by Emily Larkin
“Not that either,” Primrose said. “I’m afraid I’m not musical at all.”
She was aware of several ladies looking at her pityingly, and one—Miss Warrington—with something suspiciously like condescension.
Ten years ago, Primrose would have been embarrassed by the pity. Five years ago she would have been annoyed by it. But Marcus Aurelius was correct: One couldn’t control the opinions of others, but one could choose not to be upset by them.
It was a concept that she still struggled with—but not tonight. Tonight she could look at that faintly superior expression on Miss Warrington’s face and be amused rather than annoyed.
Lady Cheevers transferred her smile to her daughter. “Then perhaps you could play the harp for us, darling?”
Primrose thought of her book upstairs, and suppressed a sigh.
Chapter Eight
The breakfast parlor at Cheevers Court was a large, sunny room decorated in pale green. When Primrose entered it, she found Lady Cheevers and the three Carterises seated at the long table—and Ninian Dasenby selecting his breakfast from the dishes lined up on the sideboard.
Primrose’s pulse gave a little skip of excitement. Here was an opportunity to discover more about Oliver’s cousin. She chose her food quickly, took a place several seats distant from the others, and cast a smiling glance at Dasenby. “Do say you’ll join me, Mr. Dasenby.”
Dasenby politely did, sitting opposite her.
Primrose spoke of commonplace nothings for several minutes, trying to find a topic that would set him talking. “I take it this isn’t your first visit to Cheevers Court?”
“Father and I come here often,” Dasenby said.
“Your families are great friends, then?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know Miss Cheevers very well.”
Dasenby colored ever so faintly. “I do, yes.”
Primrose waited for him to say more, but he didn’t—which was frustrating. But she refused to give up. Instead, she applied logic to the problem. If she wanted to draw Dasenby out, she needed to talk about topics that interested him.
She spent a moment considering this. What did she know about him?
Dasenby was barely twenty-two. He was male. He was a fribble.
A fribble . . .
She examined his tailcoat. It was a color that she didn’t recognize. A warm mid-blue, with a hint of lavender in it. “What color do you call your coat, Mr. Dasenby?”
“Periwinkle.”
“It suits you.”
“Thank you.”
Primrose waited expectantly—and then realized that this, too, was a dead end.
“I like color,” Dasenby said, almost blurting out the words, and then he blushed, hotly, and looked as if he wished he’d not spoken.
“What is it about color that you like?” Primrose asked encouragingly.
“I like how it can alter one’s mood,” Dasenby said, not quite looking at her, as if too embarrassed to meet her eyes. “And how it can change one’s perception of a person or a place.”
Primrose blinked, and then frowned faintly, not understanding. “Could you give me an example?”
He did meet her eyes then. “This room.”
Primrose glanced around the breakfast parlor. The walls were a cool, pale shade of green.
“How does it make you feel, Lady Primrose?”
Primrose thought for a moment. “It’s . . . calming. Restful.”
“Now imagine how it would make you feel if it were painted yellow,” Dasenby said. “Not lemon yellow, but a cadmium yellow. If you know what cadmium is?”
Primrose did. Cadmium was a rich yellow.
She tried to imagine it: the walls a warm golden color. With all those windows and that morning light streaming in . . . the breakfast parlor would be joyful and sunshiny. “It would make me feel happy,” she said.
Dasenby smiled at her. “Precisely.”
Primrose looked at him with a little more interest than she had before. “Which color would you choose for a breakfast parlor, Mr. Dasenby? This green or the yellow?”
“The yellow.” He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the deeply set windows, the molded ceiling, the marble fireplace. “I like to imagine what rooms would look like if they were decorated differently. They can almost always be improved.” He looked at her. “You’ve been inside my cousin’s residence in London?”
Primrose nodded.
“The colors are wrong. It feels like a mausoleum. Cold.”
Westfell House was magnificent, if also stately, formal, and rather forbidding. “You think Oliver should redecorate?”
“I would, if it were mine.”
