Eric Parteger followed the footman through the house, up flights of stairs, along halls, down more stairs, through successive rooms to further halls, and up again until at last they crossed a large formal parlour and exited the house through a set of double doors.

They were on a terrace that spread along this face of the Haverford’s London townhouse. Townhouse! In any other country, it would be called a palace. Miles of halls, acres of rooms, great towering cliffs of facade. All designed to impress, and all of it insignificant in its impact compared to the elegant lady who awaited him.

She was seated at a table near the balustrade between the terrace and the formal garden that spread out below them. Tea makings and plates of dainty cakes sat at her elbow, awaiting his arrival. She smiled a welcome as the footman faded back from his side to reenter the house.

“My dear boy, how good of you to come,” she said, looking unflinchingly into his eyes as if completely unaware of the ruin of his face.

Stunned at her warmth — Eric had never met the lady before — he took refuge in formality, presenting his best court bow. “Your Grace.”

“Come and sit down,” she insisted. “May I fix you a tea? Please, do try one of these little cakes. I have them delivered from Fournier’s, and they are as tasty as they are beautiful.”

Eric sat, and took the plate she offered him, and the cup of tea prepared to his preferences without any consultation. One corner of his mouth kicked up and he spoke without thinking.

“Gren always said you had better intelligence agents than Napoleon, Your Grace.”

She grinned back. She was dark where his old friend was fair and had blue eyes where Gren’s were hazel, but her son had the exact same grin, and Eric’s usual wariness with women, mothers, and aristocrats melted away.

“Your preference for strong tea with no cream, milk, or sugar has been noted by all the hopeful maidens of London, and their mothers. I had purposed to help you because my son speaks well of you, Eric. I may call you ‘Eric’?” She paused for his nod. “Good. But I like a man who speaks his mind, and shall be pleased to support you for your own sake.”

Support him to do what? “I am grateful, Your Grace.” What else could he say?

Again, she surprised him with shades of omniscience. “You wonder what I am to help you with, and how I can possibly be of help. I am the Duchess of Haverford, and one of the great ladies of Society, Eric. I can help you take your rightful position, of course. I can also advise you that the silly ninnies Lady Wayford has been parading before you will not do.”

Gren had the same sharp intelligence; the same unnerving ability to see behind Eric’s bland face to the busy thoughts beneath. Eric addressed the last remark. “None of them will be required to do so, ma’am. I have no intention of allowing Lady Wayford any part of selecting a bride for me.”

She nodded sharply, once. “My son said you were clever. We will talk more on this matter, but first I would love to know more about the time Jon — Gren, as you call him — spent with you in the mountains of Southern Italy, fighting Napoleon.”

***

Eric is the hero of The Beast Next Door, my novella in Valentines From Bath, which is on preorder and due to be published on 9 February. See the book page for the blurb and blurbs of all five novellas in the box set.