Jonathan did not much care. The very private meals mattered to him far less than the conversations after them. Edward was hardly the warm family that Jonathan had yearned for as a boy, but Edward was all there really was.
“What would that be?” Edward asked, reaching over to pour more port.
“Anthony Dargent. What do you know of him?”
Edward shrugged. “Good family out of the Midlands. Lots of money. His grandfather dabbled in more trade than he ever admitted and stuffed the coffers. Wool. Cotton. Slaves too, probably. Dargent is probably worth seven thousand a year.”
More than enough to keep a mistress in style. Alessandra had expected a princely sum for Celia, and there were few young men who could afford that. She believed I should have a voice in it, Celia had said. How convenient to Alessandra, and potentially fortunate to Celia, that the one she wanted could actually afford her mother’s demands.
He wondered if Alessandra had intended to keep that allowance for herself all along. More likely not. When her daughter had left, it probably just leaked away as time went on.
“Is there any trouble attached to his name?” he asked.
“None that I know. He is a good-natured fellow, suitably boring and stable. He married the daughter of an equally good, boring fellow, who in turn had married the sister of a viscount. So I suppose Dargent rose up a bit in the world with that.”
“And his father? Was he also good and boring?”
“Less so.” Edward lit a cigar and watched its smoke drift. “But it is not what you think.”
Jonathan did not think anything yet. Damned if he was going to tell Edward that. “You are sure?”
“His father was very religious. Unusually so. The idea that he may have had some kind of liaison with Mrs. Northrope is absurd.”
Jonathan had never had that idea. Clearly someone had, however, so now it became an interesting line of thought. “He was busy in the government during the war? The father, that is.”
“Informally. He had spent three years in France as a young man, acting like some kind of missionary to French peasants who were none too willing to listen. They already had their priests for that, didn’t they? But he learned the lay of the land very well in certain provinces. The army would consult with him now and then. You know the sort of questions: Does this river flood in spring? Is this line on the map a good enough road to move cannon?” He shrugged. “Nothing dramatic.”
Except those questions might give some indication of the army’s potential movements. The army asked twenty questions to learn the answer to one, in order to bury the true interest, but anyone who knew military developments on the Continent could probably decipher which question had mattered.
Dargent’s father may have been too religious to have a liaison with Mrs. Northrope, but the son was not so fastidious about his soul. Perhaps Alessandra had another reason to pair Celia with Dargent besides Celia’s preferences and the young man’s considerable expectations. Maybe she intended her daughter to serve as another pair of ears for those useful tidbits men tended to drop when they were very contented. Alessandra may have even thrown Celia and Dargent together with that end in mind.
“I saw Miranda today,” Jonathan said, leaving one topic for another in the way of chats by the fire.
Edward’s relaxed expression firmed. “Did you? Where?”
“In the park. We almost walked right into each other.”
“Did she acknowledge you?”
“If the cut direct is a form of acknowledgment, then yes.”
“Do not pretend you were surprised, or even truly insulted.”
“Not at all. However, she rarely comes up to town unless her brother is here as well. Is Thornridge in London?”
A deep puff on the cigar. A deep sigh. “I believe he is.”
“I would like you to obtain an audience with him, for me.”
“That would not be wise.”
“Not wise for you?”
Edward’s annoyance began showing. “For either of us.”
“I disagree. I think it is long past time I spoke with him. I can simply call on him, I suppose.”
“He will not receive you.”
“I will give him reason to. I will say I am calling on behalf of the Home Office, and am investigating all the influential men in government during the war who visited a certain Venus. He was there at least several times. I saw him.”
Edward sighed with resignation. “If you do that, you will force an issue before it is necessary and achieve nothing. If you insinuate he was at all disloyal, you will give him the excuse he wants to destroy whatever life you have built for yourself.”
“Allow me to weigh my own risk and rewards.”
“The hell I will. You want me to bare my chest to the blade too, after all.”
Jonathan had always wondered if Edward was afraid of Thornridge. He had long suspected that this uncle’s easy use of his bastard nephew had been a way to protect the other nephew who was an earl. Now he regretfully concluded that was correct. Whether out of fear or calculation, Uncle Edward would probably never speak or act for Jonathan in ways that might anger Thornridge.
Why should he?
Edward appeared weary and chagrined. A weak smile of appeasement heralded a change in topic. “Where are you staying these days?”
“I have let a chamber in a house during my visit to town.”
“Hell of a thing, the way you have no real home. What if I need to contact you quickly?”
“Just use the usual mail drop.”
Edward exhaled a large cloud of smoke. Jonathan added his own. The two clouds hung there above them, then drifted away on the air currents, going their separate ways.
Chapter Eleven
“I only said that you are most curious about Mr. Albrighton, Celia. I did not imply anything else,” Daphne said. Her smile, however, implied plenty.
“I was not expressing curiosity about him, but about that woman who cut him so cruelly. And why should I not be curious about him? If I were, which I am not. He lives in my attic, after all.”
