Honeydew bowed and hastened from the room. His mother huffed and averted her eyes as if Simeon had belched in her presence.
But Godfrey asked, rather shyly, “Have you ever eaten a lion, brother?”
The dowager duchess opened her mouth and Godfrey amended his question, “Your Grace?”
“Not on a regular basis,” Simeon said. “There are tribes in the Barbary states who depend on lions as a source of food. I assure you that if they did not eat an occasional lion or two, the lions would multiply and gobble them instead.”
It was amazing the way his mother could convey utter disdain without glancing at him or saying a word. He turned back to Godfrey, whose eyes were shining with interest. “I once ate a stew composed of three different lions, as I understood it. It was rather gamey and tough, and not a flavor that I would wish to repeat.”
“Have you eaten a snake?”
“No. But—”
“Enough!” their mother said sharply.
That was all the conversation enjoyed at the Duke of Cosway’s dinner table.
Chapter Four
Gore House, Kensington
London Seat of the Duke of Beaumont
February 22, 1784
“Do you suppose that if I ordered a particularly enticing nightdress it might arouse him? Or do you suppose that nothing can arouse him at all? Jemma, do you know anyone we could ask about male incapability?”
Jemma wrinkled her nose. “Must we talk of this over breakfast, Isidore? Since the poor man has never seen a nightdress in his life, I advise simplicity. Ribbons rather than laces, for example. He might not be able to handle laces.”
Isidore looked down at her coddled eggs and felt a little nauseated. “I really do wish my mother were alive.”
“What would your mother do in this situation?”
“She would laugh. She used to laugh a great deal. She was Italian, you know, and she thought Englishmen were very foolish. Mind you, my father was Italian and she thought he was just as foolish as the worst Englishman.”
“How did she die?”
“They were sailing. A sudden squall came up and swamped their boat.” She was able to say it now, years later, without her voice breaking. Which was something of an achievement.
“I’m so sorry,” Jemma said. And being Jemma, she looked genuinely sorry.
“At least I have memories of her and Papa. And the aunt who raised me afterwards was truly wonderful.”
“Was she from your mother’s side?”
“No, she was my father’s sister. She accompanied me to the Cosway estate after the funeral; people thought that since I was affianced to a duke, it made sense for his mother to raise me. Since Cosway had reached his eighteenth year, we went through the proxy marriage. But I was clearly miserable living there, so my aunt snatched me away shortly thereafter.”
“I can imagine that the duchess must be an appalling companion. I met her only once, but she gave me a strict set-down.”
“The duchess—or dowager duchess, rather—does not believe in grief,” Isidore said, remembering. “She told me so repeatedly. I think she was quite happy to see the back of me, although she tried to make me return once she learned more of my aunt.”
Jemma raised an eyebrow.
“My aunt is a violinist. She told the duchess she would take me to live with my father’s relatives in Italy, but in fact we traveled around Europe as she gave concerts. We lived in Venice on and off, but we went farther afield as well, to Prussia, France, Brussels, Prague…”
“How unusual.” And, after a moment: “The Duchess of Cosway’s daughter-in-law in company with a traveling musician.” Jemma grinned. “Is your aunt still alive?”
Isidore nodded. “She leads a rather quiet life now. A few years ago she professed herself tired of wandering about Europe. We kept expecting that Cosway would return. So we would say, one last trip to Vienna! But somehow there was always another trip, and never a message from Cosway. She moved to Wales when I turned twenty-one.”
“By herself?”
“No. She married a painter.”
“Really? Anyone I might have heard of?”
Isidore said it reluctantly. “One of the Sargents.”
“Not Owen Sargent! The man who painted Lord Lucien Jourdain in the nude with just a bunch of violets?”
“The very one.”
“Then you must have seen the portrait,” Jemma said, delighted. “Were the violets just where you might expect? And did he wear his wig? I heard so, but I couldn’t countenance it.”
Isidore sighed. “I don’t know how it happened, but I’m so much more strait-laced than my family. Do you know, Jemma, I really didn’t wish to see Lord Jourdain without his clothing?”