Elma gaped at him. “But she’s not invited to anything, Mr. Ramsey. Everybody thought she would be on her honeymoon.”
“Besides,” said Belinda, “it doesn’t matter. His mother is still in town.”
Caroline gave a visible shudder. “She’s even worse.”
“Right,” he said. “The dragon might slay her with an unkind look, I suppose. Who bloody cares?”
Elma gasped.
Most of the world could not tell his sisters apart. He’d no trouble on that account, but it never failed to amaze him how identically they delivered a glare.
“Watch your language,” Belinda bit out. “And please, do not illuminate us with one of your trenchant social commentaries.”
All right, he was usually a bit subtler in his approach, but this conversation was going in circles. “I illuminate, do I? And here I thought I idled, ignored, and absconded.” Absconded. Almost, he sighed with longing. It sounded like an excellent idea.
Belinda launched into a lecture to which he did not bother to listen. His attention wandered to the empty sofa across the room, an overstuffed piece of maroon brocade. Hideous. Unusually long, too. Almost as long as a bed.
It looked quite comfortable.
Sleep. The doctor in Buenos Aires had warned him against napping. That was very easy advice to give, no doubt.
Belinda grew louder. He nodded agreeably, and she rewarded him by modulating her voice to a less strident pitch. “. . . you may find civility tedious, Alex, but Gwen cares about her place in society.”
“Certainly,” he said. “But if actions bespeak character, as you have so often told me”—he gave her a flattering smile—“then I consider this morning a lucky escape for her. Don’t you?”
Belinda sighed. “Well, I am tempted to agree.” She wrinkled her nose. “What a toad the viscount is!”
“I just can’t understand it,” Elma murmured. As she took a deep breath and launched back into her pacing, Caroline sat up and sent him a mischievous look.
He lifted a brow in acknowledgment. Since vanity did not permit Elma to wear spectacles, her progress across the carpet was proving dramatic. Three times already she’d collided with the centre table, and now she looked bound for a fourth.
“I still don’t see why Trumbly Grange won’t do,” Elma grumbled. “The peace and quiet would do her good.”
Bel and Caro gave speaking snorts. Unaccustomed to their synchronized contempt, Elma halted. The centre table held its ground, four inches away. Alex shook his head at Caro, who grimaced apologetically.
“It’s a sad little house located on the edge of the moors, isn’t it?” Belinda was never one to mince words, even when the property she maligned was her host’s. “There’s not a neighbor in miles. Would you like to stay at Trumbly Grange?” When Elma looked at her blankly, Belinda added, “You’ll be accompanying her, of course. She can’t travel alone!”
“Oh!” Clearly it had not occurred to Elma that the itinerary she proposed would be her own. “Yes, of course I’ll accompany her. Trumbly Grange . . .” She turned to consult with her husband. “Hal, hadn’t you planned to go north and have a look at that filly for the Yorkshire Oaks?” When no reply came from the fireplace, she put her hands on her hips and lifted her voice. “Mr. Beecham. I am addressing you!”
“What’s that?” Snuffling, Beecham wiped his nose and set down his drink. “North? No, no, changed my plans. Bad strain of the back sinew. She’s done for.”
“Ah!” Elma turned back to the twins. “Well, I suppose the north will serve, then. Indeed, why not? Have you noticed how young everyone looks there? It’s for want of sun, I expect.” She sounded positively warm now. “Yes, what a good idea. The north will do nicely!”
Alex swallowed a laugh. Elma had a remarkable ability to judge anything by its possible effect on her looks. Moreover, since her faith in her beauty still thrived at age fifty, this worked to create an attitude in her of unshakable optimism. The gray in her blond hair only made it look blonder. The wretched failures of her cook benefited her bone structure by melting away “that puppy fat about my jaw.” Three summers ago, when taken with fever during a weekend at Caro’s country house, she had observed to Alex, in a tone too syrupy for his comfort, that the flush on her face made her hazel eyes look radiantly green. Didn’t he agree?
He’d agreed, but he’d also taken care not to find himself alone with her again. She had the alarming habit of speaking to him as though she were twenty, and raised in a bordello. Worse yet, on the rare occasions when her husband was present for it, he tended to stand behind her and nod vehemently, as if to say, Give it a go, then. I don’t mind.