Primrose considered this statement. Did it mean that Dasenby had actively been thinking of putting himself in Oliver’s shoes? That he wanted to be Duke of Westfell? Or did it merely mean that he didn’t like the colors Westfell House was decorated in and thought that Oliver should change them?
She put this question aside to ponder later. “Do you look at people, too? Redecorate them?”
Dasenby blushed. That was answer enough. “Sometimes,” he admitted.
“And do you think the colors a person wears can influence how they’re perceived by others?”
“Yes.” He hesitated, then took a deep breath and said: “I also think they can influence your perception of yourself. Some colors lift your mood when you wear them, make you feel good about yourself, and others don’t.” He raised one shoulder in a self-deprecating shrug as he said these words. It took Primrose a moment to understand exactly what that shrug meant: he was expecting her to laugh at him.
She didn’t laugh at him. Instead, she looked at his clothes more carefully: the periwinkle of his long-tailed coat, the lavender and cream of his waistcoat.
The colors went together perfectly, complementing each other, and more than that, complementing him, with his wheat-gold hair and sky-blue eyes. The effect was harmonious, and rather beautiful. It was a pleasure to look at Ninian Dasenby.
“I think you may be correct,” she said.
Dasenby looked slightly taken aback.
“How do those colors make you feel?” Primrose asked.
He looked down at himself, released his knife and smoothed his hand over the lavender-and-cream waistcoat. “They make me feel happy,” he said. And then he blushed hotly.
Primrose pretended not to see the blush. “I don’t pay much attention to my clothes, I’m afraid.”
“Most people don’t.” Dasenby picked up his knife again. “Father calls me a tulip. And he’s right, of course. It’s foolish to pay so much attention to one’s clothes.” He said it with a laugh that was as self-deprecating as his shrug had been. Primrose could hear that he was expecting her to agree with his father, but she could also hear the words he didn’t say: But it makes me happier, and so therefore I do it.
And what was the harm in it? Looked at dispassionately, it wasn’t foolish of Ninian Dasenby to dress in a way that made him happy; it was wise. Such a simple thing to do, and such a profound effect.
“Whether it’s foolish or not depends upon one’s reason for doing it, I’d say.” And Dasenby’s reason, apparently, wasn’t vanity. Or, not only vanity.
The door opened at that moment. Mrs. Middleton-Murray and her daughter entered.
Primrose assessed them in the light of her conversation with Dasenby, looking at the colors they wore. Mrs. Middleton-Murray was dressed in pale dove gray, while her daughter wore a pretty muslin gown trimmed with orange ribbon. The gray made Mrs. Middleton-Murray look like a respectable widow, which she was, and the orange ribbon made Miss Middleton-Murray look . . . bright and confident.
Primrose wondered what her own choice of gown said about her.
She glanced down at her lap. Her gown was a pale and rather cold blue. It was a shade that her dressmaker had told her went with her eyes, but it wasn’t a shade that made Primrose feel particularly happy to look at. How did it make other
s feel about her? What impression did it give? That she was cool and aloof and standoffish?
She looked at Dasenby’s tailcoat—and thought that she would prefer to be wearing periwinkle. It was a much warmer and more approachable color.
The door opened again. This time it admitted Oliver and Rhodes. Primrose looked at their clothes. Rhodes was wearing a quiet, sober brown, while Oliver’s tailcoat was forest green. His waistcoat had green and cream stripes, with bright, glinting threads of gold, and he looked vibrant and alive, full of energy and good humor.
Yes, the color of one’s clothes did influence how one was perceived . . . although perhaps her knowledge of Rhodes and Oliver was imbuing meaning into their attire? She knew that Rhodes was sad, just as she knew that Oliver was brimming with life and mischief.
And then she remembered that her task wasn’t to think about colors or clothes; it was to observe Ninian Dasenby. And in particular, to observe Dasenby interacting with Oliver.
Oliver and Rhodes filled their plates, and turned towards the table.
There was a moment that reminded Primrose of the drawing room the previous night, Miss Carteris and Miss Middleton-Murray trying to snare Oliver’s attention with their smiles and their bosoms.
