Page 110 of Oddity of the Ton
“He’s been seen with a harlot.”
“Twoharlots,” Juliette added. “Her engagement is no more.”
Papa’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Juliette said before Eleanor could respond. “Mr. Moss said—”
“I was speaking to your sister,” Father said, his voice sharp. Then he let out a sigh. “Damned tiresome business.” He held out his hand. “Eleanor—come with me.”
“Leonard,” Mother protested, “you can have nothing to say to Eleanor that I needn’t be party to.”
“Grace, foronce, will you refrain from talking and let me have my way?”
“What do you mean,have your way?” she replied. “SurelyIhave the right—”
“That’s enough!” he roared. “Haven’t I enough to deal with, without you nipping at me like a terrier?”
Mother and Juliette’s eyes widened simultaneously, as if they were marionettes being manipulated by the same puppeteer.
“Eleanor, stop dawdling and come with me.”
Her cheeks flaming, Eleanor followed her father to his study, where he closed the door, took his seat behind the desk, and gestured to the chair opposite.
She sat, while he placed his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers together, in the manner of a vicar about to deliver a sermon about fire, brimstone, and eternal damnation.
But the sermon never came. He observed her in silence, and the air filled with the gentle ticking of the clock over the fireplace, the steady sound of his breathing—and her own heartbeat pulsing faintly in her ears.
When she was a child, Father’s study was a place to be revered. Rarely was she—or even Mother—permitted to enter. It was, to him, a sanctuary from female company. It was the essence of him, a strange mix of untidiness and order—booksstacked on shelves according to color, the gold leaf on the spines forming a regular pattern, a sheaf of papers high enough to be in danger of toppling over…
It even smelled of him—brandy, cigar smoke, and cinnamon.
He reached for the squat-bellied decanter in front of him, removed the stopper, and splashed a quantity of brown liquid into two beveled glasses. Then he pushed one toward her and nodded.
She stared at it. Mother said brandy was a drink exclusive to men—that for a woman to indulge in the stuff was the first step to ruination.
He pushed the glass a little closer. “Go on. I won’t tell your mother.”
She leaned forward, tipped the glass up, and took a sip. The liquid burst on her tongue with an explosion of heat. Not unpleasant, but she caught her breath at the intensity.
“Different to wine, isn’t it?” he said. “Good for nasty shocks—manly due to its effect on your senses detracting from your troubles. Though”—he leaned closer—“you don’t look particularly troubled. Or perhaps your sister is mistaken and your engagement isn’t over?”
She took another sip. “No, Papa, it’s definitely over.”
“If your sister speaks the truth, the duke was seen this morning with a woman on each arm. You parted on good terms when he joined us in the park yesterday—hardly the behavior of a couple breaking an engagement. Or did you meet afterward?”
“No—that was the last time I saw him.”
He drained his glass, then Eleanor startled as he slammed it on the desk.
“Damn him!” he cried. “What the devil’s he playing at? I should call him out.”
“Papa, there’s no need…”
“But he’s acted like a cad!” He poured another brandy and took a gulp. “To think—he sat in the same chair you’re in and spun me a tall tale to convince me to consent to your engagement. I knew of his reputation as a rake, of course—but I still fell for his lies.”
He sighed, drained the glass, and poured a third.
“I can’t recall a time when I was more disappointed—nay, disgusted.”