“If she is his cousin, it could be Lady Chesmont,” Verity offered. “She is proud enough to have done it, but otherwise rather sweet, I think. A little dull, and married to a viscount who only has his title as a distinction.”
Verity had fetched Celia on Wells Street, and had not waited in the mews either. The coach had been hired and was anonymous, and Verity had not left it at all, but it had come right to the front door.
Now they sat in Daphne’s back sitting room, at her house near Cumberworth, enjoying the good light coming through the window behind the sofa. Through its panes Celia could see the greenhouse, and Katherine inside tending to some pots.
Katherine was the latest addition to Daphne’s household, but she had absented herself when the guests arrived. She knew the women who had left this house sometimes wanted to share old times and old memories with Daphne. It was not a slight to her when that happened.
“As for your excuse for being curious about him, I remind you that I lived in the chamber beside yours here, and you were not curious about me,” Verity added.
“Oh, tosh. Of course I was curious. I just never asked because we all agreed not to. I have no such understanding with Mr. Albrighton, and he is worthy of a good deal of curiosity, if you ask me.”
“Every handsome man is, I suppose.” Daphne added some fuel to the fire, then returned to the sofa and gave Celia a very direct look.
Celia felt her face warming under Daphne’s inspection. “It is not because he is easy on the eyes. He is a cipher. He is friends with Verity’s husband and Audrianna’s husband, he is educated, and Verity says he is the bastard of an earl. Yet he might have popped out of the ground fully grown for all the sense of family and history one has of him. He is not employed in trade, but he does not appear to be wealthy either. I think it is very normal for me to find all of this too mysterious for comfort.”
“I am willing to discuss
Mr. Albrighton if you wish,” Daphne said. “However, before you go on, did I mention, Verity, that Mrs. Hill tried a new kind of trifle the other night? It had a bit of lemon in the cream.”
“It sounds delicious,” Verity said. “I do favor trifle myself, so I must ask her for the recipe. I wonder if trifle is called trifle because it was once served on trifle? That is what my father called our everyday pewter when I was young. Trifle.”
“How interesting. One could serve trifle on trifle to a man at dinner, who later trifles with—”
“Could we return to the topic at hand?” Celia interrupted pointedly.
Daphne looked innocent. “I did not realize we had left it, Celia.”
Verity snorted. She and Daphne had a good laugh. Then Daphne took her hand. “Fine, let us return to discussing handsome, too-mysterious-for-comfort Mr. Albrighton. Other than his cousin’s name, you will learn nothing here, I am afraid. We are as ignorant as you are.”
“Do you think so? I do not. I cannot help but notice that one person in our company is avoiding this conversation completely, and carefully.”
Celia glared right at that person. Daphne and Verity turned their gazes in that direction too.
The silent object of their attention sat a little straighter in her chair beside the fireplace. Lady Sebastian Summerhays’s green eyes widened like a child caught stealing a piece of sugar.
“Is Celia correct, Audrianna? Do you possess information of interest regarding Mr. Albrighton?” Verity asked.
Audrianna’s glance darted from one to another. Her color rose. She absently felt her chestnut hair, a habit she had when nervous.
“I may,” she murmured. “I should not tell you, though, Celia. Mr. Albrighton might be displeased if I did. Sebastian said as much.”
“Did Lord Sebastian forbid you to tell us?” Verity asked.
“He did not forbid it. He only expressed the opinion that it would be better if I did not repeat what his mother told me.”
“He was wrong.” Celia giggled and leaned toward Audrianna. “What did she say? Stop teasing me and tell.”
Audrianna resisted only a few more moments. “His education was paid for by the Earl of Thornridge. He admitted as much while in school with Sebastian.”
“Well, that explains that, at least,” Celia said. “The family has taken some responsibility, then. They recognize that his is not a baseless claim. And yet his cousin was deliberately rude.”
“The last earl died before Mr. Albrighton was born,” Audrianna explained, warming to the subject. “His mother was carrying him, though, and the last earl knew that and made some provisions. Hence the education. You can see how ambiguous it all was, however. The title passed to the earl’s nephew, who denies the relationship.”
“That must chafe,” Daphne said. “It would be hard to live knowing that one nod from one person can change your fortunes considerably. Even as a bastard, if he is acknowledged by the family to have their blood, many doors will open.”
Celia turned this over in her mind while her friends chattered on about which doors might, should that acknowledgment ever come.
This information explained much. Why that cousin had cut him so cruelly. Why he appeared so rootless. The lack of acknowledgment must indeed chafe. He would want it, she was sure, even if it did not open doors. Anyone would, no matter who the family was too. People were not intended to live severed from all family ties. It was not normal.
“Perhaps he has been acknowledged, in a way. Maybe one door has opened,” Verity said, her snowy brow puckering while she thought. “That business up north, near my home. He was a magistrate there. That is not a position that a man comes upon by accident, especially if he is new to the region. Someone had to use influence for that to happen.”
The conversation stopped. The oddity of Mr. Albrighton obtaining that position teased at Celia’s mind. Nor had he remained in it long.
