“Otis.” Devin’s voice cracked like a whip.
“Really?”
“No.”
“I suppose,” Otis conceded. “Father’s going to see, though. People think he is too blunt to be perceptive, but they’re wrong.”
“There may be nothing to see,” Devin said. “I merely had a brief conversation with the lady. I should make . . . I should thoroughly assess the field.”
“You know, there are two ways of picking a horse, not that it’s an appropriate comparison,” Otis said. “You can check the teeth, the withers, and the gait of every steed for sale at Tattersall’s or . . .”
“Or?”
“Or you can just look one in the eyes and start negotiating a price.”
“Aren’t you the one who just told me that I can’t buy one of the Wildes? That my title and money aren’t enough?”
“True,” Otis said, pulling the door open. “I’m not saying that the negotiations would be easy or end favorably. I’m just saying that sometimes a man knows instinctively what he wants. And on that subject, not even a morning call to Miss Astley until I decide your next step.”
Devin stared at the closed door for a long minute after his cousin left.
The door opened and Otis’s head appeared. “Send violets, masses of them,” he ordered. “No note, just your card.” He disappeared again.
Devin had never done anything rash in his life. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single impulsive decision.
As a child, his father’s fits of uncontrolled rage had kept him from imprudent behavior. He had been educated at home instead of being sent to Eton, so that—in his opinion—his father could have the pleasure of exploding with rage and throwing his tutors out the door. Just when Devin turned sixteen and might have begun to rebel, his father died.
That huge, blustering life was snuffed out, and Devin stepped into the silence.
After that, there wasn’t any time to rebel. He had to find people to advise him, as there was much he didn’t know.
His father hadn’t paid attention to estate management, and Devin had had no time to learn it. He needed to pay his father’s debts, when he didn’t even know how many there were. It was the beginning of a lifetime’s practice of hiring the best and setting them to work.
In fact . . .
He froze.
Had he just enlisted his cousin to do his wooing for him?
Chapter Eight
The Duke of Lindow’s townhouse
Mayfair, London
Later that morning
Lady Louisa Knowe, twin sister of the Duke of Lindow, followed the sound of women’s voices to a small sitting room on the second floor. She hadn’t expected to find her niece by marriage, Lavinia, along with Viola and Joan, but she recognized her laughter.
“Darling!” Lady Knowe cried, entering the room.
Lavinia Sterling, who was married to Parth, the duke’s adopted son, looked up with a smile. “Forgive me for not rising, Aunt Knowe, but as you can see, I am buried in fabric.” Her lap was piled high with an extensive selection of blue silks. In fact, the whole room had the look of a bazaar, with fabric samples separated by color.
“Just look at this beautiful lace,” Joan cried. She had slung a length of violet lace edged with silver around her neck. “Don’t you think I would look like a princess if I wore it to a ball?”
“The silver is giving your hair a metallic look,” Lady Knowe advised, pushing aside a mound of fabrics to sit beside Lavinia on the settee. “You’d have to use very thick powder.”
“That’s just what I told her,” Lavinia said.
Lavinia was a true original. Her husband was one of the richest men in England. One might expect that she would produce an heir and a spare, and spend her free time gadding about London going to balls and musicales.
Instead, she had turned into one of the most powerful people in English fashion—and that included the modistes who thronged London. Lavinia’s pet project was Sterling Lace. Her husband had founded it, but she had pioneered the art of making colored lace. Moreover, she had informally partnered in a haberdashery known as Felton’s, and built it into the most fashionable place to purchase fabric in all London.
“It looks as if you brought half of Sterling Lace as well as Felton’s to the house,” Lady Knowe commented, looking around the room.
“The presentation gowns are nearly ready, but Joan and Viola still need at least two morning dresses and a walking dress each,” Lavinia explained. “The ball last night went very well, but we mustn’t rest on our laurels. Have you read the columns raving about your gown, by the way, Aunt Knowe?”
“Absolutely not. You know I don’t read that sort of flummery.”
“You only stopped reading them once you began dominating the columns,” Joan pointed out. She had discarded the violet lace and was experimenting with a swath of rosy silk instead.
Barty hopped along the back of the settee, paused at Lady Knowe’s shoulder, and gave her a cheerful tap on the ear.
“Hello, Barty,” she said, scratching Viola’s crow on the back of his shining black head.
Barty cocked his head to the side and looked at her.
“No,” she said firmly, “these are my favorite emeralds and you may not have them.”
Viola was seated at a small desk to the side, writing a letter. She looked up. “Barty is in a naughty mood, Aunt Knowe. This morning Prism let him ride down to the kitchens on his shoulder and I’m afraid he is now in disgrace and banned from that entire area of the house under threat of being added to a soup pot.”
Barty edged back along the settee until he could hop onto Lavinia’s shoulder and lean against her cheek.
“That is quite adorable,” Lady Knowe said.
“Lavinia brought Barty a particularly shiny sequin,” Viola said, looking up again from her letter.
“Are you writing to Willa?” Lady Knowe inquired. “I promised I would send a note around describing the ball this morning, but I haven’t found time.”
“No, she is not,” Joan said, lifting the rosy silk from her neck and dropping it onto a pile of fabrics. “Viola is writing the vicar, and never mind that the fellow could be found down the hallway. She and Mr. Marlowe are forever exchanging notes.”
“Writing the vicar?” Lady Knowe heard her voice rising. “That would be quite inappropriate, Viola, and I trust that Joan is mistaken.”
Viola looked up. “There’s nothing inappropriate about the notes we exchange, Aunt Knowe,” she said earnestly. “I spent considerable time with Father Duddleston in the past few years and I am able to help Mr. Marlowe with questions about the refurbishment of the vicarage. Since he’s in London with us, he doesn’t always know how to answer the dispatches sent by the builders.”
Lady Knowe narrowed her eyes. “How long has this been going on?”
“Weeks!” Joan said, ignoring the scowl that Viola shot in her direction.
Since Joan and Viola were the dearest of friends and had been since infancy, Lady Knowe had no trouble interpreting this comment. Joan was not one to worry, but apparently she thought the correspondence had reached a dangerous state.