To Wed a Rake(7)

March 22, 1817



Lady Dyott to Miss Loudan, St. Albans, Hertfordshire



Dear Emma,

We bought the pony, and two other horses that caught Dyott’s fancy. I’m writing to urge you to come to London; no one is talking of Kerr’s impudent remarks anymore, and the season is well in force. The only subject on everyone’s lips is Lord Cavendish’s masquerade ball that he holds at Burlington House. Dyott and I attend as Caesar and his wife. I understand that Caesar’s wife was quite unexceptionable, although I have demanded that my go. &wwn cover rather more of my figure than was apparently common in the period. By all accounts Rome is warmer than London. I know you will likely stay with your sister, but we can mount you on a very nice mare. She has a good mouth and beautiful hocks. A touchy disposition, alas, but I never saw a mare that you couldn’t handle.

Yours,

Your cousin Mary, Lady Dyott

The Countess of Bredalbane was never one to stand on ceremony. When Gil walked into her house at age twelve, orphaned, starched outwardly, and inwardly crumpled, she took one look at him and said, “Thank God, you’re not too young for backgammon. I loathe children.” And so, while his younger brother Walter was taken to the nursery and deposited with a nursemaid, Gil found himself seated at a backgammon board and sharing his store of jokes, those about gluttons, and scholars, and even the one about the priest and the dairymaid. The countess liked them all, except for a joke about a shrew and a sheep. Her eyes flashed, and she told him to avoid offense, and then told him a bawdy jest about a gentleman and his wife’s jewelry box, not a word of which he understood. But he laughed and laughed and felt quite comforted.

Almost twenty years later, her hair was just as black as ever and her eyes just as fierce as the moment when he strayed into that joke about a shrew. She paused in the doorway. “The time has come, Kerr!”

“It’s lovely to see you, too,” he said, crossing the room to kiss her cheek.

“I’m serious,” she said, pushing past him and his kiss to sit in her favorite upright chair beside the window. She never cared about the fact that sunlight cast harsh light on her wrinkles; she loved seeing who passed the house too much for such nonsense. “You must marry Emma, and directly. You’ve made a fool of yourself—and worse, of her—with your foolish quotations. And just what were you up to at the opera, pray?”

“Accompanying a lovely young lady,” he said mildly. “May I offer you a glass of ratafia?”

“What’s the o’clock?” she demanded.

“Two in the afternoon.”

“I’ll have a brandy,” she said. “I never drink before nuncheon, you know, but one might have a sustainer now and then.”

He motioned to Cooper. Of course, his butler had had the brandy poured from the moment his godmother entered the room.

Suddenly she thumped her stick. “No flummering me with your pretty manners, Kerr. You’ve always had the gift for sweet talk. But this is serious.”

“I know it,” he acknowledged, sitting down. “I don’t mean to tease you. I’ve sent a letter to my man of affairs, informing him of my upcoming nuptials. I do want to assure you that I never meant to duck my responsibility to Miss Loudan. At first, I didn’t wish to pressure her, given her mother’s prolonged illness, and then somehow the time slipped away after Walter died. I can’t go to St. Albans this week—”

“A horse is no excuse!” she interrupted.

“We’re bringing the vote on the Habeas Corpus Act to the House this week. Since I sponsored the move to revoke its suspension, I need to stay for the hearing.”

“Ah,” she said begrudgingly. “I suppose that’s a better excuse than some. So why did you offer me all that Spanish coin about your horse and your tailor and the rest?”

“Because I greatly dislike having my affairs curtailed or arranged due to gossip circulating through the group of ccohe groufoolish people that passes for the ton,” he said, and there was steel in his voice.

“That’s the way of the world,” she said, but she looked into her glass rather than at him. “At any rate, there’s nothing about habeas corpus that requires you to make a fool of yourself with French prostitutes.”

“If you refer to my escort at the opera, Marie is not a prostitute,” Gil said, a little half smile playing on his lips. “She’s a generous woman, that’s all.”

The countess snorted.

“I thought she’d distract people’s attention from the rumor that I might marry Mademoiselle Benoit,” he noted.