“Of course,” Cynthia said, making her voice extra breezy. “Sounds a treat. Good night, Mr. Thanos.”
* * *
* * *
I was pleased to find when we arrived at the mansion in Berkeley Square that I would not have to sit down to a formal supper at all. Because of the late hour, and the fact that the duke and duchess had traveled from Surrey that afternoon, a light meal was set on the dining room sideboard for us to partake of as we wished. The staff, who’d been given a holiday for the weekend, was reduced to one footman in the dining room and a maid to take our wraps. Fortunately, I knew neither of them.
Mr. Fielding, acting the solicitous gentleman, offered to fill my plate while I seated myself at the table, as my negligent fiancé seemed unable to remember to assist me. Daniel piled a mountain of cold meat, soft rolls, and gooseberry pudding onto his plate and sat town to tackle it.
The duchess, with lines of tiredness about her eyes, sent me an understanding smile as Mr. Fielding, instead of Daniel, served me. Her flick of gaze at Daniel held even more amusement. She must be wondering why I’d chosen to marry this rather thick gentleman.
“I am sorry if the sun was too much for you on Thursday, Mrs. Holtmann,” the duchess said as we ate. “I hope you feel better.”
“Oh yes,” I said, recalling the excuse for my retreat. “I needed only a little rest.”
Daniel chewed robustly through his food and pretended to ignore me.
The meal was not one that would win the cook any praises, even if it was warmed-over leavings from the week. The slices of veal and mutton were dry, and the lobster sauce over the equally dry salmon was too salty. As Mr. Fielding had put a dab of everything on my plate, I could tell that the cook had no talent in any area. The gooseberry pudding was watery, the jam tart sour.
I could charitably believe the meal had been thrown together by a harried underling instead of the cook herself, but the first round of these dishes must have been less than satisfactory. Well-prepared food will taste as good, and in some cases even better, after a day or two.
I ate carefully, happy to see there were only a few pieces of cutlery to navigate. While Mr. Davis would have known the names of each fork and spoon in an eight-piece place setting and when they were to be used, I had never before found myself on this side of the culinary system.
The footman poured wine, a crisp white and a robust red—Mr. Davis would have approved of both. I deduced the house had a good butler but a mediocre cook.
I was not called upon to offer opinions of any kind on any subject, I soon understood. The duke seemed to be of the mind that ladies were to silently adorn and inspire while gentlemen talked about any inanity they liked. The duchess, who must have been long accustomed to her husband, ate, drank, smiled, and occasionally nodded or interjected a “Yes, of course, dear,” when called upon to do so.
I said not a word. No one mentioned necklaces or the purchase of them, or anarchists, or Ireland.
I had not quite finished my meal when the duchess set aside her napkin, said, “Mrs. Holtmann, shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?” rose, and glided out of the dining room.
I could only lay down my fork, surreptitiously chew my last mouthful, nod at the gentlemen, and follow her. Mr. Fielding caught my eye and sent me an encouraging smile, while Daniel, true to his character, pretended not to notice my leaving.
The duke’s house was enormous, an older mansion built when this area had begun developing more than a hundred years before. The ground floor hall held a long staircase, with rooms opening on either side of it. Most London town houses were one room wide plus the staircase hall, though the houses could run deep into the property. This two-room wide home flaunted its vastness. The hall was paneled with old-fashioned mahogany wainscoting below a mural of ladies and gentlemen dressed in clothes of the last century wandering through an idyllic park.
I contrasted this abode to Lady Covington’s as I followed the duchess to the drawing room. The Park Lane house was much more modern with its lavishly carved staircase, thick carpets that absorbed all sound, and domed skylight of stained glass. I thought I preferred this house, whose bare wood floors and tasteful Oriental rugs were understated and graceful.
In the drawing room, the duchess settled herself on a gilded chair upholstered in salmon and cream stripes and gestured for me to relax on the matching settee.
“They’ll be some time, my dear,” she warned. “My husband can go on a bit, and the vicar is as long-winded.”
I hid my smile at her assessment of Mr. Fielding. “It is no matter.”
The duchess lifted one thin finger to signal the maid who hovered outside the door. The maid curtsied and disappeared. “Now, then, His Grace will dance around a point,” the duchess said to me in her gentle tones, “but I am certain you are anxious to view this necklace.”
I started, then stifled my surprise at her bluntness. “Mr. Fielding has told me about it,” I said carefully.
“It is a nice little bauble. Though not a style I wear, I am certain it will suit you. When Mr. Fielding said you might be interested, I thought it a perfect solution. The duke bought it from Lord Clifford as a favor.”
I saw the flicker of annoyance at her husband in the duchess’s eyes, and I wondered if she was the financial negotiator of the family, as some women were when the husband had no head for it. Lord Clifford had easily talked the duke out of two hundred guineas, so perhaps that was the case here.
“I am interested,” I said. “I like to find the exact piece to match a gown.” I hoped I sounded like the vain, frivolous creature I pretended to be.
“You are wearing no jewels tonight.” The duchess broke off as the maid carried in a full tea tray, set it on the low table between us, and swiftly departed. The duchess paid her less attention than she would a fly, and I remembered Mr. Fielding grumbling that the upper classes saw only a pair of hands bringing them what they wished.
“I left most of my jewelry behind at home, of course,” I said to explain my lack of it. “Safer for traveling.”
“Very wise. And that gown is pretty with all the lace. No need for further adornment, is there?”
“I thought so,” I said sincerely.
The duchess poured tea into a dainty cup decorated with sprays of purple flowers with gold leaf on the rim and handle. She handed the cup and saucer to me before she poured tea for herself. She did not offer sugar or cream, and I did not mention them. Excellent tea needed no embellishment, and this tea was quite good, I found as I sipped. The duchess might not have hired a talented cook, but she could choose a tea.
“Tell me, my dear,” the duchess said, cup in hand. “Are you from Ireland?”
I blinked, stilling myself before a drop of tea could fall on the beautiful gown. “No,” I said. “Amsterdam. Did Mr. Lancaster not tell you this?”