Monday for Tea

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Tea with hopes and dreams

Her Grace had never bothered with New Year resolutions. Her father had refused to countenance the practice within his household. Instead, he held to the Christmas Octave, to be commemorated with all due solemnity. Once she married, her husband saw the changing of one year to another as an opportunity for even more excess than usual, and his celebrations had no place for a mere wife.  She spent her Christmas and New Year ensconced in whatever of the ducal estates pleased His Grace, her company comprising the servants and whichever of Haverford’s indigent relatives lived there by his miserly favour.

In time, especially after she had given the duke his heir and a second son as a spare, she built her confidence and her own life. Her Christmas parties had become famous, lasting for three weeks from before Christmas until the Feast of the Epiphany, six days after New Year’s Day. She had never seen anything particularly significant about the first of January. It was, after all, just another day.

For some reason, this year felt different. No. What was she if she could not be honest even if only to herself? This year was different because at long last she knew that her cage would soon open, and she thought — or at least she hoped — that old wrongs might at last be righted.

Sitting in her parlour, she sipped tea as she considered the coming year. The long war was over, the Emperor Napoleon confined to St Helena’s. That was cause for hope, surely? The country faced serious problems: poor harvests, unrest among the working poor,  a huge population of ex-soldiers and sailors released from the forces and thrown onto the streets to cope with the aftermath of injuries both physical and mental. But the war was over. Her eldest ward had wed during the year, and was expecting a happy event. Eleanor had hopes that Matilda’s younger sister, Jessica, might find a match in the coming season.

And as she thought about all that she was thankful for on the wider stage of Great Britain and the more personal canvas of her family and friends, the duchess conceded that she was still avoiding thoughts about the key change that gave a lift to her heart and a smile to her face.

“I feel guilty,” she acknowledged. “I am rejoicing in another person’s pain, and I should not, even if he well deserves it. And yet…”

And yet it was unavoidable. The Duke of Haverford was dying, rotting from the inside, his manifold sins of lust come back to destroy him. In the past eighteen months, his periods of madness had increased in intensity and duration, until he could no longer be released from the careful stewardship of the custodians her son had appointed. The doctors warned that the next spell, or the one after, or the one after that would carry him off. A vein would burst in one of the lesions in his brain, or his damaged heart would fail, or some other physical manifestation of his moral perfidy would carry him off.

“It will be a release for him,” she assured herself, well aware that it was her own release she yearned for. She had been a faithful wife to a faithless and cruel man. Was it any wonder that his demise was an event awaited with anticipation?

Never mind that James was back in England, that they were friends again, that he looked on her with a warmth in his eyes that set her tingling. He had said nothing. Perhaps there was nothing to say. But deep down, she hoped.

 

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Tea with Henry

Eleanor poured Lord Henry another cup of tea. With the continuing war, he seldom had time away from the Horse Guard to spare an hour for an old friend of his dear deceased wife, and she was enjoying catching up on news of Susana’s children. Eleanor often saw her goddaughter, Susan, now married to a naval officer, and with small children. But the boys had all followed their father’s footsteps and were overseas with the army, or their maternal grandfathers, into the navy. Harry and Alex, the soldiers, were on foreign soil fighting for King and country, and Jules, the youngest, was doing the same far away on the other side of the world with the navy.

Rick was Henry’s main concern today. Invalided home, he had undergone painful medical treatment to be able to walk again, and had recently left town, much to his father’s and sister’s dismay. “He is going to Portsmouth, where he thinks the naval doctors may be able to get him back to full health more quickly,” Lord Henry said. “I wish he hadn’t chosen to ride, Eleanor. He says he will stop early and often, but I worry. We thought we would lose him, you know.”

“Yes, Susan told me. She has been very anxious about him.”

Lord Henry sighed. “That is part of the problem. My dear daughter has been hovering over him constantly, and I believe he has run away from her care as much as to his naval doctors.”

“It is hard not to fuss when those you love are in pain,” Eleanor commented.

“I can only hope he finds what he needs, and not trouble,” the concerned father said.

***

Rick Redepenning finds trouble and what he needs in the form of his former admiral’s daughter, in Gingerbread Bride, now available as part of the anthology Holiday Escapes.

