Somewhat unexpectedly, he’d come to realize that having sufficient funds to do whatever he wished in life wasn’t the unmitigated blessing most imagined it to be. His comfortable financial position provided zero motivation to explore the sort of avenues that had fired Martin’s enthusiasm. On top of that, he had a sneaking suspicion that he would never be any good at business or investments, as some of his peers were proving to be.
So where did that leave him?
What could he do?
How could he occupy his time?
He’d been searching for an answer for the past twelve months.
As for marrying, he was firmly of the opinion that he would be one of the rare unmarried Cynster males, a bachelor uncle to his nephews and nieces. Indeed, with his mind engrossed with his thus-far-fruitless quest, he felt zero inclination to idle away hours in the company of gently bred females. To what end?
Marriage, he felt increasingly certain, would never be for him.
Aside from all else, if he continued in his aimless rut, no lady worth marrying would marry him.
He refocused on the company as the first of the courses, a rich lobster bisque, was ferried to the table. The laughs and cheers and comments that abounded about the table, the very real happiness and joy surrounding him, weighed on his shoulders.
He felt like an interloper, but pasted on a smile and chatted and joked with his peers while, inside, a sense of failure gnawed at him, pushing him to seize the very first opportunity and flee as soon as he possibly could.
December 27, 1851
Ancaster Park, Lincolnshire
* * *
In midafternoon, still replete after another interminable family luncheon, Lord Grayson Child returned from the stables to the house, having excused himself from repairing to the drawing room on the grounds of checking on his newly acquired hunter. He entered what he affectionately thought of as “the old pile” through a side door and, walking silently into the front hall, swiped up the last of the newspapers lying on the hall table and, instead of making for the drawing room, cravenly diverted to the library.
Gray knew his father and brother, who, by now, would have pried themselves from the clutches of their wives and Roddy’s two sons, would have sought refuge in the smoking room, there to enjoy the cigars his father favored. While Gray didn’t indulge in the practice himself, he had nothing against cigar smoke, but he harbored no wish to indulge in the usual inane conversation his father considered appropriate for such interludes, much less subject himself to more of Roddy’s pompous posturing. The three hours of luncheon had been more than enough; Gray’s temper needed a respite.
On reaching the library, he opened the door, checked that the room was unoccupied, then slipped inside and shut the door.
He crossed to the alcove at the far end of the room, where, from experience, he knew the weak late-afternoon sun would slant through the nearby window, creating a pocket of diffuse light in the otherwise gloomy chamber.
The curtains were open and, sure enough, what sun there was illuminated the spot. Gray dragged up one of the wing chairs, positioned it with its back to the door, and slumped gratefully into the cushioning comfort.
“At last.” He unfolded the paper and flicked it out—only to discover that it was what was commonly termed a gossip rag. “Not quite The Times,” he muttered as he glanced over the front page. His father and brother must have snaffled all the copies of the more serious publications.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.”
He spent the next minutes perusing the main story—that of some unnamed gentleman caught with his hand in the till of some insurance company. Gray snorted. “That’s hardly news.”
That acknowledged, the article was surprisingly well-written, more as a story—a cautionary tale—than in the lurid and sensationalist style he’d expected. He glanced again at the masthead. The London Crier. He arched his brows. “As in town crier, I assume.”
That was, he supposed, an apt name for a publication that, according to the subtitle running below the name, prided itself on being “The Voice of Revelation.”
As if in support of that claim, the other two articles on the front page covered a series of relatively mild but entertaining misadventures at a ball in London and the rather more scandalous goings-on at a country house party held somewhere in the Cotswolds. Of course, in keeping with the time-honored practice of scandal sheets, no names of people or places were printed.
None of the revelations was any surprise to Gray, yet he found himself drawn into the game, artfully designed by the writer, of trying to identify the various personages who were referred to by sobriquets such as Hooknose and Puce-Waistcoat. While he could think of several males who might be Hooknose, the person referred to was female. Gray wondered who Lady Hooknose was and whether she would recognize herself in the printed account.
He was almost certain Puce-Waistcoat was Lord Farquhar-Mallet; although Gray had been back in England for only a few months, he’d seen the dandy mincing down Oxford Street and parading in the park, invariably wearing a quite startling puce waistcoat.
Gray grinned. No doubt his mother had requested that the Crier be delivered to the house, and he could understand why. As a means of alleviating boredom, it was remarkably effective.
He was about to turn the page when a small column at the bottom right corner caught his eye.
From the editor’s desk:
An Upcoming Exposé
Which scion of a noble house, after
a lengthy sojourn in far-flung lands,
has recently returned to these shores a
veritable Croesus, yet is being exceedingly
careful to hide his remarkable wealth
from the eyes of the world?
More details will be revealed in coming editions.
* * *
Gray stared at the notice, then roundly swore.
Dear Reader,
The exchange between Therese and Devlin in the epilogue of the previous book (The Inevitable Fall of Christopher Cynster) set me the challenge of working out how Therese and Devlin had got themselves to that point—namely, five years married yet with Therese unaware of the true nature of Devlin’s regard for her. Once I’d understood that and also Devlin’s new direction, steering the pair of them to their happy ending was quite a feat!
I have to admit that I particularly enjoyed learning all about the Great Exhibition and the history of the edifice known as Crystal Palace as well as exploring all the outings and excursions a family with young children might have enjoyed in the London of 1851.
Of interest to some might be the mention of Faberge. Gustav Faberge had, indeed, set up business in the 1840s and was already making a name for himself with his particular style of enameled, jewel-encrusted pieces. I could not discover whether he and his firm and his wife attended the Great Exhibition, as I have postulated, but considering the situation, it would have been strange if they hadn’t.
I hope you enjoyed reading of Therese and Devlin’s journey to claiming a love that was, in effect, always there. If you feel inclined to leave a review here, I would greatly appreciate it.
As is my habit, the last pages in this book switch our focus to the subject of the next novel in the series, but in this case, it wasn’t who I thought would be next—Gregory, Christopher’s and Therese’s brother. Instead, Lord Grayson Child, recently returned old friend and sometimes-bane of Devlin’s existence, waltzed onto the page and immediately commanded so much attention that I couldn’t resist seeing what Fate had in store for him.