Or the particular delight he felt upon hearing she thought his somewhat prominent nose handsome.
Archer ambled over to the bureau. “Does she know you’re just playacting?”
“She compared me to Mr. Kean.” While Archer sorted through the tray on the bureau, Hazlit withdrew a starched cravat from the wardrobe and started tying it into a simple knot.
“For God’s sake.” Archer marched across the room to bat Hazlit’s hands away. “You tie a university boy’s knot when what’s wanted is a little style.”
“A little simple style.” Except Archer’s sense of fashion was impeccable, so Hazlit held still.
“Simple yet elegant, like me.” Archer slipped a jeweled pin into the middle of a deft knot, leaving gold and amber winking out of the creamy linen. “You’ll do.”
“My thanks.”
The mirror suggested Archer was, as usual, correct. The amber was just a hint of style. It picked up on brown eyes and skin a little darker than was fashionable, but did so subtly.
“Really, Benjamin, what would you do without me?”
“Probably retire to Blessings and dandle Avis’s offspring on my avuncular knee.”
Archer moved around the room, tidying up the bath accessories and folding damp bath sheets. “Would you really? Cumbria can be deuced damp and far from civilization, and something suggests dandling might not be your forte.”
“Cumbria can be lovely, which is why all London flocks there of a summer. It’s gorgeous, the fells so striking they make Kent look like the most tame garden, the light so pure and the air so bracing… what?” It was quite possible Archer was regarding him with pity.
“You’re homesick, Benjamin. You worry about your sisters as much now that they’re married as you did before they tied their respective knots. You worry about your estate, and you racket around here poking your nose into everybody else’s business because it distracts you from your worrying. Find a wife, go home, and leave the snooping to fellows like me who can view it as pure sport.”
“I am not homesick.” Though he did worry about his sisters.
“My mistake.”
“Don’t wait up for me.”
“I never do.” Archer waved him on his way, leaving Hazlit to glance one more time in the mirror: That was the nose Maggie Windham found arrogant, and handsome.
“Archer?”
“Dear heart?”
“If you haven’t any other plans tonight, do you suppose you could take care of a small errand for me?” It was a whim, a hunch, but cracking a case often turned on such inspirations—and it was for the lady’s own good, of course.
“I’m not working tonight, Benjamin. I need my beauty sleep, too.”
“It involves keeping an eye on a pretty lady.”
A little flicker of interest passed through professionally guileless blue eyes. “Then I’m your man.”
***
When Old King Hal acquired the papal abbeys and monasteries, he’d simultaneously made a bold statement regarding his opinion of Rome and enriched his own coffers immeasurably.
He had also paved the way for Londoners to enjoy the hundreds of acres of bucolic beauty that came to be known as Hyde Park. As far as Esther, Duchess of Moreland, was concerned, it had been one of Henry’s few commendable moves.
A lady could maneuver in the Park, spying out those Eligibles worthy of consideration for addition to the Windham family. For that’s how it would be: When the girls married, they would bring a husband into the family.
Not the other way around.
“Each year this place gets more crowded,” Evie muttered from her perch beside her mother. The other girls had begged off, leaving their youngest sister pride of place beside Her Grace in the curricle.
“All the more gentlemen from which you might pick your husband,” Esther said, smiling serenely. “Chin up, dearest. If Papa gets wind you were acting mopish, he’ll fret.”
It did the trick, as Esther had known it would. Evie’s chin came up, and a smile worthy of her charming papa graced her features.
“Your Grace, Lady Evie.”
Lucas Denning—a scamp if ever there was one—rode along beside the carriage. He tipped his hat and flashed them a smile. He might do—he was wealthy enough, newly titled with a marquessate, and Percy approved of his politics, more or less.
“Deene.” Esther nodded and returned the smile while Evie held out a gloved hand to the man. He managed to bow over it even while his horse stepped along beside the vehicle.
“The scenery becomes more lovely each time I come here. Lady Evie, my compliments on that bonnet.”
