“Shall we tour St. Bartholomew’s?” he asked.
“Yes,” Betsy replied, taking his arm. On the doorstep she paused and pulled up the hood of her pelisse.
The snowfall was thicker than it seemed from the teahouse windows. Through a veil of white, the town looked bleak and dark. Wilmslow was an old town, with narrow streets that wove back and forth, cobbles curving around a massive oak tree.
“You are certain that you don’t wish to return to the teahouse?” he asked Betsy. “We could ask to have the plates cleared. We could start over with fresh crumpets and tea.”
“I’m sorry to drag you through the snow,” she said, “but I couldn’t take another moment. Did you notice the hostess staring at me from the side of the room?”
“It did occur to me that she might have collected a print or two of the Wildes,” Jeremy admitted cautiously.
“If I marry Thaddeus, she will begin collecting prints of duchesses,” Betsy said, wrinkling her nose.
“Perhaps I am being obtuse, but how are you injured if she wastes her money on prints of you posing in a ballroom?”
“You haven’t made a study of Wilde prints, obviously.”
“True.”
“The stationers pry and investigate in order to create different prints that will tempt their customers. They often make up the subjects from whole cloth. I’ve been shown in dalliance with Lord Merland, for example—and he’s married! More to the point, I scarcely know the man.”
“Unpleasant,” Jeremy acknowledged.
“They are often disagreeable,” Betsy said. “My mother, you see. You know about the Prussian, don’t you?”
Jeremy blinked at her.
“My mother’s lover,” Betsy said, scowling at him. “Golden hair, good teeth, looked just like—” She bit the sentence off.
“Looked like?”
She looked up at him. “I shan’t finish that sentence, and I hope you will forget I ever said anything.”
“Looked like your sister Joan,” Jeremy said, realizing. “You mentioned that yesterday but I forgot. I don’t listen to that sort of gossip, so I had no idea of the color of the man’s hair, or his origins, or any of it.”
“You are singular in that respect,” Betsy said. “Reporters dog my footsteps, hoping to see me mimic my mother. If we were in London, I would never be so imprudent as to walk in the open with you, even with a maid trailing behind.”
They walked without speaking for a few minutes, their steps muted by snow. Around them, the windowsills and doorsteps were turning white. A few locks of Betsy’s hair curled around her forehead, and snow was falling softly on them as well.
Jeremy had the disconcerting realization that he didn’t care if the church they were walking toward was holy ground or consecrated from the crypt to the bell tower: He meant to kiss Betsy again. With thoroughly profane intentions.
Simple lust.
Albeit with a touch of giddiness.
A stiff wind cut around the corners of the narrow street and shot past Jeremy’s ears with a whistle, carrying a whiff of coal smoke.
“It’s growing frightfully cold,” Betsy said, her words nipped away and flung over her shoulder.
“The wind sounds like a musket ball going past one’s ears,” Jeremy said, his thoughts spilling out. “Except,” he added, “wind isn’t dangerous, of course.”
Betsy gave his arm a squeeze, which was the perfect response.
“Would you like to return to the teahouse?” Jeremy asked again.
She shook her head. “I like fighting the wind.”
They were walking along when a rumbling coach pulled up.
Jeremy glanced to the side and his heart sank. The window was open, and a lean face topped with a great deal of fluffy salt-and-pepper hair peered out. He had a majestic nose, the kind that was meant to be attached to a man standing in the prow of a ship or the House of Lords.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Jeremy said, and came to an abrupt halt. He hadn’t seen his father since well before the Vauxhall fireworks and subsequent visit to Lindow.
Betsy stumbled. They had been walking quickly, their bodies shoved along the pavement by the wind.
“My father,” Jeremy said, with a wave of his hand. “He can’t have stayed more than an hour at the castle before following us here.”
“I think my eyelashes have frozen,” Betsy said, rubbing an eye. “Did you say your father?” She peered around his shoulder. “In that carriage?”
“Unfortunately.” Jeremy quickly unwound the bandage from his head, thrust it in his pocket, and slapped his hat back on. His father wouldn’t be pleased to learn his son escaped war only to be nearly felled by a madwoman.
The Marquess of Thurrock was clambering out of the vehicle. He had seemed impossibly tall and lean when Jeremy was a child, his eyes bright, a near-visible sense of competence hanging about his shoulders. He was still tall, obviously. And competent, presumably.
“Good afternoon, Lord Thurrock,” Jeremy said, bowing.
The marquess was fussing with his greatcoat and busily acting like a British aristocrat avoiding an awkward reunion.
Not that Jeremy didn’t feel the same way.
Finally, the marquess took a step forward, as if he meant to sweep Jeremy into the sort of hugs with which he had always greeted him when Jeremy came home from Eton. But he caught himself.
“Son,” he said. “Who’s this?” His voice was full and hearty, like a fishmonger, and his eyes—damn it!—were hopeful.
“Lady Boadicea, may I introduce my father, the Marquess of Thurrock?” Jeremy said.
Betsy cocked her head slightly to the side and smiled.
Jeremy waited for her beatific smile to dazzle, as it had dazzled most of polite society, but his father merely blinked and said, “I recognize the eyebrows, of course. Haven’t seen your father for a few years.”
Betsy’s curtsy was particularly graceful, given the fact the wind was trying to drive them along the walk. “Lord Thurrock, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
The carriage door opened again, and Grégoire Bisset-Caron stepped to the sidewalk. Jeremy’s cousin was wearing a fur cape and hat instead of a tricorne. “Here I am,” he called. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting!”
“Lady Boadicea, may I present my nephew, Mr. Bisset-Caron?” Jeremy’s father asked, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic.
Betsy curtsied again. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. I thought you had returned to London.”
“I intended to do so, but my uncle surprised me,” Grégoire said, with a languid nod to Jeremy. “I decided to accompany him to this town . . . what is it called?”
“Wilmslow,” Jeremy said, wondering whether Grégoire had plans to court Betsy. Surely his cousin didn’t think that he could compete with a future duke. Grégoire could be considered the heir to a marquess—but only if Jeremy died without a son.
At times that seemed eminently possible. Grégoire might even be counting on it.
“A pleasure and a surprise,” the marquess said to Betsy. “I didn’t know that my son was keeping company with a young lady, to call a spade a spade.”
Grégoire snorted. “Your spade is misplaced, Uncle. Lady Boadicea is all but promised to the future Duke of Eversley.”