘Out of curiosity, what animal would I be?’ He kept his voice light, feeling rather foolish that he was even asking. She frowned, her eyes meeting his. His skin tingled and he had to actively resist the urge to look away.
‘You and Jamie. A wolf and cub.’
‘That sounds ominous. And lonely.’
‘Not at all. I read once that wolves are pack animals and very loyal and intelligent. Unlike many other animals, the cubs remain for many years with their pack before striking out on their own.’
Her voice was pedantic and impersonal, but he felt her words keenly, like a verdict. He thought of Jamie curled up in the small trestle bed in the adjoining room, his arms tucked around the blanket, probably wishing it was Flops. A wave of mixed fear and love surged through him. His cub.
The chair scraped as she stood.
‘Goodnight, Your Grace.’
Once again she was gone before he could even gather himself to answer her.
‘Do you think it will be a huge ship like last time, Papa?’ Jamie asked enthusiastically as he devoured a third scone in the luxurious parlour at the Tontine Hotel. Jo considered hiding the rest of the scones before they suffered the same fate. The less that went down, the less that would come up in the carriage as they covered the last leg from Glasgow to Lochmore. She wished they could spend more time in this fascinating city. They had not seen much as they drove in last night, but enough to wake her curiosity.
The Tontine Hotel itself was as fine as any London house she had ever visited, with lush carpets and furniture, and her bed, in one of the four rooms leading off the palatial private parlour they dined in, was enormous and as soft as a cloud. She would happily spend a week here, exploring. She remembered reading that there were lovely gardens and theatres in Glasgow. What would it be like to explore—not in London where everything was overlaid with memories of that agonising Season and her life with the Uxmores—but in a whole new city, where she could invent herself anew...?
Joane Langdale, independent widow...
‘I don’t know, Jamie,’ the Duke answered absently, turning the pages of a newspaper. ‘Angus made the arrangements. We will ask him when we depart for the port.’
‘For the port?’ Jo asked, finally registering the import of their discussion.
‘Did I not tell you? We will proceed by water from here. It is faster than going overland and Jamie enjoys it. The carriage will join us a day or so later at Lochmore. Next time we travel to London I think we will sail the whole way, what do you say, Jamie?’
‘Oh,