Page 11 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Lady Phoebe had not joined this year’s Season – the first she had missed since her own debut – electing instead to remain at Hawkscroft with only her husband for company.

‘That was your choice,’ Ashford reminded her. ‘Due to your “social ennui”.’

Lady Phoebe paid him no heed. ‘I have plans. I wish for us to laugh, play games, have intelligent conversations, exchange witty repartee …’

A tiny frown crumpled her expression.

‘She will not ruin your party,’ Ashford said. ‘She is the most perfectly behaved creature, I assure you.’

Lady Phoebe visibly softened at the warmth in his voice. It was genuine warmth. Ashford placed great value on good conduct.

‘I shall not say another word on the matter,’ she promised. Then, as the clock behind her struck two. Lady Phoebe rose from her seat.

‘Come, it shall not be long before the guests arrive,’ she said. ‘Let us take a turn.’

Hawkscroft was a vast building, built more to impress than invite, with towering gothic gates, a tall sweep of front steps flanked either side by stone gargoyles. It was not Sir Waldo’s ancestral home. The second son of a Baron, Sir Waldo had instead gained his title and his fortune through employment in the East India Company, and then he had purchased Hawkscroft from Lord Cavendish, whose debilitating financial troubles had forced him to part from his ancestral seat. Even the oldest families could find themselves crumbling. Despite the warm summer air, Ashford felt himself shiver.

‘Come along!’ Lady Phoebe said with a chivvying noise. Her definition of taking a turn constituted less of a relaxed stroll and more of a brisk patrol of Hawkscroft’s acres of intricately designed gardens, as she cast a critical eye over each tree, shrub and window, searching for any tiny flaw.

‘If I am to be on show in front of the busiest gossips in Society,’ she explained, ‘then every single thing and every single moment will be absolutely perfect.’

‘Keeping expectations manageable, I see,’ Ashford said. ‘Can I do anything to assist matters?’

‘No! You might run yourself ragged year-round,’ Lady Phoebe said in reprimanding tones, as she plucked a tiny wilting bloom from a nearby hydrangea bush ‘but this week, I am determined that you will rest.’

‘Ho there!’

The bellowed greeting had them turning, rather startled, to see Sir Waldo approaching, a wide smile upon his face. He was older than Lady Phoebe, a gentleman of five and thirty years, and quite as generously proportioned as his home: very tall, very broad and possessing the thickest side whiskers Ashford had ever seen.

‘Has anyone arrived yet?’ Sir Waldo boomed, no less quietly for being with touching distance. Volume modulation did not come naturally to him.

‘Not yet,’ Lady Phoebe trilled, beaming at her husband, all worry gone from her face. Sir Waldo always did seem to bring out the sunshine and rainbows in Lady Phoebe, her impatience and sharpness vanishing in his company.

‘Usually Dacre is so prompt,’ Sir Waldo said, reaching out to clasp his wife’s hand, quite as if they had been parted for a year rather than an hour. ‘Though why you insisted upon inviting him, I cannot understand!’

‘He is your brother,’ Lady Phoebe pointed out, as they resumed their walk at a more sedate pace.

‘He’s a bore,’ Sir Waldo said. ‘He’ll bore our guests to death, mark my words.’

‘Not with Brandon and Lady Morton attending,’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘They can be counted on to keep things lively.’

‘A famous collection of persons,’ Sir Waldo said with renewed enthusiasm.

‘And,’ she said, with the air of a circus magician revealing their final trick, ‘the Hesses are to join us – all three of them!’

Ashford frowned at his cousin.

‘You did not tell me that,’ he said.

Lady Hesse had spent the better part of the Season trying to matchmake him with her daughter, Miss Cynthia Hesse. She would certainly use this week as an opportunity to promote her suit once more.

‘Did I not?’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘It is a coup, indeed. You know, Lady Hesse has just been appointed the new Lady Patroness of Almack’s and I mean to make a friend of her if it is the last thing I do.’

‘Such an ambitious little thing,’ Sir Waldo said indulgently. ‘Well, I for one am most looking forward to meeting your ladylove, my lord!’

He threw a jocular elbow into Ashford’s side. Ashford forced a smile but, once Waldo had turned, directed a fierce frown at his cousin, who gave a blithe, unrepentant shrug. He had asked Lady Phoebe not to tell Sir Waldo of his engagement – what was the point of it being a secret if it wasn’t one?

‘I would thank you not to refer to her as such,’ he said. ‘Remember, no one can know we are engaged until …’