“A headful of curls at the age of two months?” Jarvis said, interrupting the speaker. “Is that not unusual, Mr. Houghton?”
“Yes, indeed,” Houghton said. “My cousin’s wife says that it runs in her family.”
“Teeth?” Mrs. Laycock said with a frown a minute later. “At the age of two months, Mr. Houghton?”
“Yes,” Houghton said. “Unusual, is it not, ma’am?”
“What was the christening robe like, Mr. Houghton?” Miss Armitage, the duchess’s personal maid, asked.
The duke’s secretary decided that it would be advisable to cut short his luncheon despite the fact that his grace was from home. There must be a great amount of work piled up on his desk, he mumbled, regretting the lost dessert.
The duke had been from home most of the day. He had taken the gentlemen guests on a ride about some of his farms during the morning after giving his daughter another riding lesson, and he had taken her visiting to the rectory after an early luncheon.
It was late afternoon by the time they returned, and Pamela ran upstairs ahead of him, eager to tell Fleur about the rocking horse at the rectory, which had been broken during her last visit. It was interesting to note, the duke thought, removing his hat and his gloves in the hall and handing them to a footman, that it was her governess, not her nurse, who was to be the recipient of Pamela’s confidences.
“Mr. Houghton has returned, your grace,” Jarvis informed him, bowing stiffly from the waist.
“Good,” his grace said briskly. “Is he in his office?”
“I believe so, your grace.”
The duke turned in that direction.
“Well,” he said, standing in the doorway, “you took your time about returning.”
“Christenings and babies and relatives all wanting to entertain me. You can imagine how it was, your grace,” Houghton said.
The duke stepped inside and closed the door. “It is just you and I, Houghton,” he said. “And I have enough of charades during the evenings. Well?”
“The lady in question is Miss Isabella Fleur Bradshaw, your grace,” his secretary said, “daughter of a former Lord Brocklehurst, now deceased, along with his wife, Miss Bradshaw’s mother.”
“He was succeeded by the present Lord Brocklehurst?” his grace asked.
“By his father, your grace. His lordship died five years ago, leaving a wife, a son, and a daughter to mourn him.”
“And their relationship to Miss Ham … to Miss Bradshaw’s father?”
“The late baron was his first cousin, your grace,” Houghton said.
“The late and the present Lords Brocklehurst were and are her guardians?” his grace asked with narrowed eyes. “What are the terms of guardianship? She must be past her twenty-first birthday.”
“Such information is not easy to come by when one is pretending to just idle curiosity, your grace,” his secretary said stiffly.
“But I am quite sure you came by it anyway,” his grace said. “Yes, I know it must have been difficult, Houghton. I fully appreciate your talents without your drawing my attention to them. Why do you think I employ you? Because I like your looks?”
Peter Houghton coughed. “She will come into her dowry and her mother’s fortune when she is twenty-five, your grace,” he said, “or when she marries, provided her guardian approves her choice. If he does not, then she must wait until her thirtieth birthday before inheriting.”
“And her present age?” the duke asked.
“Twenty-three, your grace.”
The duke looked at his secretary consideringly. “All right, Houghton,” he said, “those are the facts, and you must be commended for discovering them. Now tell me all the rest. All of it. I can tell from the look on your face that you are fair to bursting with it. Out with it, without waiting to be prompted.”
“You may not like it, your grace,” Houghton said.
“I will be the judge of that.”
“And it may reflect on my judgment in hiring her,” Houghton said. “Though,” he added with a cough, “we are talking about Miss Bradshaw, are we not, your grace, and not about Miss Hamilton.”
“Houghton.” His grace’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “If you would prefer to tell your story with my hand at your windpipe, it is all the same to me. But you might be more comfortable as you are.”
“Yes, your grace,” Houghton said, coughing again. But hands at windpipes would be mild in comparison with what might happen after the duke had heard all about his ladybird, he reflected, beginning to speak.
There was only one particular thought in the duke’s mind. He was glad her name really was Fleur, he thought. It would be difficult to have to start thinking of her as Isabella. She did not look like an Isabella.