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Tea with the proud parents

 

Her Grace of Haverford had decided to wait for the final decision at Chirbury House, to keep her goddaughter company and also, incidentally, to spend time cuddling the little boys whose fates were being decided today by the Committee of Privileges.

Stephen, currently Viscount Longford and Stocke, as eldest by thirty minutes and therefore heir to both his mother and his father, had recently learned to push himself up on his knees and then, tenuously, his hands. He rocked back and forth, looking tremendously pleased with himself, until he rocked too far and fell on his chin. While his mother and Eleanor were cooing over him, his brother John had been exercising his talent for exploration, having learned that he could roll to almost every corner of the room, and let out a wail when he trapped himself in the corner between a chest and the wall.

Once both were rescued, comforted, and returned to the rug, the two ladies continued their interrupted conversation. “As I was saying, I want them to have as normal a childhood as possible. I will always be grateful that Daisy had such a long time with no Society expectations on her, and I want that for the boys.” Anne was Countess of Chirbury by virtue of her marriage to Eleanor’s nephew and Countess of Selby in her own right, but had spent nearly a decade in hiding from her usurping uncle, pretending to be a humble widow and living on a shoestring with her sisters and little Daisy.

“They also need to grow up knowing their responsibilities,” Eleanor warned.

“And that is why I hope they can both carry equal honours,” Anne insisted. “If our petition is agreed, then they shall be equals, requiring the same education and training, both heirs to an earldom.”

Eleanor quite agreed. While younger brothers did not inherit in the world of the aristocracy, at least without some tragedy befalling the elder, she had seen much resentment even between those born years apart. The elder wanted the freedom of the younger; the younger the status of the elder. How much more when the twain were from a single birth, only an accident of position putting one before the other? Still, “Good parenting will help, my dear. You will not allow such jealousies in your nursery, and you will love them both equally.”

Anne smiled her thanks and agreement. “We will also help all our children, whatever their birth order and whether they are boys or girls, to find a purpose in life; something they are passionate about and good at doing.”

The nursery door opened and let in Rede, the Earl of Chirbury. “Anne, they have decided. The recommendation is going to the King. John is to be your heir, my love, just as we wanted.”

Anne flew to his arms, and Rede returned her hug as he smiled over her head at Eleanor. “It is a good day, Aunt Eleanor. You will thank His Grace for his support?”

Eleanor nodded. Haverford, like most of the peers involved,  had supported the petition to prevent too much power accumulating in the hands of one earl, even one related to him by marriage. Indeed, Rede had suggested the idea himself, appealing to their self interest. And it had worked!

Rede released his wife and strode to the baby boys, who were grinning and burbling to their father. In moments, they were tossed up, one onto each strong shoulder, to be spun around the room until all three were laughing helplessly. “Hannah!” the earl called to the beloved woman who ruled the nursery, “Meet Lord Longford and his brother, Lord Stocke!”

***

Rede and Anne have their story told in Farewell to Kindness. The twins appear in family scenes in later stories of the Golden Redepenning saga.

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Tea with Theo

Her Grace of Haverford paused in her journey at a property just outside of Oxford. Rambling and comfortable, and small by the standards of the houses where she was lady and chatelaine, it was a place she stopped at as often as possible. Dr and Mrs Wren always made her welcome. Dr Wren had been Jonathan’s tutor during that boy’s naughty career at Oxford, and Eleanor had taken to him and his wife from the moment she met them.

As always, Theodora Wren made her welcome, ushering her into the informal drawing room and sending a little maid for tea, refreshments, and her husband. “Theo, I must apologise for arriving unannounced,” Eleanor said. “I must be back on the road in half an hour, but I could not pass by your door without calling in.”

“I should think not indeed!” Theo replied. “You are looking well, Eleanor, if a little tired. How are your sons? And the dear little girls?”

They exchanged family news, and Eleanor was mightily entertained to hear of the romance of Theo’s niece Mary, who had come to escape one suitor, and finished marrying another. “Rick Redepenning,” Eleanor exclaimed. “I had not heard, Theo, and he is the son of my dear friend Lord Henry Redepenning, and cousin to my sister’s son, the Earl of Chirbury!”

Both women chuckled as Theo elaborated on the romance, including a rescue from a bird loft and the interesting incident involving a bride shape cut from gingerbread and a hungry horse.

