Crossed Quills by Carola Dunn

one, she waddled out.
     The empty plate almost made Wynn take his friend’s sentiments seriously. Gilbert Chubb was usually quite particular about what he ate. To consume his breakfast without noticing that it was virtually inedible was the equivalent in him of the traditional lovesick swain’s loss of appetite.
     On the other hand, Chubby had reached the advanced age of eight-and-twenty without ever suffering the pangs of calf-love. Very likely that was all that ailed him now, the more painful for being a belated case. If so, the more he saw of the object of his infatuation, the sooner he’d be cured. Miss Kitty could not possibly be the paragon he believed.
     “I’ll come up to the Hall with you,” Wynn decided. “Mrs Lisle isn’t expecting me till noon. Let’s hope she will invite us to eat a nuncheon!”
     Miss Kitty and Miss Ruddock were nothing loath to have an audience of gentlemen for their duets. However, Mary Ruddock’s pleasure in entertaining a lord clearly far outweighed Kitty Lisle’s in Chubby’s attendance. She greeted him with friendly equanimity and paid him no more attention than she did Wynn, or her friend Mary.
     With Mary present, Chubby lapsed into taciturnity, his few utterances brief and incoherent. His manners were too good to allow him to sit and stare at Kitty like a booby, but he was incapable of doing anything to advance himself in her affections.
     Just as well, Wynn thought. He did not want his best friend to marry and retire to the country to raise a family just when his own political ambitions were going to fix him in London for a good part of the year.
     He was further reassured by Miss Kitty’s tranquil farewells. She was to spend all day at the Hall. Wynn had to depart at midday to call upon her mother, and Chubby could not properly prolong his visit.
     When they took their leave, Kitty smiled and said gaily, “I did not forget the leek soup, Mr Chubb. I copied out the receipt, but I left it at home for you since I did not expect to see you again. Ask my sister, she knows where I put it.” Brushing aside Chubby’s stammered thanks, she turned to Wynn, a mischievous look in her eyes. “I do hope you come to an agreement with Prometheus, sir. I am excessively fond of Prometheus.”
     Chubby groaned as they walked down the carriage-drive towards the village. “She’s in love with that damned fellow Prometheus. I thought he was an old man.”
     “I fancy not,” Wynn said hesitantly.
     “You found out that much about him, did you?”
     “Not exactly. I suspect he’s a youngish man because I believe Miss Lisle’s in love with him, too. Why else should she be so protective of him?”
     “Good gad, the fellow’s a regular Turk!”
     “This is England. Console yourself, he can’t have ‘em both.”
     “Perhaps not,” Chubby gloomed, his round, usually cheerful face set in lines of despondency, “but he’ll choose Miss Kitty. Stands to reason, she’s younger and ten times prettier.”
     “Not ten times,” Wynn protested.
     “To me she is,” Chubby maintained stoutly. “Prettiest thing I ever saw. And the kindest heart in the kingdom.”
     “Spare me your raptures, old chap. I must collect my arguments in case this rural Lothario needs further persuasion.”
     As they walked on in silence, Chubby picked up a stick and cut viciously at the nettles in the ditch as if each one represented the rural Lothario’s neck.
     No persuasive arguments came to Wynn. Instead, he found himself considering what would happen if Prometheus agreed to help. Would he come up to London or, horrid thought, might he expect Wynn to stay on at the appalling Jolly Bodger while consulting him?
     Miss Lisle would surely go to stay in Town with her mother and sister, if Chubby had correctly understood their plans. No doubt Prometheus would choose to go too, to be near his sweetheart. Which of the young ladies did he prefer? Or was he making up to both, the