preferred forthright hostility to false amity.
Any hope the rest of their journey would be made in blessed silence was quashed by Lady Keyworth’s next words.
“Daughter, I pray you did not embarrass yourself with the conte.”
Quickly reviewing their encounter in her head, she sounded guarded when she replied, “I presume, no worse than any other occasion.”
Piper brought her handkerchief up to her lips, and delicately coughed. She was staring out the window at the passing street activity, but Amara would have wagered her new amethyst sarcenet mantle that the woman was relishing every minute of her discomfort.
“You really should not have run off after the set,” her mother chided. “The poor man thought you had taken offense to something he said.”
“I shall apologize at the next opportunity, Mama,” she promised, certain the gentleman and her family would provide one.
“Really, Amara, such an insipid tone is rather off-putting. It is not surprising gentlemen find your conduct baffling.”
She thought of Brock Bedegrayne. He seemed more amused and challenged by her abrasiveness than offended. “There is equality in that, since I find men and their ways most mysterious.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Keyworth contradicted. “Gentlemen are simple creatures. They prefer order in their household, dutifulness in their women and offspring. Heed me,
daughter, all our efforts will be for naught if you persist in resisting my good counsel.”
“Speaking of mysteries,” Piper said, interrupting the silent testing of wills. “You were missing for some time, cousin. Where did you wander off? I recall that several others commented on your hasty departure from the conte.”
“That is an intriguing question. Where did you go, Amara?”
Whether or not her cousin was exaggerating was inconsequential. It was clear from her mother’s expression that she believed the worst. The word scandal vibrated in the air as if spoken. Any inclination for honesty died under the keen scrutiny of her mother. Her lie would have to be convincing, for speaking the truth would without doubt induce an apoplexy.
Instead of wasting hours searching the various balls, gaming hells, and exclusive clubs for his father, Brock decided an impromptu stop at the Bedegrayne town house was necessary to ascertain Sir Thomas’s whereabouts. His quest took him to an unsavory lane off Upper Thames Street. Crammed between a steel yard and a brothel was the Red Crummy coffeehouse.
Armed only with a walking stick, Brock ignored the ribald invitation by two ambitious doxies from their open window and entered the shabby establishment. Searching the room, he could not imagine what had lured his father to such a place. It took him only seconds to find his father. Neither distance nor a smoke-filled room could diminish Sir Thomas Bedegrayne’s presence.
At sixty, the Bedegrayne patriarch was a robust fellow, with a build that had once rivaled his son’s. The passing
years had widened his girth and face, but his large frame bore the weight better than most of his contemporaries. Even though his hair and side-whiskers had silvered, his intelligent blue-green eyes were as razor sharp as they had been in his youth.
Brock pushed his way to the side of the room where his father sat engaged in conversation with two gentlemen. At his approach, his father’s fierce scowl for the unwary interloper gave way to pleasure.
“Brock, my boy! Join us,” he said, waving him over. “Let me introduce my associates, Mr. Marsh and Mr. Smiles.”
The two men stood, offering their salutations. Their worn attire and rough cadence disclosed their humble origins. Nevertheless, the men were not unnerved by his sudden appearance and directly met his curious gaze. Whatever their business with his father, the men stood as equals.
“Gentlemen.” Brock politely returned their greeting. The coffeehouse was crowded and no vacant chair or bench was visible.
Sensing his dilemma, Mr.
Any hope the rest of their journey would be made in blessed silence was quashed by Lady Keyworth’s next words.
“Daughter, I pray you did not embarrass yourself with the conte.”
Quickly reviewing their encounter in her head, she sounded guarded when she replied, “I presume, no worse than any other occasion.”
Piper brought her handkerchief up to her lips, and delicately coughed. She was staring out the window at the passing street activity, but Amara would have wagered her new amethyst sarcenet mantle that the woman was relishing every minute of her discomfort.
“You really should not have run off after the set,” her mother chided. “The poor man thought you had taken offense to something he said.”
“I shall apologize at the next opportunity, Mama,” she promised, certain the gentleman and her family would provide one.
“Really, Amara, such an insipid tone is rather off-putting. It is not surprising gentlemen find your conduct baffling.”
She thought of Brock Bedegrayne. He seemed more amused and challenged by her abrasiveness than offended. “There is equality in that, since I find men and their ways most mysterious.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Keyworth contradicted. “Gentlemen are simple creatures. They prefer order in their household, dutifulness in their women and offspring. Heed me,
daughter, all our efforts will be for naught if you persist in resisting my good counsel.”
“Speaking of mysteries,” Piper said, interrupting the silent testing of wills. “You were missing for some time, cousin. Where did you wander off? I recall that several others commented on your hasty departure from the conte.”
“That is an intriguing question. Where did you go, Amara?”
Whether or not her cousin was exaggerating was inconsequential. It was clear from her mother’s expression that she believed the worst. The word scandal vibrated in the air as if spoken. Any inclination for honesty died under the keen scrutiny of her mother. Her lie would have to be convincing, for speaking the truth would without doubt induce an apoplexy.
Instead of wasting hours searching the various balls, gaming hells, and exclusive clubs for his father, Brock decided an impromptu stop at the Bedegrayne town house was necessary to ascertain Sir Thomas’s whereabouts. His quest took him to an unsavory lane off Upper Thames Street. Crammed between a steel yard and a brothel was the Red Crummy coffeehouse.
Armed only with a walking stick, Brock ignored the ribald invitation by two ambitious doxies from their open window and entered the shabby establishment. Searching the room, he could not imagine what had lured his father to such a place. It took him only seconds to find his father. Neither distance nor a smoke-filled room could diminish Sir Thomas Bedegrayne’s presence.
At sixty, the Bedegrayne patriarch was a robust fellow, with a build that had once rivaled his son’s. The passing
years had widened his girth and face, but his large frame bore the weight better than most of his contemporaries. Even though his hair and side-whiskers had silvered, his intelligent blue-green eyes were as razor sharp as they had been in his youth.
Brock pushed his way to the side of the room where his father sat engaged in conversation with two gentlemen. At his approach, his father’s fierce scowl for the unwary interloper gave way to pleasure.
“Brock, my boy! Join us,” he said, waving him over. “Let me introduce my associates, Mr. Marsh and Mr. Smiles.”
The two men stood, offering their salutations. Their worn attire and rough cadence disclosed their humble origins. Nevertheless, the men were not unnerved by his sudden appearance and directly met his curious gaze. Whatever their business with his father, the men stood as equals.
“Gentlemen.” Brock politely returned their greeting. The coffeehouse was crowded and no vacant chair or bench was visible.
Sensing his dilemma, Mr.
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