***

You can meet Dr and Mrs Wren in Gingerbread Bride, a story in the collection Holiday Escapes, coming soon and currently on pre-order.

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Tea with the father of the lady in the latest scandal

Brighton, August, 1813

The owner of the inn ushered James into the private parlour Eleanor had rented for this meeting.

“Is this the gentleman, my lady?” His question was perfunctory, and the way he looked at Eleanor could best be described as a leer. She didn’t bother to correct his form of address, but merely nodded her reply. “Thank you. That will be all.”

The leer broadened. “There’s a key in the lock, but you won’t be disturbed. I’ve given orders.”

James held the door open, and his frown must have penetrated the foolish man’s thick skin, for the innkeeper left with no further comments. James shut and looked the door behind him, then faced Eleanor with a shrug and a smile. “Small-minded fool.”

Now that they were alone, Eleanor lifted her veil. “James. It is good to see you.” They had crossed paths at the Pavilion the previous evening, but she had been with Haverford, and even the mere nod she gave him in passing had fetched a fifteen minute rant from her husband that ended only when the Prince Regent summoned him.

James bowed over her hand. “I am pleased to see you, my dear. You are looking well.”

Her fingers tingled where he touched them, and she allowed herself the momentary indulgence of the wish that the innkeeper’s assumptions were true. But she was a married woman and her honour would not allow her an affair. Not that James had ever hinted at desiring such a thing. He was still in love with his dead wife, and if he desired a bed partner, England abounded in younger and lovelier women than her, and many of them would be delighted to accommodate a handsome duke, with or without a ring on their finger.

“Shall we sit?” James prompted.

Eleanor shook off her thoughts, and took the chair by the tea tray she had ordered. Or should that be coffee and tea tray? James had returned from the East with a taste for thick black coffee, and she poured it for him just the way she had learned he liked it, then prepared her own cup of the gentler beverage.

As she carried out the ritual, they exchanged family news, while she wondered how to introduce the subject that had prompted her request for this meeting.

He gave her an opening when he mentioned his daughter Ruth. “She has been in quarantine in the north—a trip to a school that Sutton’s wife sponsors turned into a battle with smallpox. But all appears to be well, and young Drew has gone to escort her back to the family.”

“I had heard, James. And what I heard concerns me. Unkind gossip is insisting that she has been staying unchaperoned in the home of a widower with a fearsome reputation–a monster who killed his own wife and who is shunned by the entire county for his ravages amongst their women.”

James could summon a fearsome scowl when he chose, but he had never before turned that ducal glare on her. “Lies!”

“Of course, and I am happy to play my part in saying so. But it would help to know what small modicum of truth the lies are built on, so I can more effectively demolish them.”

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Tea with the Countess of Sutton

Sophia came to the door of the heir’s wing, and was conducted to Eleanor’s private sitting room by Aldridge’s major domo. Haverford had been upset, when he returned from his convalescence in Kent, to discover that the sister of his protege had married the son of his bitter enemy. But his one attempt to suggest that the Earl of Hythe should cast his sister off for her messalliance had been met with a cold stare, and had nearly cost him the boy’s political support. After that, he gave the new Countess a frost nod when they met, and otherwise pretended that she did not exist.

Even so, Eleanor saw no reason to rub his nose in her continued meetings with the darling girl, and so she had suggested the more circuitous route. What Haverford did not see would not annoy him.

The duchess rose to give Sophia a hug. “You are looking well, my dear. I was concerned when you had to leave the garden party early.”

Sophia blushed. “I am generally well, Aunt Eleanor. But I become very tired, these days. I am told it will be easier in a month or two. For a short time.”

She looked down at the hands in her lap, a small smile playing around her lips.

“Sophia! How wonderful! You are with child? When do you expect the happy event?” Eleanor couldn’t be better pleased. How lovely for this much loved god daughter, who had suffered much from the loss of two betrothals and had resigned herself to becoming an old maid before Viscount Elfingham, now the Earl of Sutton, saw what a treasure she was.

And how lovely for James. The father, not the son. Well, the son too, of course. He must be very proud of his wife and thrilled to be becoming a father. But James, through the marriage of his son, had secured the duchy as he desired. Eleanor beamed, and set about a cross examination of Sophia’s health and wellbeing.

