Page 21 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
“Ah. Well, as to that, Your Grace, it’s deeply pleasing and, indeed, gratifying to know that the House of Helmsford will be allying with the House of Cynster. The Cynsters are every bit as old a family as the Helmsfords. Such an alliance will be viewed as eminently fitting.”
Drago smiled. “Eminently fitting” meant his mother would be pleased by the match. “Excellent.” With a nod of dismissal, he strode for the stairs.
On reaching his mother’s sitting room, he tapped on the door and walked in.
With the beading of the widow’s cap she’d taken to wearing after the death of Drago’s father glinting against her fair hair, Constance, Duchess of Wylde, a tall, still-slender, and commanding figure despite her years, was sitting in one of the pair of armchairs by the fire. She looked up from the letter she’d been reading, saw him, and smiled. “Drago.” She held out a graceful hand.
“Mama.”
She waited while, returning her smile, he approached her chair, grasped her hand, and bent to kiss the cheek she proffered. As he straightened, she regarded him shrewdly. “Well, what news? How was Wylde Court?”
Drago spared a smile for Mrs. Weekes, his mother’s companion, who was ensconced in the window seat, embroidering, then sat in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. “I take it Aunt Edith hasn’t sent word.”
He knew his aunt had kept her scheme to have him marry Alison Melwin a complete secret, knowing, as he had, that his mother wouldn’t have approved. On his way back to town, he’d called into the stable yard at the Court and had confirmed that Edith was still there, but he’d forgotten to ask if she’d sent a messenger to London; he wouldn’t have put it past her to steal his thunder.
His mother blinked her eyes wide. “What word?”
He smiled. “I realize this might come as a surprise, but I’ve offered for Margaret—Meg—Cynster’s hand, and she’s accepted.”
His mother regarded him levelly for several seconds before, plainly seeking confirmation, she repeated, “Meg Cynster.”
Drago nodded. “Demon and Felicity Cynster’s youngest daughter.”
“I know who Meg Cynster is. I’m just surprised you do.”
He knew well enough to keep his pleased, relaxed, entirely open smile in place. “We’d crossed paths several times in recent years, down in Kent. She often visits the Cynsters at Walkhurst Manor—Vane and Patience’s son Christopher and his wife. She—Meg—was down there when I visited the Court last week, and…” He continued spinning their prepared tale, being careful to avoid unnecessary details.
As always, he wasn’t entirely sure his mother swallowed his story; throughout his childhood and beyond, she’d had the knack of seeing through his prevarications and obfuscations. He was always very aware that she knew and understood him, in some respects better than he knew himself; after all, as people constantly told him, he was very like his father in virtually every way.
But by the time he came to the end of his explanation, his mother looked genuinely pleased.
“Well, my dear, while I would never have imagined you would decide on a Cynster, I must commend your choice.” Constance looked across the room at Mrs. Weekes. “Trudy, what say you to Meg Cynster becoming Drago’s duchess?”
Mrs. Weekes, who had known Drago from childhood, studied him in her usual straightforward, assessing fashion, then she smiled and nodded. “I can see such a union working quite splendidly.”
“Indeed.” Returning her gaze to Drago, Constance added, “Meg is one who will keep you on your toes.”
Seeing the gleam in his mother’s eye, Drago deduced that was intended as a challenge to him and steadfastly quashed the urge to ask why.
“Have you spoken to Meg’s parents yet?” Constance asked.
“Meg is due in town later today. I’ve made arrangements to call at Half Moon Street tomorrow morning to meet her parents and formally apply for her hand.”
Constance nodded approvingly. “Please tell Felicity—and yes, of course, she and I are acquainted—that I will call on her on Sunday afternoon so that we may discuss further arrangements.And”—Constance fixed Drago with a look that warned him that acquiescence with what she was about to decree wasn’t optional—“I will arrange for your uncles and aunts, on both sides, I think, to call tomorrow afternoon so that you may break the news of your upcoming nuptials to them all at once, in person and, if at all possible, with Meg by your side.”
From the window seat, Mrs. Weekes nodded enthusiastically. “That would, indeed, be most appropriate.”
Drago looked from one lady to the other and knew better than to argue. He inclined his head to his mother. “I will leave those arrangements in your hands.”
He rose and took his leave of the pair and, with well-disguised alacrity, got himself out of danger.
He paused in the corridor outside the sitting room, then strode back to the stairs. Once on the ground floor, he headed for the library, always the domain of the current duke. There, he tugged the bellpull, and when Prentiss appeared, organized the dispatch of three footmen to carry simple verbal summonses to George, Harry, and Thomas.
He was confident all would respond immediately, even Thomas. Although it was only just after four o’clock, the chambers of Crawthorne and Quartermaine in Lincoln’s Inn kept civilized hours, at least in terms of summonses from the Duke of Wylde. As for George and Harry, both would almost certainly be at home, getting ready to go out on the town.
While he waited for his friends to arrive, Drago nursed a glass of whisky and considered what he needed to say and what else he needed to do. Eventually, he rounded the library desk, sat, set aside the glass, drew out a sheet of paper, and jotted a list of those he needed to apprise of his impending change in circumstances. His and Meg’s engagement might be a sham, but he needed to behave in every way as if it were real.
Not long after—when he was staring at the list and wondering whom he’d missed—he heard voices in the front hall. He quit the desk, and when Prentiss showed George and Harry in, Drago was standing in front of the fireplace, once more sipping from his glass.
