Page 20 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘We don’t,’ Lydia said. Then, feeling it was time to up the ante, she continued: ‘Grandpapa would never have countenanced spending so much time away from work.’

‘Work?’ Lady Hesse said, leaning a little backwards as if the concept was contagious.

Across from her, Ashford paused with his snuff halfway towards his nose, as if frozen in amber.

‘Duties, perhaps?’ Lady Phoebe suggested rather desperately.

‘In a sense,’ Lydia said. ‘There is so much to do … ’

She paused, for dramatic effect. For once, neither Ashford nor Lady Phoebe rushed to intervene. They were all staring at her, very much as one might find oneself helpless to look away from a carriage accident.

‘… at the factory,’ she finished.

The word ‘factory’ acted very much as a hot poker inserted suddenly somewhere uncomfortable. Everyone flinched backwards from her, eight faces arrested in shock and horror.

Lydia, her eyes upon Ashford, had the satisfaction of seeing him lower his snuff away from his nose, very slowly. For the first time that evening, he looked unnerved.

Yes, indeed. Ashford was well prepared for the next stage, upon the morrow.

6

Wednesday – Eight days remaining

Ashford waited in the stable yard, still and silent and seething. The church bell, from the nearby village of Melford, had just struck quarter past the hour and Miss Hanworth was nowhere to be seen.

Ashford had risen soon after dawn, of course, spending a few hours at his desk – running his and his father’s estate at such a distance was no mean feat – before joining the breakfast table, where Miss Hanworth had been similarly absent. She was a late riser, it seemed, which was the latest in a very long list of unfortunate revelations about his bride-to-be.

Now, all around Ashford, the rest of the party was readying themselves for the morning ride, including Mr Hanworth. This was no great consolation, however.

The Mr Hanworth of Ashford’s recollection had been a pleasant, regular sort of fellow. This Mr Hanworth, standing at the other side of the stable yard, had – sometime between dinner last night and breakfast this morning – sourced a notebook and pencil that he was currently brandishing at Lords Dacre and Hesse at the other end of the yard.

‘He was not joking about this investigation business, then?’ Mr Brandon said, from beside Ashford.

‘No,’ Ashford said, rather grimly. ‘It appears not.’

Ought he to intervene? Dacre would not hold a grudge, but since coming into his title, Hesse’s dignity was so easily wounded. Ashford understood, a little. Though his father was very much alive, after the loss of the duchess, Ashford had had to step into His Grace’s shoes prematurely. At the tender age of sixteen he, too, had committed some oddities in the pursuit of being taken seriously, though he had thankfully never thought, as Hesse obviously had, that becoming a man of fashion should be one of them. This morning, Hesse wore his hair in painstakingly dishevelled curls, and breeches so closely fitted that they could hardly have been more revealing without being transparent.

‘Pray, what has my childhood to do with anything, sir?’ Hesse said, nose in the air. ‘I’m sure I can hardly recollect it.’

‘Shows inclination to evasion,’ Mr Hanworth intoned, bending his head to make a note.

Mr Brandon snorted. Sir Waldo, standing beside Lord Hesse, bellowed a laugh and Lady Morton and Miss Hesse trilled out their own. It was fortunate that they seemed to consider him more a comedian than a madman, but Ashford had to question the world in which this was now a comfort to him. Had he only known …

‘Fortunately, no skeletons in my cupboards,’ Brandon said.

‘Nor mine,’ Ashford said, eyes still fixed – disbelievingly – on the gentleman who would soon be considered a member of his family.

‘Truly?’ Brandon said. ‘None?’

‘Do you wish to accuse me of something, Brandon?’ Ashford said, turning to regard his friend with some bemusement.

‘I am just curious,’ Brandon said.

‘About?’

‘Well,’ Brandon said, so casually that Ashford knew it to be forced, ‘you did say you intended to marry this year. Some people have been wondering if perhaps you intend to court one of the ladies here. Miss Hanworth or …’

His eyes travelling to where Miss Hesse, a vision in palest pink, was stooping to pet at Brutus the Pekinese.