Sophia is the heroine of To Wed a Proper Lady.

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Tea with a duke

Today’s Monday for Tea post belongs between To Wed a Proper Lady and To Mend the Broken Hearted, and is referred to in A Baron for Becky. It follows on from a post I wrote just over two years ago, from the point of view of the new Duke of Winshire.

Eleanor was tempted to fan herself as she waited. From Aldridge’s expression, he regreted impatiently following the butler to be announced — undoubtedly he expected his mother to be embarrassed at breaking in on three gentlemen in dishabille. In their shirtsleeves, or at least James’s two sons were in their shirtsleeves. Their father — Eleanor’s lips curved — was naked from the waist up, and his knitted pantaloons hugged hips and thighs that made no account of his decades and owed nothing to padding.

As a woman in her fifties, Eleanor came from a bawdier time than this mealy-mouthed generation, and was well accustomed to listening as her contemporaries assessed the bodies of the young men who pranced the drawing and ballrooms of Society. She had never contributed when such conversations turned salacious. She could admire male beauty of form in flesh, stone, or paint, but it left her cold. She was not cold now, and it hadn’t been the younger men who moved her.

The entry of servants with refreshments forced her to compose herself and turn her attention to the purpose of her call. Would James sponsor the bill she intended to propose? She marshalled her arguments, and was cool and composed by the time he entered the room.

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Tea with the Duke of Haverford

This week’s Monday for Tea post is the second chapter in my new story for newsletter subscribers. It forms part of the novella Paradise Lost, which tells the backstory of the Duchess of Haverford in a series of memories, as she goes through the eventful year of 1812, in which her long-ago beloved returns to England with six of his ten children. See The Children of the Mountain King for more about the series to which this is a companion. If you’d like a copy of Paradise Lost, make sure you’re subscribed to my newsletter. A word of warning. It isn’t a romance; the Duchess of Haverford does not enjoy a happy ending with the man she loves in this novella, though she negotiates a life she can live with. Does she find true love? You’ll have to read the series for the whole story.

Haverford House, London, July 1812

Eleanor had withdrawn to her private sitting room, driven there by His Grace’s shouting. Her son Aldridge was as angry as she had ever seen him, his face white and rigid and his eyes blazing, but he kept his voice low; had even warned the duke about shouting.

“Let us not entertain the servants, Your Grace, with evidence of your villainy.”

Unsurprisingly, the duke had taken exception to the cutting words and had shouted even louder.

Could it be true? Had Haverford paid an assassin to kill the sons of the man he insisted as seeing as his rival? An assassin who had been caught before he could carry out his wicked commission.

His Grace’s jealousy made no sense. Yes, James was back in England, but what did that matter to Haverford?

He had been furious when James and his family attended their first ball. Eleanor had looked up when the room fell silent, and there he stood on the stairs, surrounded by members of his family, whom she barely noticed. James looked wonderful. More than thirty years had passed, and no person on earth would call him a fribble or useless now. He had been a king somewhere in Central Asia, and wore his authority like an invisible garment. And he was still as handsome as he had been in his twenties.

As she sat there with her tea tray, sheltering from the anger of her menfolk, she caught herself sighing over James like a silly gosling. She was a married woman, and he was a virtuous man who had, by all accounts, deeply loved his wife. Besides, women did not age as well as men, as the whole world knew. She no longer had the slender waist of a maiden, her hair was beginning to grey, and her face showed the lines her mother swore she would avoid if she never smiled, laughed, frowned, or showed any other emotion. Of course, she had not followed her mother’s instruction, but those who had were no less lined than Eleanor, as far as she could see.

Putting down her tea, she fetched a little box of keepsakes from her hidden cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old.

It had not been the first time she secretly defied her husband. She had been sneaking up to the nursery since Aldridge was born, despite the duke’s proclamation that ladies of her rank had their babies presented to them once a day, washed, sweetly smelling and well behaved, and handing the infants back to their attendants if any of those conditions failed or after thirty minutes, whichever came first.

It took three more years and a major shock for her to openly defy him.

