Page 40 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“You’re despicable,” his grandmother hissed.

“Why do I keep her on?” Thomas wondered aloud. And then, because it had been a bloody long day, and he’d lost whatever comfort he’d gleaned from his ale, he walked over to a cabinet and poured himself a drink.

And then Grace spoke up, as she frequently did when she thought she was required to defend the dowager. “She is your grandmother.”

“Ah yes, blood.” Thomas sighed. He was beginning to feel punchy. And he wasn’t even the least bit soused. “I’m told it’s thicker than water. Pity.” He looked over at Audley. “You’ll soon learn.”

Audley just shrugged. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe Thomas just imagined it. He needed to get out of here, away from these three people, away from anything that screamed Wyndham or Cavendish or Belgrave or any one of the other fifteen honorifics attached to his name.

He turned, looking squarely at his grandmother. “And now my work here is done. I have returned the prodigal son to your loving bosom, and all is right with the world. Not my world,” he could not resist adding, “but someone’s world, I’m sure.”

“Not mine,” Audley said with a slow, careless smile. “In case you were interested.”

Thomas just looked at him. “I wasn’t.”

Audley smiled blandly, and Grace, God bless her, looked ready to jump between them again, should they attack each other anew.

He dipped his head toward her, in an expression of wry salute, then tossed back his liquor in one shockingly large swallow. “I am going out.”

“Where?” demanded the dowager.

Thomas paused in the doorway. “I have not yet decided.”

Truly, it didn’t matter. Anything was fine. Just not here.

Chapter 8

Isn’t that Wyndham over there?”

Amelia blinked, shading her eyes with her hand (a fat lot of good her bonnet seemed to be doing her this morning) as she peered across the street. “It does look like him, doesn’t it?”

Her younger sister Milly, who had accompanied her on the outing to Stamford, leaned into her for a better view. “I think it is Wyndham. Won’t Mother be pleased.”

Amelia glanced nervously over her shoulder. Her mother, who was inside a nearby shop, had resembled nothing so much as a woodpecker all morning. Peck peck peck, do this, Amelia, peck peck peck, don’t do that. Wear your bonnet, you’re getting freckles, don’t sit so inelegantly, the duke will never get around to marrying you.

Peck peck peck peck peck peck peck.

Amelia had never been able to make the connection between her posture whilst in the privacy of her own breakfast room and her fiancé’s inability to choose a date for the wedding, but then again, she’d never been able to understand how her mother could know exactly which of her five daughters had nicked a bit of her marzipan, or accidentally let the dogs in, or (Amelia winced; this one had been her fault) knocked over the chamber pot.

Onto her mother’s favorite dressing gown.

Blinking her eyes into focus, Amelia looked back across the street at the man Milly had pointed out.

It couldn’t be Wyndham. It was true, the man in question did look remarkably like her fiancé, but he was clearly…how did one say it…?

Disheveled.

Except disheveled was putting it a bit kindly.

“Is he sotted?” Milly asked.

“It’s not Wyndham,” Amelia said firmly. Because Wyndham was never so unsteady.

“I really think—”

“It’s not.” But she wasn’t so sure.

Milly held her tongue for all of five seconds. “We should tell Mother.”

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