She caught Oliver’s eye and gave a tiny jerk of her head at the empty seat beside her. He understood the message.
“Lady Primrose,” he said cheerfully, and came to sit on her left. His plate was almost overflowing with sirloin and eggs. “How are you this fine morning?”
Rhodes took the seat to Primrose’s right.
“I’ve been talking about colors with your cousin. Do tell him, Mr. Dasenby, how you would redecorate Westfell House.”
Ninian Dasenby flushed. Despite his exquisite clothes he looked suddenly quite young, boyish and bashful.
Oliver glanced at Primrose, his gaze surprisingly shrewd, and then at Dasenby. “Let’s hear it, Cousin.”
Dasenby hesitated for a moment, and then plunged into exposition, hesitant at first, and then with growing confidence. Primrose didn’t listen to his words so much as his tone. He sounded shy and eager. His expression was shy and eager, too, as was his posture, the angle of his head, the set of his shoulders.
He reminded her of something. It took her a moment to recognize what: a puppy seeking the attention and approval of its master.
Oliver dug into his food while Dasenby explained his vision for Westfell House. Primrose could tell from Oliver’s bland, courteous expression that he wasn’t really listening, but Dasenby didn’t know Oliver well enough to realize that. He continued talking, leaning forward slightly in his enthusiasm, his face alight, diffident and passionate at the same time.
Primrose watched—and knew that Ninian Dasenby couldn’t possibly be Oliver’s assailant. Dasenby didn’t want Oliver’s dukedom; he wanted Oliver’s friendship.
The door opened again. This time, Miss Cheevers entered.
Ninian Dasenby stopped talking in mid-sentence.
Behind Miss Cheevers came the Warringtons. The breakfast parlor was becoming quite crowded. Miss Warrington served herself quickly and took the vacant seat beside Oliver, looking smug. Miss Cheevers, after a moment’s hesitation, chose the seat to Dasenby’s right. She didn’t look smug; she looked a little unnerved by her own boldness.
Ninian Dasenby bade her good morning.
Chloé Cheevers’s cheeks colored shyly as she returned the greeting. Her gown was in the Grecian style, with little fluted sleeves. It was trimmed with a particularly felicitous shade of rose pink ribbon, and more rose pink ribbon held back her dark ringlets. She looked very youthful and very pretty.
Primrose watched as Chloé Cheevers stole a glance at Dasenby through her eyelashes. Not the sort of bold, playful glance that the Misses Carteris, Warrington, and Middleton-Murray threw at Oliver, but a glance that was timid and hopeful.
Ninian Dasenby glanced sideways at the same time. Primrose saw their eyes meet.
For a long moment Miss Cheevers and Mr. Dasenby stared at one another, their cutlery poised above their plates, then they both looked away, blushing. Primrose watched, amused, as they busied themselves with cutting their sausages—and then both glanced surreptitiously at each other again.
She looked at Oliver to see whether he’d noticed the romance playing out in front of him, but Miss Warrington had wholly engaged his attention.
Primrose busied herself with her own sausages. The day was off to a good start. She had learned three things.
First, that Ninian Dasenby wasn’t nearly as much of a fribble as she’d thought.
Second, that he didn’t want Oliver dead.
And third, that perhaps she ought to ask his advice on which colors to wear.
* * *
Primrose made no further observations during breakfast, but she felt that she’d made good progress. She had eliminated Ninian Dasenby as a suspect. Now, she just needed to observe Lord Algernon interacting with Oliver.
Her opportunity came a few hours later.
Cheevers Court possessed a large park, and in the middle of that park was a lake, and in the middle of the lake was a small, willow-fringed island that was perfect for picnics.
At one o’clock, the party set out across the lake in flat-bottomed punts, to take their luncheon on the island. It wasn’t the entire party—Mrs. Middleton-Murray and Mrs. Carteris had elected to stay on dry ground—but everyone else had embraced the excursion eagerly. Including Lord Algernon. In fact, Lord Algernon was currently poling Primrose across the calm, sparkling waters of the lake.