Haverford Castle, East Kent, 1784

The Duke of Haverford did not bother with greetings or enquiries about Eleanor’s health. He flung open the door without knocking and marched into Eleanor’s sitting room, saying, “What is it, duchess? I have a great deal to do today.”

Inwardly, Eleanor quailed as he stood over her, threat in every line of his posture.  Unlike her father, he had never beaten her in cold blood, but she had every reason to fear his temper.

But fear would not serve her here. She was fighting for her life and for the wellbeing of her son. She maintained an outward semblance of calm and gestured to a chair. “Will you not be seated, Your Grace? As I said in my note, I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

Haverford grumbled, but sat; even accepted a cup of tea. The delicate porcelain cup might not survive the next few minutes, but its sacrifice was a small price to pay for giving the discussion a façade of normality.

As she’d hoped, the good manners drilled into every English gentleman in the presence of a lady, even his wife, kept the duke sitting during the ritual of preparing the cup, but he burst out as soon as he accepted it from his wife’s hand. “Well, duchess?”

Eleanor prepared her own cup, glad to have a reason not to look at him as she spoke. “Your Grace, you will be aware that I have been very ill this past six weeks. It is, indeed, why I removed myself to Haverford Castle.”

“Yes, yes. And I’m glad to see you much improved, madam. I have need of you in London.” He condescended to provide an explanation. “The bill I am sponsoring—those idiots who will not listen are much easier to convince after you’ve given them one of your excellent meals, and invited their wives and daughters to your soirees. How soon can you be ready to travel?”

What an excellent opening. “I can pack tomorrow and leave for London the day after, Your Grace.”

Haverford smiled. “Excellent, excellent.” He put the cup down, shifting as if to stand.

“If I do not have a relapse,” Eleanor added.

Haverford sank back into his chair, frowning.

Now to get to the meat of the matter. Eleanor grasped hold of her dwindling supply of courage with both hands. This is about saving Aldridge. The situation in the nursery was fit to ruin him. His attendants had always indulged his every whim, egged on by the duke, who considered himself to be the only person the infant marquis needed to obey. Eleanor’s frequent visits and threats of dismissal allowed him to be raised with some sense of structure and decorum. He knew she would not tolerate rudeness or temper, to her or to his nurses and the maids.

After spending four weeks too sick to leave her bed, she found the nursery in disarray, the young heir ruling the roost. He was in a wild tantrum when she arrived, and the next hour left her drooping with fatigue, and she still had to hunt down the boy’s missing head nurse and find out why she had allowed such chaos to reign.”

The memory prompted her to deal with the minor issue first. “Your affair with Aldridge’s nurse, Your Grace.”

He straightened, and opened his mouth, but Eleanor spoke over the rebuke that was certain to come. “I have no objection, sir, but I assume you have not given her license to neglect your heir or to be impertinent to me.”

The duke frowned. “Certainly not. I shall have a word with the bitch.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. You have always required others to treat me with the respect due to your wife, and that is why I was certain I could depend on you for what I am about to ask.” Honey worked better than vinegar, one of the Haverford great aunts was fond of saying.

The duke smirked at the compliment and inclined his head, graciously indicating that she should continue.

Now for it. Best to say it straight out, as she had rehearsed a dozen times since she and Haverford’s base-born half-brother, who was also his steward, had concocted the strategy. “You may be aware, Your Grace, that I have been taking the mercury treatment for the pox. As I am a faithful wife, and have only ever had intimate knowledge of one man—yourself, Your Grace—I must assume it originated with you.”

As expected, Haverford erupted. “I will not—”

Eleanor held up a hand. “Your Grace has needs, and I would not normally comment on how you meet them, as long as any lovers you take within the household you have given me to manage are willing partners.”

She kept talking over his attempt to interrupt, hoping his temper would not override his manners. “I owe you a second son, Your Grace, and I fully intend to attempt to carry out that side of our bargain, but I have a request to make to keep me safe from falling ill again.”

He frowned, silenced for the moment. Eleanor thought it best to wait for him to speak. At least he was listening.

“Go on,” he said at last.

“My doctor has assured me that fewer than half of all people who contracted second stage syphilis moved into the deadlier third stage, and most of those had the disease multiple times. I would like to take steps to limit my risk, Your Grace.”

“What steps?”