“At least you’re consistent,” Evie said. Esther felt a little sinking inside. “I believe you complimented it, as well, when my cousin wore it last week.”
Because she had raised five boys, Esther saw the slight tightening around Lord Deene’s mouth. He was freshly out of mourning, but it was no secret his papa had despaired of him. The weight of grief and guilt was telling. To Esther’s practiced eye, Deene was a man ready to admit defeat and take a wife.
“True beauty endures over time,” Deene said, sending a flirtatious glance in Esther’s direction.
“While flattery disappears with the wind,” she replied, returning his smile. “Though it offers fleeting amusement. Is that a new horse, my lord?”
As soon as the question was out of her mouth, Esther knew it was quite the wrong thing to say if she wanted to draw Evie to the man’s attention. Evie shrank back against the squabs and let Deene prose on about his bay gelding, even going so far as to recite some of the animal’s pedigree.
Abruptly, Evie came alert. “I say. That’s our Maggie, and she’s being driven by the delectable Mr. Hazlit.”
Point for the lady. Deene hid it, but referring to Hazlit as delectable had gotten his attention. He sat a little straighter in the saddle. “Where?”
“Under the trees,” Evie said. “Mama, drive on. We must not hint we’ve seen her, or she’ll make him take her home directly.”
Deene, clever lad, moved his horse a few steps up so the line of sight between the two vehicles’ occupants would be obstructed.
“You’re sure it was Maggie?” Esther asked.
“I’m sure.” Evie and Deene spoke at the same moment then glared at each other.
“And she’s with Mr. Hazlit, you say? Benjamin Hazlit?”
“No other gentleman sports such dreamy dark eyes,” Evie said, “and Dev and Val have both remarked how closely matched his team of bays is.”
Esther could see the horses, two glossy mahogany bays of equal height, black manes and tails tidily braided, four perfectly matched white socks on each horse.
“He doesn’t drive out often,” Deene said, speculation in his tone. “Perhaps I should give my respects to the lady?”
Esther nodded. “Perhaps you should.” Percy would get the details from the man over steak and kidney pie at their club. “Good day, my lord.”
“Your Grace, Lady Evie.” He touched the brim of his hat with his crop and guided the horse in a neat pirouette while Esther turned her conveyance down a side path that would take them off The Ring.
“We’re to call on Maggie tomorrow?” Evie asked.
Esther glanced at her youngest child. She worried about them all—to be a parent was to worry—but this one had given her particular fits.
“Maybe the day after. One doesn’t want to pry.”
“One does if she’s you and she’s just seen Maggie out with a gentleman for the first time in ten years. You like Mr. Hazlit, so does Papa.”
“His Grace respects Mr. Hazlit,” Esther said. When had her baby girl grown so observant?
“Mama, I love you, but if you push on this, Maggie will drive him away.”
“Maggie would not drive away a suitable gentleman.”
Though she had, and they both knew it. Time after time, Maggie had driven away suitable gentlemen.
***
Magdalene Windham came al
ive in the out of doors. Hazlit had noticed it yesterday in her back gardens and considered this might have been part of the reason he’d kissed her—a small part.
She squirmed beside him on the carriage seat, drawing in a big lungful of air then letting it out on a gusty sigh.
“Spring is such a gift,” she said. “I forget each year how much I enjoy it; then the crocuses peek up and the Holland bulbs follow and I can’t wait for the trees to leaf out.”
“Have you considered living in the country?”
“Morelands is lovely. I spend some time there each summer. What a pair of gentlemen you have in the traces.”
“Berlin and Stockholm, or Bear and Stockie.” He shifted his wrists over, which meant their arms touched. “Go ahead and take the reins, Miss Windham. You know you want to.”
“I couldn’t.”
He pushed his hands against hers where they rested in her lap. She wasn’t wearing driving gloves, so he tucked the ribbons in one hand and used his teeth to pull off his own gloves and drop them in her lap. “Could too.”