Miss Carteris had won the battle for Oliver. She was gazing admiringly at him while he plied his pole.
Primrose wasn’t gazing admiringly at Lord Algernon; she was attempting to interrogate him without being too obvious.
What questions could she ask in a five-minute boat ride that would give her insight into his character?
She knew very little about him. He was a duke’s youngest son, accorded a courtesy title and nothing else. He was in his fifties. He was a widower. About his character, she knew nothing. Had he been resentful of his eldest brother? Or had he accepted his fate as third son with equanimity? Many younger sons had to work for a living. The army and navy and clergy were filled with second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth sons. But Lord Algernon hadn’t needed to resort to such a course; he’d married an heiress. Primrose was inclined to suspect that the marriage had been less of a love match and more of a deliberate strategy on his lordship’s part—but perhaps she was maligning him? Perhaps he had loved his wealthy wife?
“You punt very well,” she observed. “I collect you’ve done it before?”
Lord Algernon uttered his booming laugh. “Hundreds of times. Been punting since I was a boy.”
“Did you ever punt with your wife?” Primrose asked, trailing her fingers in the cool water.
Lord Algernon laughed again. “Gad, no. Amabel was terrified of the water, bless her soul.”
Primrose tried to evaluate this comment. Did the “bless her soul” indicate genuine fondness for his dead wife, or had it been tacked on to the sentence because it sounded good?
She decided there was no way of telling.
She glanced at Oliver. Somehow she needed to ascertain whether Lord Algernon felt that he deserved the dukedom more than Oliver—and whether he had the ruthlessness to kill for it.
“You must be relieved to have Oliver back in England.”
“Relieved? Yes, you could say that.”
Primrose observed his face from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “Especially after that report of his death. So terrible!”
“Yes. That was a shock. Quite a shock.” Lord Algernon glanced across at Oliver’s punt and his expression altered slightly, then he laughed again. “Doesn’t know how to punt, that nephew of mine. He’ll end up in the water if he’s not careful.” He looked away and plied his pole with careless ease, sending droplets of water spinning in the air like diamonds. “We’ll be first acro
ss, mark my words, Lady Primrose.”
Primrose wasn’t at all certain how to interpret the change of expression she’d glimpsed. It hadn’t been inimical or resentful—but she didn’t think it had been particularly happy, either.
She had no time to mull over it. Lord Algernon was correct: they were first across. Primrose climbed up onto the little jetty, disappointed with herself. She’d learned nothing during the brief voyage—other than that Lord Algernon was possessed of vigorous good health. Yes, his hair was graying, and yes, he was stout, but he was also tall and strong. Strong enough to push Oliver—or indeed anyone—under a post-chaise.
Whether he had the lack of compunction required for such an act was something she had yet to determine.
The island was tiny, but quite charming, with wildflowers growing profusely amid lush, green grass. Half a dozen servants had preceded them. Cushions lay heaped, shaded by large parasols, and a crisp, white linen tablecloth was spread on the grass. Upon it, a sumptuous luncheon had been laid out. “Oh!” Primrose said, involuntarily. “How pretty.” And then she gave herself a mental kick. “Pretty” was a word she disliked. A nothing word. An unoriginal adjective used by people who lacked imagination. Far better to say how richly white the linen cloth looked against the luxuriant grass, or how deliciously the food had been arranged, or how enchanting the setting was. Any or all of those comments was better than pretty.
Miss Warrington came up alongside her. “Oh, how pretty!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight and proving Primrose’s point.
“Oh, how pretty!” said Miss Middleton-Murray, when she arrived.
And Miss Cheevers.
And Lady Warrington.
And Miss Carteris.
“Oh, how pretty,” someone warbled in her ear.
Primrose recognized that voice: Oliver.
“It’s not pretty,” she informed him tartly. “It’s charming and surprising and altogether quite delightful!”
“That’s what I said,” Oliver said. “Pretty.” And then he laughed. “You should see your face, Prim.”