In the end, Haverford lost his temper twice more before he signed the document she put before him. In it, he promised to not to require intimacy from Eleanor unless he had refrained from any potential source of the disease for six weeks, and had been inspected by a doctor.

She had delicately hinted at the retribution that would follow if he didn’t keep his word. A gentleman’s word was his bond, of course, but only when given to other gentlemen. Haverford would not hesitate to break an agreement with his wife, if it suited him.

Thanks to the duke’s training in politics, she knew all about the pressure to apply—in this case, the social contacts who would be informed of the whole disgusting situation if he broke his word. She had been a lady of the chamber to the Queen, was friends with several of the princesses, was sister to the current Earl of Farnmouth and sister-in-law to another earl and an earl’s second son.

Added to that there were all of her social contacts. Those she had been presented with were only the start. Being Haverford’s hostess had given her huge reach into the upper echelons of Society, especially those families headed by his political cronies and rivals.

One son, she contracted for, and a maximum of two pregnancies. Eleanor prayed she would conceive quickly, and that the child would not be a daughter.

To give Haverford credit, Eleanor conceded, he had stuck to the agreement. She put the cloth rabbit back into its box. Her copy of the agreement was still in the secret compartment, somewhere. Her co-conspirator, Fitz-Grenford, had a second copy, and the third had been given to her brother in a sealed envelope, to be opened only if she died unexpectedly or sent a message asking him to read it.

Presumably, that copy was somewhere in the papers inherited by her nephew. Perhaps she should ask for it back, for Haverford had not approached her with marital duties in mind since she announced that she was enceinte with the child who proved to be the wanted spare son.

She very much doubted that he ever would. After all, his mistresses and lovers were all twenty or thirty years younger than Eleanor.

On the other hand, he was behaving like a bad-tempered guard dog over James Winderfield’s return, and she wouldn’t put it past him to—mark his territory, as it were. The copies of the agreement had better stay where they were.

In truth, as long as the disease never recurred, Haverford had done her a favour. Without the incentive, she might have taken much longer to grasp what freedom she could.

At the firm rap on her door, she slid the hidden compartment back into place and moved the panels to return the escritoire to its normal appearance. She knew that knock. “Enter,” she called.

As expected, the visitor was Aldridge. Also as expected. He had been coming to her to be calmed after he’d worked himself into a fury since he was a little boy.

“Brandy, rather than tea, I think, my dear,” she said to him.

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Tea with the children

Eleanor smiled at the family gathered in her favourite sitting room. Matilda was pouring the tea, and Frances was carefully carrying each cup to the person for whom it had been prepared. Jessica was sitting on the arm of Aldridge’s chair, regaling him with stories about the New Year’s Charity Ball he had missed when he left the house party early. Cedrica sat quietly, as usual, but the distracted smile and the glow of happiness were new, and her thoughts were clearly on her French chef, whom she was to marry in a private ceremony in the Haverford House chapel in just a couple of weeks.

Only Jon was missing. A month ago, he had sailed from Margate in Aldridge’s private yacht, and just this morning, a package had been delivered by a weary sailor, with a report from Aldridge’s captain for the marquis, and a brief note from Jon for his mother. “Married. Safe. More news later.” Which raised more questions than it answered, not least of which was why he’d not had time to write more. Brief though it was, it set her heart at ease as much as it could be, when he was deep in war-torn Northern Europe. Not as war torn as it was when he set out, while Napoleon’s army was retreating in the face of the severe northern winter. Thank goodness that somehow, through the battle-scarred and frozen country, the messenger had managed to get this note back to Aldridge’s captain, anchored of the coast of Latvia to wait for word.

Aldridge looked up from his conversation with Jessica and gifted her with the warm smile he saved only for the women of his family. “Jon has landed on his feet again, Mama,” he told her. He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t know how he always manages to do that!”

***

Jon’s hasty trip from Margate is mentioned in To Wed a Proper Lady, which also introduces Cedrica and features the house party. His story is all planned out, but has to wait till I have finished The Children of the Mountain King series, of which To Wed a Proper Lady is the first novel. It’s on preorder and will be published 15 April. Aldridge’s story is novel 3 in the series. All going well, you’ll have it in July or August. Cedrica’s part in the house party, and her romance with her French chef, is in the novella A Suitable Husband.