She glanced down at the gloves, longing in her eyes.
“You do know how?”
“My brother Devlin taught all of us girls, though it’s mostly common sense.”
He drew the team to a halt near the Cumberland Gate.
“I really shouldn’t.”
“You really should.” He was tempted to point out that if they were truly courting, this is exactly the way an indulgent man—a smitten man—would carry on in public. “You thrive on the fresh air, you look at those horses like they were made of chocolate, and you really do not care if the breeze disturbs your coiffure. Give it a go, Magdalene Windham.”
“Maggie.” She said it very softly, her eyes glued to the reins. “Nobody calls me Magdalene.”
“Take the reins, Maggie, or we’ll sit here as all of Polite Society passes by.”
She took the reins, not even bothering to put on his gloves. He deftly snatched them back from her lap, taking care to not touch even her skirts as he did. “Do The Ring,” he said. “It’s the expected thing and early enough we should be able to maneuver.”
She nodded, which suggested she knew her way around the park. Had her brothers seen to that, as well, or had the knowledge come from her years on the marriage market? He pondered that mystery while his fool horses preened and trotted along as if they’d been longing for a lady’s hands on the reins.
“You don’t find it awkward?” she asked. “Being driven by a lady?”
They were in public. Best she get used to their roles. He gave her a heavy-lidded smile. “My lady, no hour spent in your company could ever be awkward.”
She grinned at him, a great big devilish smile that reached her wonderful green eyes and had two rows of gleaming white teeth in evidence.
“You are a rascal, Mr. Hazlit. A thoroughgoing rascal. You’ll never get the reins back if you don’t stifle that nonsense.”
Seeing her smile—at him, at the horses, at the day—Hazlit realized how closely confined she’d kept herself with him thus far. Her smiles had been merely pretty, her courtesy ruthlessly correct, her conversation guarded—except for that kiss, of course.
The kiss he’d nipped in the bud because he wasn’t a complete fool.
“Is that your mother over there?”
“My moth—?” The smile winked out, replaced by anxiety and… fear? That disappeared from her eyes, too, so quickly Hazlit wasn’t sure he’d seen it. “Oh, you mean Her Grace. Gracious. I’d prefer a strategic retreat.”
“Do as you please, my lady.”
Except she couldn’t, because traffic moved only at a crawl, and there were but a few turnings. Hazlit prepared to smile and do the pretty for Her Grace, but a man on a bay horse rode forward the few steps necessary to obscure the occupants of the duchess’s carriage from sight.
“Deene is making his bow,” Hazlit said, though he had to crane his neck to see around the matched footmen on the back of Lady Dandridge’s landau. “I think you’ve been spared.”
“Only for the present. Somebody will say something to Her Grace. Papa will be asking your intentions next.” She kept her eyes front, so he had to peek around her bonnet brim to see the downcast expression on her face.
“Must you sound so despondent?” He’d tried to make it a joke, but she only turned her head to look at him with eyes that held a world of unhappiness.
“Miss Windham.” Deene tipped his hat from astride his horse. “A rare pleasure to see you out and about. Hazlit.”
“Deene. I thought you’d avoid this scene.”
“Normally I do.” He flashed a grin at Miss Windham. “No reflection on present company. I rose too late today to ride this morning, so I’m letting Beast stretch his legs now.”
“What sort of name is that for such a handsome fellow?” Miss Windham switched the ribbons to her right hand and reached out with the left toward the horse. “You’ll hurt his feelings.” The gelding delicately sniffed at her fingers and then turned its head as if to regard his rider reproachfully.
“He answers to it,” Deene said, petting his horse. “Better him than me, right?”
The smile he aimed at Hazlit’s companion was dazzling.
“We’d best be off if we’re not to hold up traffic,” Hazlit said.
Deene—damn his arrogance—nudged his horse forward as Miss Windham signaled the team to walk on.
“If you enjoy driving, my lady, I’ve a pair of bays you might like to try.”
