“Ohhh, Henrietta, he sounds just like the type of gentleman who would appeal to you.” Dorie smiled broadly. She and Henrietta’s other friends wanted the same happiness for her that they had found. “What does he look like?”
She described his physical description down to his country-made clothing . . . “and he has a lovely rich voice, and looks as if he spends a great deal of time out of doors.”
“And a dog.” Dorie had been lucky enough to acquire one of the Worthington Great Dane puppies. “What kind of dog?”
“An Irish Wolfhound. I found information about the breed in one of the books in Merton’s library. They are a very old race. The book mentioned a saga from Iceland called the ‘Saga of the Burnt Njal’—I hope I pronounced the name correctly.”
“If Augusta were here, she could have told you,” Dorie said.
“I miss her.” Lady Augusta Vivers, now Lady Phineas Carter-Woods, had wanted to attend the university in Padua and thought she’d been accepted, only to discover after she arrived that she had not. However, her husband argued that she should be allowed to take the final examinations, and she was granted her degree. The last Henrietta had heard from her friend, they had traveled to Turkey after leaving Egypt. Augusta knew more about languages than almost anyone in or out of a university. “Let me tell you about the breed. I memorized the part because it was so interesting. In the tenth century, Olaf, a Norwegian, son of an Irish princess, told his friend, Gunnar, ‘I will give thee a hound that was given to me in Ireland; he is big and no worse than a stout man. Besides, it is part of his nature that he has a man’s wit, and he will bay at every man that he knows to be thy foe, but never at thy friends. He can see too in any man’s face whether he means thee well or ill, and he will lay down his life to be true to thee. This hound’s name is SAMR.’ Isn’t that interesting?”
Dorie frowned, as if trying to envision the dog. “What do they look like?”
“They have a sort of rectangular head, and from the drawing, the fur looks rough. I would love to see one.”
“I find it interesting,” Dorie said, “that ever since meeting Augusta’s family’s Great Danes, we have all fallen in love with giant dogs. And that some of us have been fortunate enough to have one of our own.”
“We have, haven’t we?” Henrietta shrugged. Neither she nor Georgie had been able to take one of the Worthington Danes. “They are much nicer than smaller dogs. I do hope that the man Merton saw is the same gentleman I met.”
“It is a shame that he did not have the dog with him when you met him.”
“Then I would be certain.” She wondered what the dog would have done to the blackguards when they had threatened her. “Unfortunately, I have no recourse other than to wait and hope that I see him again.”
“And that you are in a place where someone can introduce you,” Dorie added.
“That too.” Henrietta sighed. “There are times when the rules governing young ladies are not very practical.” If she’d had her way, she would have introduced herself. But even her father would not have approved of that.
“It will work out the way it is supposed to.” Her friend grinned at her. “Is that not what you used to tell me?”
“Yes.” Henrietta knew she sounded disgruntled. “But being on the receiving end of that statement is not helpful.”
Dorie let out a thrill of laughter. “Come, let us see if I still know how to gallop.”
Henrietta urged her horse into a trot, then a canter, and a faster gallop. One way or another, she would find her gentleman.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nate was beginning to chafe at not being able to go anywhere. Fortunately, Weston had sent over one suit of clothing consisting of a jacket and pantaloons in Prussian blue, and a waistcoat embroidered in blue, green, and gold thread. Nate had soundly rejected the new frock coat that was so long it reminded him of a banyan, and had insisted that his jacket fit loosely enough that he wasn’t in danger of splitting the seams. His new shoes had also been delivered, not that they looked much different from his old ones, but he had needed new shoes. The boots would take a bit more time. His valet kept his older ones highly shined, but he had just the one pair in Town. The only problem with his new clothing was that it could not be worn for dinner this evening. From what he understood, breeches were still worn in the evening. His mother had invited a friend to dine with them and wished him to attend. Ergo, he would have to wear his older clothing.
His valet stood back as Nate tied his cravat, then helped him into his jacket. He affixed his pocket watch, the only fob he wore these days other than, occasionally, his quizzer. Thanks to Garford, Nate’s shirt and stockings were new.
He gave his image in the mirror a hard look. The dark-green jacket and breeches still looked well. He had been able to wear his new waistcoat. He no longer had the tan he’d had last summer, but neither was he pale. He wondered what the lady had seen when she’d looked at him. Padraig rose. “You cannot come down this evening. Her ladyship specifically asked that you wait until after dinner.”
“I’ll bring him down when you send the word,” Styles said, holding onto the dog’s collar.
“Thank you.” Normally, the hound went everywhere with Nate, and lately he hadn’t been able to. This week must have been particularly hard on Padraig. First, Nate had left home without the dog, and now he was not allowed in the dining room. “The transition to Town life will not be easy for him.”
“It is a shame you can’t find some other dogs for him to play with,” his valet said.
“That’s an excellent idea. I’ll ask around.” He attached an emerald tie-pin to his cravat. At least he wouldn’t put his mother to shame. “I won’t be late. Darragh arrived not long ago, and I want to take him for a gentle ride in the morning.” When no one would care how he dressed or if he was accompanied by a large dog.
Nate joined his mother in the drawing room, and several minutes later his butler announced Lady Fitzwilliam. He had propped himself up against the fireplace and had a perfect view of their guest as his mother rose to meet her. Lady Fitzwilliam was a short, neatly built lady. One might say almost dainty, but she gave the impression of being much taller than she was. Her silver hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate design, making him think that she was older than his mother, even though she had very few lines on her face. But what struck him were her black brows, which rose in a graceful arch over arresting, bright moss-green eyes. Her demeanor was such that he straightened immediately and strode over to be introduced. She reminded him of someone, but at the moment he could not think of whom.
“Ah, Fotherby, my dear.” His mother took his arm.
“Er”—she paused, and he wondered why—“Lady Fitzwilliam, may I present my son to you?”
“A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” The lady held out her hand. “You mother has told me much about you.” Nate bowed.
He straightened. “I am pleased to meet you.”
She looked at him as if she was memorizing his features. “I am happy to meet a young man who does not dress to extremes. I have a nephew whose shirt points are so tall they will poke his eyes out one day.”