Page 11 of Never a Duke
“Enough of your martyred sighs,” George said, though they were very convincingly martyred sighs. “Roz isn’t eighteen anymore. She’s learned how to go on, more or less.”
“But she has her causes, Georgie, and she’s infernally passionate about them. I’ve never heard a woman wax so strident on the topic of cockfights, and it’s not as if gamecocks sit down to tea with one another when left to their own devices in the barnyard. Rosalind ought never to admit she knows of cockfighting, much less bring the topic up in polite company.”
George was diplomat enough to let that declaration go unchallenged. Rosalind’s theory was that Lindhurst’s laziness had been indulged for too long. He wasn’t stupid in her opinion, he was spoiled. He used his intellect rarely and only for the amusement of his friends—bon motsbeing the mark of a true man about Town—or for his own ends. Lindhurst would not tax his brain to solve a problem for another, unless doing so would amuse or impress his cohorts.
Once Roz had pointed out that pattern, George had tacitly watched for it, and seen the proof in Lindhurst’s behavior—and also in Papa’s.
“If you’re for Almack’s on Wednesday,” George said, “a Venetian breakfast on Thursday might be a bit early for you.” Those breakfasts were mid-afternoon affairs, and ghastly if the weather was disobliging. This early in the year, the weather was mostly disobliging. “I’ll escort Roz.”
“You’re sure?” Lindhurst said, turning to present his trim profile to the mirror. “Do I carry the gold-handled walking stick or the plain mahogany? I vow I make more decisions before leaving my apartment than Parliament does in an entire session.”
“Plain mahogany,” George said, as Higgins maintained a discreet silence. “Understated elegance and so forth.”
“George, your good taste does you credit. I’ll let you do the honors with Roz on Thursday then, but only because you insist. Next time, it’s my turn. I know my duty. Higgy, my hat.”
Higgins opened a wardrobe in the corner of the room and produced a shiny black high-crowned beaver.
“For pity’s sake, man, not black,” Lindhurst said. “I’m carrying the mahogany walking stick, so I must have the chocolate fondant hat. Cream gloves rather than white. You are woolgathering, Higgy. Perhaps dreaming of the fair Mrs. Barnstable’s ankles?”
Higgins produced a glossy brown hat of the same cut and dimensions as the black. “I’m sure I don’t know anything of such an indecorous subject, my lord.”
Lindy tapped the hat onto his head. “I’m sure you do, my good fellow. I would never begrudge a man an appreciative regard for the fairer sex. Gloves.”
Higgins passed them over—palest cream—and the picture of sartorial perfection was complete. “Enjoy your outing, my lord.”
“I always do. George, I wish you a pleasant day. See me to the door, would you?”
They left Higgins to tidy up the battlefield, which he would do well before the evening skirmish. By then, Lindy’s daytime attire would acquire smudges on the gloves and ale stains on the lacy cravat. His coat would be wrinkled, his hat likely crushed, and his boots unfit for wear beyond the stable.
Higgins—and a steady supply of orders to Bond Street—would magically put all to rights. If Lindy’s valet gazed adoringly at the somewhat embonpoint Mrs. Barnstable, he was due at least that much joy in life.
“You asked me earlier about Clotilda Cadwallader,” Lindy said, as he made his way to the balustrade encircling the main foyer. “I tell you, George, I might have to consider her. Please keep a lookout as you make the rounds with Roz. If there’s anything untoward about Miss Cadwallader, if I’m to have competition for a lady in her third season, if she has a secret penchant for faro, a fellow needs to know that before he does the pretty and makes an ass of himself.”
“Isn’t Rosalind better situated to unearth such information? I’m the spare, Lindy. I should be composing sermons in some rural parsonage.” Thank heavens the business of war was at low ebb for the nonce. Papa might begrudge the church the use of his spare, but if the military had need of officers, George well knew what his fate would be.
“Roz has no patience for refined company. What’s this?” Lindhurst peered over the balcony while pulling George back a step.
Rosalind herself, attired in a carriage dress, was greeting a caller at the front door.
A male caller, at whom shesmiled.
“I do value punctuality in a fellow,” she said.
The gentleman, who was exquisitely attired, bowed over Roz’s hand and murmured something George could not catch. Then he and Rosalind were out the door.
“What the devil?” Lindy muttered. “What the perishing devil? I know that man. He’s the Duke of Walden’s lackey. Some say he’s Walden’s by-blow. Checkered past, received when necessary, but nobody’s idea of a good catch. Goes by the Wentworth name, though he’s not listed in Debrett’s, if you take my meaning.”
A duke with a by-blow? How utterly unexceptional. “Perhaps the fellow likes difficult women,” George said. “Rosalind isn’t anybody’s idea of a good catch either.” Roz was lovely, in her way, but she was too fierce and outspoken, and not witty enough to have made the ranks of Originals. She was too young to be a true spinster, and too wellborn to be unnoticed.
“Wentworth is abanker,” Lindy said, his fine golden brows knitting. “Has Roz gambled away her pin money? Papa won’t care for that at all.”
“Don’t be mean. Rosalind does drive out with the occasional fellow, or she used to, and your friends are doubtless waiting for you.”
“So they are. Do ask Roz what she’s about, George, or perhaps I will. I meant what I said about escorting her to her next little outing. I know my duty.”
Lindy touched a gloved finger to his hat brim, perched a hip on the curved banister, and slid down the polished wood to the foyer like a schoolboy showing off for his fellows. His dismount was graceful, like everything else he did.
But Lindhurst had not meant what he’d said about escorting Rosalind to her next social obligation. He would find an excuse, a scheduling conflict, a slight head cold, some reason why he could not be bothered to spend time in polite society with his own sister.