And God bless the woman, she looked faintly exasperated as she eyed the ribbons. “Mr. Hazlit is indulging me in a rare whim, my lord, but thank you for the offer.”
“Perhaps another day.” Deene bowed again—how did it not look ridiculous when he bowed from the saddle?—and took his aggravating, friendly self off.
“May we go home now?” The sparkle had left her eyes; the roses in her cheeks had faded. The woman looked positively mulish.
“You have the reins. We go where you please.”
She turned the horses off the main path, leaving Hazlit to wonder what exactly had blighted their outing. Had it been Deene’s flirting? The sight of Her Grace? Or worse, something he himself had said or done?
***
There was no explaining why, after three decades of raising children, arguing, loving, and arguing some more, His Grace, Percival St. Stephens Tiberius Joachim Windham, should be more dear to his wife than ever. He accepted it as a gift he could only continually try to earn and kissed his duchess on the cheek.
“Damned idiots grow more thickheaded by the day, Esther.” He linked his arms around her waist and sighed into her wheat-gold hair. “Prinny must build his fancies while the common soldier starves. I’m tempted to claim senility and hare off to Morelands permanently.”
“I take it your meetings were trying?” She started rubbing the back of his neck, and like an old dog who’s found his rug before the warm hearth, he felt all the tension and worry of the day draining out of him.
“They’re always trying. If the House of Lords doesn’t start yielding gracefully on the small issues, we’re going to be facing the mob. Mark me on this, Esther.”
“Come.” She led him by the hand to his favorite chair. “Tell me who’s giving you the most trouble, and I’ll invite his ladies to tea.”
While he prattled on about this and that vote, she tugged off his boots and brought him a glass of wine, then sat embroidering while he parsed each comment made and proposal put forth at his meetings.
“Have you discussed any of this with Westhaven?” she asked an hour later.
It took him a moment to consider the question, because in the candlelight, his wife’s profile appeared the same to him then as it had thirty-odd years ago: serene, graceful… peaceful. Thank God he’d had the sense to marry Esther and not one of the other lovelies who’d turned his fool head.
“He’s preoccupied with his offspring,” His Grace said, peering at his empty wine glass. “
And that’s as it should be.”
“He could use a distraction,” Her Grace countered, putting her hoop aside. “And Anna will have a little more room to breathe if her husband is occasionally called to your side for political reasons. He has your knack for building consensus, but he’ll need your network of spies and cronies if he’s to step into your shoes.”
He got up and poured himself another half glass of libation. A year ago—just after his heart seizure—his wife would have frowned at it. Two years ago, he would have gone through half the bottle by now.
“Where did you learn to manage me, my love?” He held the glass to her lips while she took a ladylike sip, then subsided into his chair. “You’re telling me I have to be ready to hand the political reins to Gayle, but you’re doing it in such a way that I’m flattered and even motivated to author my own retirement.”
She looked down and to the right, her lips thinning slightly. It was her How-Do-I-Put-This? look, so he waited.
“I want your opinion on something.” She raised her gaze to his—such lovely green eyes his bride had.
He saluted with his drink. “Ask, beloved. You know I can deny you nothing.”
“What is your honest assessment of Lucas Denning?”
Ah. Matchmaking again. There was a common misperception among the Windham family members that His Grace was obsessed with building his dynasty and that all manner of mischief had been perpetrated by him to propel his sons to the altar.
He was, and it had, but the rest of the story was that Her Grace was equally if not more invested in the same outcomes. She’d befriended Anna when the woman was only Gayle’s housekeeper; she’d made rather pointed remarks to St. Just when he was befuddled over his antecedents; she’d fretted endlessly over Valentine, who’d chosen to spend the previous winter with St. Just—on the Yorkshire dales!—though Valentine had also recently succumbed to the lure of matrimony.
Esther Windham was a force to be reckoned with, and Deene had gotten into her matchmaking gun sights. The man was doomed.
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