Page 14 of Anastasia and the Duke
"How go things in Whitehall, Hunter?" he queried, hoping that the earl would have something suitably juicy to share that might side-track Kit's attention.
"Much of the usual," Hunter shrugged, "Gentleman radicals seeking Parliamentary reform, Republican revolutionaries hoping to insight a popular uprising, a half-starved populace that might revolt off their own bat if the next harvest is poor--all kept under control by poorly trained militia, for the Regulars are overseas."
"A jaunt in the park then?" Oliver asked lightly.
"Mostly," Hunter conceded, with a smile, "For I am merely overseeing things. My men on the ground up North have a harder time of it, though that's only because the suffering up there is much worse. Republican groups are making inroads with angry young men--funded, I believe, by London--and who can blame them for wanting to revolt? Prinny spends money like it's going out of fashion, and half of our fellow Lords vote against any kind of reform lest their pockets are affected."
"We're making inroads," Oliver assured his friend, who looked most despondent, "And your tenants live comfortably, Hunter; you can't protect the whole country."
"I know," Hunter offered him a grateful smile, "The best I can do is continue with my work and hope to cut off the funds from these groups before they manage to put guns into young men's hands."
"Hear, hear," Kit offered a toast to him, which then necessitated another round of brandies be poured.
"I'd best make this my last," Oliver sighed, "Kit, you're not the only one with a determined grandmother to contend with."
"They must have been scheming together," Kit sighed, for his grandmother, Lady Guernsey, was one of Charlotte's closest friends, "And knew it best to attack us from all sides."
"Except this side," Hunter looked somewhat smug, for his grandmother was kind enough to skip town every season and not gad about with The Four Beauties.
"That's right," Kit looked up thoughtfully, "You're free to defend us. I say, Hunter, you might help an old chap out by making an appearance at Lord and Lady Highbury's ball this evening."
"I'm afraid I'm far too busy defending theKingdomto help you two dunderblusses ward off two old ladies," Hunter replied, his superior attitude a retort to Kit's earlier insult, "Good evening, gentlemen. I hope I don't find you leg-shackled the next time we meet."
Hunter tossed back the last of his brandy and departed with a cheery wave to his two friends.
"There's an awful whiff of self-satisfaction around here," Kit groused, as he theatrically waved his hand under his nose, "Lucky sod; doesn't have a meddling matriarch to contend with."
"Unless Lady Uptondown was to learn that our dear friend was single," Oliver grinned, "I hear she's trying to marry off the most un-marriageable of granddaughters."
"If I see her, I shall be sure to let her know that the Earl of Marlborough is in search of a bride," Kit's handsome face broke into a wicked smile, "Now; I had best be on my way too. My valet is going to have to douse me with a bucket of cold water to sober me up after this. You are a bad influence, Hawkfield."
With a jaunt to his step, Kitteridge headed for home, leaving Oliver to finish the remnants of the brandy alone.
His valet might need to chuck him in the Thames to soberhimup, he thought, as he sipped upon the amber-liquor. A far more tempting prospect than an evening of death-by-debutante.
Despite Oliver's reluctance to attend the supper-party, he was pleased to find the guest-list was not as stuffed with green-girls as he had feared. Oh, there were two or three present, giggling in the corner and blushing whenever anyone glanced at them, but the other guests were an eclectic mix of lords and ladies, mixed with politicians, egalitarians, and even a thespian for good measure.
"You came," Charlotte cried in surprise, as the footman announced his arrival.
"If I do not wish to attend somewhere, I simply refuse," Oliver stated, as he placed a perfunctory kiss upon her proffered cheek, "I do not cry-off at the last minute like a coward."
"Good," Charlotte brushed an imaginary speck of lint from the lapel of his dark evening-coat, "I was worried that I might have scared you off with all my talk of young ladies. Miss Bridge-Walters is standing in the corner in the blue-dress; she's not as well connected as some, but she's considered the star of the season. Lady Tabitha is standing by the potted Ficus--you can't miss her, she's the one with the unfortunate ears--but her family traces back to the Norman conquest. And Lady Mary is the stunning young creature in the pink gown speaking to Captain Edgeworth; were you to marry, your first child would be legitimate, but I'm afraid I can't guarantee the rest. Don't scare them off, dear, they're really the cream of this season's crop."
"There must have been a blight this year," Oliver muttered in reply, more to himself than to his grandmother, whose attention was turned toward the room.
Oliver scanned the faces of the guests, nodding at those he knew and whilst he attempted to not look too forbidding--it was a supper party after all, no need to put people off their food--when his eye was caught by two figures standing in the corner.
"Who's that with Lady Lansdowne?"
He had not meant to snap out his question, but as his grandmother turned his eyes toward him, Oliver sensed that he might have been a tad abrupt.
"What am I, your social secretary?" the duchess sniffed, before quickly relenting, for she had gossip to share.
"It's the strangest thing, Ollie," Charlotte whispered, as she tucked her arm through his for a promenade of the room, "Lord Lansdowne sent a girl to interview for the position of companion, and this girl showed up. An orphan, who speaks French--but cannot recall how she learned it--and who looks uncannily like poor Giselle. Eloise is beside herself; she thinks she has found poor Anastasia. It's like a fairy tale!"
Despite his best efforts, Oliver could not help the snort of derision at this news.
Only last week, his grandmother had been fretting over Lady Lansdowne being targeted by ne'er-do-wells, out to fleece her friend of her fortune, and now here she was falling for a scheme herself. Encouraging it, by the sound of things. A fairy tale; never had Oliver heard such guff.
