An excerpt post, but not for tea. The excerpt is from Hold Me Fast.
“Let’s go back to the hotel, and I shall buy you a drink before dinner,” Bran said.
Jowan would prefer the drink without the dinner. He was doing his best to remain positive, but the word “No” kept echoing in his mind and, somehow, in his gut, too.
Still, Bran wasn’t about to let him stew in his own misery. Besides, Jowan could not turn up drunk to the musicale. He owed it to his people to make a good impression on these Londoners, especially those who were going to decide whether or not the new mine went ahead.
They had brought evening wear with them—Jowan had Bran to thank for that, too. He had insisted they should be prepared for all eventualities. They had both been outfitted by a Plymouth tailor and were—or so the man had assured them—elegant enough for London society.
Certainly, Bran looked good in his, and Jowan could have been his twin but for one inch more in height and hair that was a lighter shade of brown. They had both chosen black for breeches and coat. Jowan had a green waistcoat embroidered in copper and Bran’s was blue with silver embroidery. The clocking on their stockings matched the embroidery, as did the buckles on their black shoes. A pin on their white cravats added another spot of colour—green for Jowan and blue for Bran.
From what he’d seen on his way around London, Jowan wondered if many of the gentlemen would fill their garments to as much advantage. He and Bran both lived active lives, turning their hands to anything needed on the estate’s farms, in the mines or in the fishing fleet.
Perhaps London ladies preferred the weedy creatures he’d passed on Oxford Street. What did Tamsyn prefer now? And there he was again, thinking of her.
“Shall we take a hackney, Bran?”
“Will we get dirtier catching one of those flea and stink traps, or walking?” Bran wondered.
They walked.
The Winshire mansion was in one of the older squares of Mayfair. The largest building of any in the vicinity, it was lit from basement to attics, and so many carriages were attempting to access the front steps that the traffic was queued as far as the eye could see down streets in every direction.
They bypassed the carriages and joined a second instance of traffic congestion on the footpath, as guests waited to ascend the steps of the house. This queue was short and swiftly moving. They soon reached the front door, where they showed their invitations to a footman. The entry hall was large enough to swallow the drawing room at Inneford House. The stairs rose up through the house, lit by a great chandelier, but Jowan could just make out a ceiling lantern high above. The house was twice as high as Inneford House, too.
They ascended the stairs step by step in the queue to the reception line on what in any less elegant house would have been the landing. If one could call a space as large as four tenant cottages a landing.
At last, it was their turn to be greeted by their hostess. The butler took their invitations and announced them to the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The ducal couple were perhaps in their sixties but still vigorous. Jowan could see traces of Drew in the duke—or the other way around, he supposed. The duchess greeted them both with a smile. “You are Drew’s guests,” she said. “Go on into the drawing room, Sir Jowan, Mr. Hughes. Drew is waiting for you there.”
The drawing room carried on the theme of the house. Jowan had seen assembly halls that were smaller, though to think of assembly halls in the same context as this richly appointed and elegant room seemed like a form of blasphemy.
“I’m feeling like a country mouse,” whispered Bran.
“You are,” Jowan pointed out, keeping his own voice low, “and so am I.”
Haverford House, London, March 1812