“Perhaps that is why Sebastian thought Mr. Albrighton would not like me talking about his background,” Audrianna said. “See how quickly we have discovered a mystery. It could be that Mr. Albrighton rather depends on no one looking too closely at his past and his present.”
“Perhaps we should leave the gentleman well enough alone, then, and speak of other things,” Daphne said. “Audrianna, when you wrote to say you would join us, you mentioned some news. Pray tell us what it is.”
Audrianna blushed, and smiled girlishly. “I have the best news. Sebastian and I expect a happy event come early summer.”
Mr. Albrighton was forgotten in the excitement that followed. Talk turned to babies, good health, and preparations. Yet even as Celia joined in, a part of her mind continued to mull over what she had learned today.
Jonathan did not hide his father’s identity. He had informed Lord Sebastian and Hawkeswell of it years ago. Yet he also did not publicly claim it. Nor could he if the family refused to do so as well. He must resent that. He would not be human if he did not.
Was that what he was doing in London now, plotting how to gain that acknowledgment? When he went off in the evening, was it to pass through the few doors that had opened privately, while all the rest remained closed? He did not strike her as someone who would accept the situation as it now stood.
Oh, yes, he had expectations, and not quite what she had assumed. He was not a man looking to appease society in order to hold on to the thin edge of advantage that his birth had given him. He was a man still fighting to get that edge firmly in his grasp. He had more to gain, and more to lose, than she had guessed.
No wonder he had not disagreed when she said there could be no story between them. At the moment neither one of them was suitable for the other. And if she ever followed Alessandra’s path, he would never do as a protector, even if he achieved all he hoped to win.
Itemizing these hard realities dulled the day for her. She did not dwell on it, but the smiles and laughs and gossip with her friends felt hollow, even distant, after that. It was a kind of hell, she decided, to find a man so exciting and stirring, but also to know that one dared not do anything about it.
It was not until she was in Verity’s carriage, riding back to London in the late afternoon, that the melancholy lifted enough for her to realize that her absorption over Jonathan’s birth had made her stupid.
The other information about him, and that odd business about him serving as magistrate, had actually been much more important. Mr. Albrighton might be more useful than she had guessed. She was sure that he would agree to help her if she asked the right way. Which she probably shouldn’t.
On the other hand, while there could never be a story between them, a tiny bit more trifling might be excusable if it was all in a good cause.
Chapter Twelve
The letter came up with his hot water in the morning. Its penmanship clean and feminine, and its paper crisp and folded, the note carried an invitation from Celia. Would Mr. Albrighton care to dine with Miss Pennifold this evening at nine o’clock?
Intrigued, he penned an acceptance and sent it down to her.
That evening he dressed as if he dined with a table of twenty in Mayfair. He tied his cravat with infinite care while he wondered if she would greet him in one of those silks. It might be an informal dinner, of course, in which case he would appear a little ridiculous. He risked it, however, and counted on Celia to know how to stand on ceremony when it was required.
This dinner had a purpose, of course. She wanted something from him. He could be excused for wishing the reason was the most welcomed one instead. It would be very nice if she had decided that virtue was not a virtue, and now wanted more than stolen kisses.
Laughing at himself, he went down the front stairs. He halted as he walked past Celia’s chamber. Feminine murmurs penetrated the wall and door. On an impulse, he knocked.
Silence fell within. Then the door opened a crack and Bella stuck her head out.
“Tell Miss Pennifold that I have come to escort her to dinner, Bella.”
“What a gentleman you are, Mr. Albrighton,” Celia said. Her hair had been dressed in an elaborate style with tiny, intertwining braids on her crown. She wore the fawn satin gown from the trunk, the one she had been studying when he came upon her in the attic chamber.
She looked stunning. Sophisticated and elegant and very feminine. She had dressed in a manner designed to drive a man to distraction.
She definitely wanted something.
So did he. He doubted that they wanted the same thing. His mind turned to seductive strategies, so he might ensure they were of like mind by night’s end.
“Bella, my shawl, please.”
Bella’s hands showed behind her, holding a Venetian shawl with a cream ground scattered with deep blue sprigs of flowers. Celia wore no jewels. He calculated whether, if he sold everything he owned and spent the rest of his life in dun territory, he could afford sapphires to adorn the soft skin below her neck.
She waited patiently for him to stand aside. Coming to his senses, he offered his arm.
“Marian is cooking, so do not expect a French meal,” she said as they descended the stairs. The fluid satin of her skirt floated, floated, brushing his legs. He felt the texture caress him even though his own garments meant no fabric touched his skin.
“I am sure it will be much better than my usual dinners.”
“Were meals part of your lease, and I have been neglectful? If so, you must excuse me. I did not know, since I have never seen that document.” Her eyebrow arched high over one eye in a meaningful glance.
“I will bring it to you tomorrow.”
The dining room had been decorated with some of the plants and flowers that remained from the Cumberworth shipment. Lighting came only from two candelabras set near the plates that waited. Celia had gone through some pains to create a restful and alluring table.
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