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Tea with the enemy

 

Today, I have an excerpt post, lifted from To Wed a Proper Lady, which is on pre-order and coming out in April. The younger James Winderfield, Lord Elfingham, meets the lady he desires in a bookshop, and is having tea with her when our duchess arrives. Who has she been having tea with? And what does it all mean?

“Would you join me for a pot of tea, Lady Sophia,” he asked. “I understand they make excellent tea cakes, here.” If she agreed, he could hide his most recalcitrant body part beneath a table, which would mean he could take off the overcoat that currently concealed the direction of his thoughts. He had dropped into the bookshop to spend a half hour between appointments. The one he’d just attended with the thief taker who was investigating the inn fire had given him a lot to think about, and he did not want to arrive at his father’s club before the earl got there, for fear he would be turned away.

He hadn’t planned to find Lady Sophia, but he wasn’t about miss the opportunity. He sent up another prayer, this one of thanks, when she agreed. He took the stack of books from her, and allowed her to lead the way to the room set aside for patrons to take refreshment.

“Oh, look,” his lady said, changing direction as they came through the arched doorway, “Cedrica is still here. Come, and I will introduce you.”

So much for a few minutes of private conversation to further his courtship. He found himself being presented to a Haverford scion whom he’d seen in the duchess’s company. Miss Grenford, a colourless little dab of a female, was some sort of cousin of the Duke of Haverford, and acted as companion and secretary to the duchess.

“I thought you and Aunt Eleanor had gone,” Lady Sophia said to her friend, after they had given their order to the maid.

“Her Grace sent me to have a cup of tea,” Miss Grenford explained. “She had a few things to tidy up, she said, and would be perhaps half an hour.”

Lady Sophia turned to James to explain. “We have been using a room here for a planning meeting, Lord Elfingham.”

“For a charitable benefit,” Miss Grenford added.

They were in the midst of telling him about the house party to be held at Christmas, when Cedrica stopped in mid-sentence and gave a tentative wave to someone behind him. James looked over his shoulder, and rose to his feet as the newcomer reached the table. Her Grace, the Duchess of Haverford was an elegant and still lovely woman who looked in no way old enough to have a son in his thirties.

“Lord Elfingham, is it not?” she said, inclining her head graciously.

James bowed. “It is an honour to finally meet you, Your Grace.”

Her Grace surprised James by directly addressing the barrier between them. “Let us hope for an end to the hostility between our families, Elfingham. My son speaks highly of you, and I would be pleased to know you, when it can be done without garnering the kind of attention we currently attract.”

The tea shop had hushed, all conversation stopping, all eyes on the Duchess of Haverford in pleasant conversation with the duke’s heir her husband planned to have declared a bastard.

James returned the duchess’s smile. “I will look forward to that, Your Grace.” He bowed. “Miss Grenford, Lady Sophia, thank you for the pleasure of your company.”

As he turned away, he heard the great lady say to her companion, “Cedrica, dear, would you be kind enough to tell one of the footmen to call the carriage, and the others that they can collect our papers and desks, and return them to the house?” The little lady bobbed a curtsey and hurried off on the errand. Looking back over his shoulder, James saw the duchess take a chair and engage Lady Sophia in conversation.

It must be nearly time for his appointment with his father. He should be preparing in his mind his report on the thief taker’s findings; not going over every word his lady had said, trying to invest it with a richer, and more favourable, meaning.

If he headed out the side door, through the hall that led to the meeting rooms upstairs, he’d avoid the need to thread through the warren of shelves in the book rooms between him and the front door.

In the hall, he cast a glance each way, then stopped. His father was standing to one side on the stairs as footmen in Haverford livery passed him with boxes. He noticed James, and for a moment his face was shuttered. Then he continued down the stairs, pulling on his gloves as he came.

“Have you been shopping, Jamie?” he asked, his voice betraying nothing but casual interest.

James’s curiosity was a blazing fire, but he matched the earl’s calm tone. If Father wanted him to know what he was doing in this place and with whom, Father would tell him.

“Looking, merely. It seems a popular place.” He smiled, remembering Lady Sophia’s errand. “I might return to look for Twelfth Night gifts.”

“In October?” The earl shot him a sharp look. “You are well organised indeed, my son.”