She wasn’t busy all the time; tears had a terrible way of smearing ink. At night she lay awake, staring at the rough wooden ceilings of staging inns, hollow-eyed and hollow-hearted.
In the late afternoon on the third day, she finally arrived at Fonthill, only to discover that her father was hosting a number of guests. There was nothing unusual in that; she’d grown up in the middle of a never-ending house party.
Her stepmother, Harriet, had managed, more or less, to rein in her father’s love of surrounding himself with interesting people. In the years since they’d wed, she had introduced him to the quiet joys of a more sedate family life.
But a good marriage meant compromise. While Fonthill no longer housed courtesans—or rats, for that matter—it was still frequented by intelligent, eccentric originals who were the marquis’s personal friends.
“We have twenty-two to dine,” the butler informed her, as he took her pelisse. “Your parents will be tremendously pleased to see you, Mrs. Snowe. They have not yet retired to dress for the evening meal. You will find them in the small salon, if you would like to greet them.”
“Thank you,” Eugenia said, glancing at herself in a mirror. The woman who looked back at her was tired, but not visibly broken-hearted.
The small salon was light-filled and airy, its doors open to the lawns behind the house. A chessboard in mid-game covered one table, knitting was thrown over a chair, and stacks of books were everywhere.
As she entered, three people turned in her direction: her father, her stepmother, and her godfather, the Duke of Villiers.
“What’s the matter?” her father barked, and Eugenia ran straight into his arms, her face crumpling against his shoulder.
“Nothing,” she said a moment later, pulling herself together.
She turned from his embrace to Harriet’s. Her stepmother met her eyes searchingly and murmured, “We’ll talk later, darling.”
“Your Grace,” Eugenia said, curtsying before Villiers.
“Eugenia,” he said, bowing and kissing her hand. His drawl was unaltered by age, although his thick hair was now white, made whiter by contrast with still-black eyebrows. “My dear, you are more exquisite than ever. My duchess will be almost as happy to see you as I am.”
“This is a true pleasure,” Eugenia said, smiling.
They had been friends ever since she was a precocious young girl with no acquaintances her own age.
Even if Eugenia hadn’t loved the duke for himself, she would have adored him for bringing her future stepmother into her life. Years ago, he had brought Harriet on a visit to Fonthill, albeit disguised in male attire.
Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder and she leaned against him, letting comfort sink into her bones. “How are your children?” she asked the duke.
“Infernal,” Villiers replied, his casual tone failing to conceal his pride. “I hope that your appearance signals a decision to rest from your constant labors with that registry of yours?”
“I am hoping the same thing,” Harriet put in.
“It is time for a new challenge,” Eugenia said, nodding. “I am giving Snowe’s to my assistant.”
“We are so proud of you for creating the registry,” Harriet said. “But it’s time to live your life.”
“I’ll miss it,” Eugenia admitted.
Her father’s arm tightened. “We have missed you.”
“I know how to minimize any sadness you feel about leaving Snowe’s,” Harriet said. “Stop by the nursery. Our children are squabbling with His Grace’s, and even our magnificent Snowe’s governess is powerless to quell the storms. Every time I approach the room, I hear screams.”
“My youngest has been grumpy ever since the vicar’s seduction of Miss Bennifer,” the duke said. “It was like a bad play: one moment we had a Snowe’s governess, the next she was stolen by a man of God.”
“I will be happy to visit the battlefield,” Eugenia said. But first she had to change for the evening. No one could remain long in the presence of the Duke of Villiers in a crumpled traveling gown.
She had a burning desire to prove to Mr. Edward Reeve that she was the most ladylike woman in all England, and never mind that he was back in Wheatley.
“To the manner born?” She would . . .
The thought trailed off. Ward never attended social events and presumably would not do so until Lizzie’s debut, years from now.
Still, she would find a way to show him exactly what he had thrown away.
The moment she entered her bedchamber, Clothilde clapped her hands. “A future duke is in residence!”
“Who is that?” Eugenia asked warily, as her maid began to unbutton her traveling gown. Clothilde couldn’t be referring to Villiers’s heir—the boy was either away at school or in the nursery.