Page 92 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"Which you were cheating at," Abigail reminded him, though her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mirth.
"I was not cheating," Christopher protested. "I was merely... counting cards with exceptional accuracy."
"A distinction without a difference, I fear," William replied with a grin.
"There you are!" Abigail exclaimed, spotting Gemma and Jameson. "We were just discussing your husband's brother's latest escapade at White's."
"Oh dear," Gemma sighed. "Not another duel, Christopher."
"Not a proper duel," Christopher clarified. "More of a... gentlemanly disagreement that happened to involve pistols at dawn."
"Which were loaded with blanks," William added. "At my insistence."
"Always the voice of reason, William," Jameson said, clapping his former secretary on the shoulder. "How goes the new position? Is the Home Office treating you well?"
William's expression brightened. "Exceedingly well, my lord. Lord Liverpool himself commended my report on the corn tariffs last week."
"Unsurprising," Jameson replied. "Your analysis of the Baltic grain markets was more thorough than anything Parliament had seen in a decade."
Young Thomas, growing impatient with the adult conversation, began to squirm again. "Uncle Will! Uncle Will! Horsey ride!"
"Thomas," Gemma admonished gently, "Uncle William is in his best evening clothes. Perhaps later—"
But William was already reaching for the child. "Nonsense, I am never too fine for my favorite nephew."
"Your only nephew," Christopher corrected.
At the long table beneath the great tent, Helena Sinclair and Lady Belinda Brookfield sat side by side. Helena in sage green silk, Belinda in deep plum velvet with an ostrich feather headdress that added a full foot to her already imposing height. The pair were sharing stories, opinions, and the occasional sharp glance at anyone foolish enough to interrupt.
"I tell you, Belinda, the quality of muslin being imported this season is simply abysmal," Helena was saying, waving her fan for emphasis. "Not a single bolt worth purchasing in all of Oxford Street."
"You must try Madame Delacrois on Bond Street," Lady Belinda replied. "French, of course, but one mustn't be too patriotic when it comes to proper haberdashery."
"French!" Helena sniffed. "In these times?"
"The war is over, my dear," Lady Belinda reminded her. "And their silk is superior. Even your son would agree, practical as he is."
"Jameson has become positively parsimonious since becoming a father," Helena complained affectionately. "Would you believe he questioned the necessity of renovating the music room at his London house? As if one could entertain properly with outdated draperies!"
"Speaking of renovations," Lady Belinda leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I hear Lady Jersey has installed the most scandalous marble statuary in her garden. Completely unclothed, if you can imagine."
"No!" Helena gasped, delighted.
"Yes! And positioned most... provocatively."
"We must see them at once. Perhaps next week?"
"Tuesday would suit me admirably," Lady Belinda agreed. "We shall make a day of it."
What had begun as cautious diplomacy had grown, over countless shared teas and family crises, into a companionship neither of them would have dared predict.
As the sun dipped low, casting the sky in hues of rose and gold, a gong chimed for dinner.
Guests gathered beneath the canopy, taking their places with the rustle of silk and murmured conversation. Jameson remained standing at the head, his glass raised.
"Friends," he said, his voice steady and clear. "If I had the eloquence of poets or the wit of Parliament, I might properly express my gratitude this evening. But I shall content myself with truth."
The table quieted.
