Page 3 of Sir Hugo Seeks a Wife
“So I’ll send Lister there?”
“Better you go yourself, old man.And don’t forget the poem.”
“The poem?”He couldn’t help it.The question emerged with such explosive force that a few snoozing gentlemen sat up in drowsy confusion.
Hugo’s increasing irritation left Ivor unaffected.He was always a calm center.That unflappable nature made him a top-notch huntsman and angler.“Yes.”
“I have to write the chit a poem?I’ve never written a poem in my life.Wouldn’t know where to start.”
Ivor waved an airy hand, as if he wasn’t speaking utter drivel.“Not to worry, old cheese.Do you think I get busy in the literary way?”
Hugo, who had allowed Ivor to copy his schoolwork at Harrow so the fellow avoided a caning, couldn’t imagine it.He responded with a contemptuous grunt.
“Exactly.”Ivor remained unoffended.“Madame Lebeau at Sweet Little Nothings knows half the chaps in the ton have trouble spelling their own names.She has a tame poet on tap.”
This became more bizarre by the moment.“A tame poet?”
“Just so.Everything will make more sense if you call at the shop.”
“I don’t want to call at the bloody shop.”
Ivor regarded him with galling pity.“You still haven’t got it, have you?Which is strange.You were a regular Aristotle at school.Nothing wrong with your brainbox there.If you can win the prize for Latin translation, working out how to shine in elevated company should be a mere doddle.Even dunderheads like me manage it.”
“Latin translation follows logical rules.”Hugo sighed.“I’m starting to think society makes no sense at all.”
“If you want to make a splash, you need to put in a bit of an effort, that’s all.”
He made a sweeping gesture.“By buying sweets and hiring poets to do the pretty.”
“That’s the idea.”Ivor didn’t pick up on Hugo’s sarcastic tone.Of course he didn’t.Irony was always wasted on Mr.Bilson.“Now we need to send a note around to Madame Lebeau to reserve a time for you to call.”
“I need to go cap in hand to a damned shopkeeper?”
“Of course.With every fribble in the ton trying to employ her services, Madame Lebeau is much in demand.”Ivor paused.“She’s another fine-looking filly and possessed of an elegant manner.Word is she’s a Frenchie aristo fallen on hard times with the hullabaloo over there.You’ll like her.”
“I don’t need to like someone to buy a blasted sugared violet from them.”
“No, you don’t.”Ivor’s pitying expression intensified, damn his eyes.“But the tattle says if you win Madame Lebeau’s favor, your wooing will go smooth as silk.”
“But I’m not wooing Petronella Fitchett.”
“No, she’ll look higher than a baronet.But it’s a good chance to get all your chickens lined up, so when you do decide on your Lady Brinsmead, you can go straight to work on her.Think of this as a practice run.”
“If you’re sure,” Hugo said reluctantly.
“That’s the ticket.Knew you’d see yourself clear.”Ivor responded to the agreement, not Hugo’s grudging tone, with a smile of approval that brightened his good-natured features.“There’s pens and paper in the library.We’ll shoot Madame Lebeau a note straightaway.No time to be lost.”
Hugo came to his feet and trailed his friend into the corridor.It seemed that he was committed to the campaign, even if right now, he wished he’d stayed up north and never left.
***
“Bonjour, monsieur,”a woman said, as Hugo entered the pretty little shop on one of London’s most fashionable streets.A pretty little shop called Sweet Little Nothings.He’d written requesting an appointment and received a time in response, no questions about what day might suit him.
Although it was difficult to hold onto his pique when he surveyed his surroundings and the woman behind the counter.Ivor had described Madame Lebeau – Hugo assumed that this must be the shop’s proprietress – as a fine-looking filly.
Ivor had been guilty of vast understatement.Sylvie Lebeau was a beauty, a spectacular blonde with delicate features and a figure to make Venus weep with envy.
“Madame Lebeau, I’m Hugo Brinsmead.”He swept off his high-crowned hat and dipped his head in a short bow.
