he’d suffered no recent attacks. Convenient timing, that.
And the village apothecary bore the idea out as well. “Oh, yes, sir,” he’d said. “I make all the duke’s medicines up exactly to Dr. Fowler’s specifications. Nothing much in them but spirits, sugar, and a little coloring to distinguish them.” Cordials masquerading as cures, just as Lady Elizabeth had said. “Even his special stomach remedy is benign. Naught more than brandy mixed with raisin, fennel seed, rhubarb, and licorice root.”
Dysart grimaced at the very idea. Not harmful, possibly, but the taste had to be beyond dreadful. On the other hand, the man made a habit of consuming gruel and offal.
Before long, Dysart’s strides carried him to the high hedges that marked the fringes of the duke’s lands. An unattended gate gave entrance to a side garden. To the left, the crunch of carriage wheels on pea gravel and the steady plod of hooves announced new arrivals.
An entire parade of them. Good Christ, the house party. And there was another reason to leave.
If the duke had remembered him, he stood a good chance of some of the other guests recalling the old scandal. It was one thing to flit in and out of society behind the protection of a mask. It was quite another to test his luck over an entire sennight.
The mail coach sounded like a better option with every passing moment. He’d turned his back on these people. He didn’t need to spend the next several days remembering why.
Still he forced his feet forward, trudging between sculpted flowerbeds toward the front of the house, the better to see what—or rather, whom—he’d be facing.
The front terrace, backed at this angle by that ridiculous fish fountain, came into view. Three young ladies stood at the ready to greet their guests. Lady Caroline was barely recognizable, hidden behind a muslin façade of decorousness. Dysart squinted toward her feet, but her skirts hid them from view. He couldn’t help but wonder if those yards of pale fabric concealed riding boots.
Next to Lady Caroline, a smaller figure leaned closer to whisper something in her ear. That could only be the quiet one, Lady Philippa, holding her hands so properly folded. Objectively, he could look at them both and call them beauties—Caroline with her pale golden hair set in curls, her cheeks pinkened by the heat of the day, and Philippa with the sun sparking red flames in her sleek auburn hair. They both sported flawless complexions and light eyes, the same as Lady Elizabeth.
But something about the eldest sister drew his attention. The breeze stirred a few dark tendrils of hair that escaped her coiffure, arousing an odd urge in him to tuck those strands away from her face. That same breath of wind tangled in her skirts, and for an all too brief moment, he caught a hint at the full extent of her curves. Lovely, lush contours that his hands wished to explore in greater detail. The image of those breasts overflowing his hands sent a rush of blood to his groin.
Damn it all. He had no business even thinking such things, let along curling his fingers into fists to prevent him from acting on the impulse.
She is not for one such as you.
Hell, she’d never have noticed him, let alone spoken to him, if not for her business with Bow Street. Best to see that ended, before he did something stupid. He should take her aside and tell her now, before anyone had a chance to spot him.
Before he could act, the first carriage rumbled to a halt, and a gentleman alit. In turn, each of the sisters inclined their heads. Dysart’s brows lowered to a scowl.
Snowley. Naturally, he’d be the first on hand.
Dysart’s gaze strayed down the line of coaches, one after the next, noting crests. He may as well mind the arrivals on the off chance he recognized someone first. Even if Lady Elizabeth had rattled off the guest list for him last night and none of the names had given him pause, his experience demanded he take heed.
Down the line.
And the village apothecary bore the idea out as well. “Oh, yes, sir,” he’d said. “I make all the duke’s medicines up exactly to Dr. Fowler’s specifications. Nothing much in them but spirits, sugar, and a little coloring to distinguish them.” Cordials masquerading as cures, just as Lady Elizabeth had said. “Even his special stomach remedy is benign. Naught more than brandy mixed with raisin, fennel seed, rhubarb, and licorice root.”
Dysart grimaced at the very idea. Not harmful, possibly, but the taste had to be beyond dreadful. On the other hand, the man made a habit of consuming gruel and offal.
Before long, Dysart’s strides carried him to the high hedges that marked the fringes of the duke’s lands. An unattended gate gave entrance to a side garden. To the left, the crunch of carriage wheels on pea gravel and the steady plod of hooves announced new arrivals.
An entire parade of them. Good Christ, the house party. And there was another reason to leave.
If the duke had remembered him, he stood a good chance of some of the other guests recalling the old scandal. It was one thing to flit in and out of society behind the protection of a mask. It was quite another to test his luck over an entire sennight.
The mail coach sounded like a better option with every passing moment. He’d turned his back on these people. He didn’t need to spend the next several days remembering why.
Still he forced his feet forward, trudging between sculpted flowerbeds toward the front of the house, the better to see what—or rather, whom—he’d be facing.
The front terrace, backed at this angle by that ridiculous fish fountain, came into view. Three young ladies stood at the ready to greet their guests. Lady Caroline was barely recognizable, hidden behind a muslin façade of decorousness. Dysart squinted toward her feet, but her skirts hid them from view. He couldn’t help but wonder if those yards of pale fabric concealed riding boots.
Next to Lady Caroline, a smaller figure leaned closer to whisper something in her ear. That could only be the quiet one, Lady Philippa, holding her hands so properly folded. Objectively, he could look at them both and call them beauties—Caroline with her pale golden hair set in curls, her cheeks pinkened by the heat of the day, and Philippa with the sun sparking red flames in her sleek auburn hair. They both sported flawless complexions and light eyes, the same as Lady Elizabeth.
But something about the eldest sister drew his attention. The breeze stirred a few dark tendrils of hair that escaped her coiffure, arousing an odd urge in him to tuck those strands away from her face. That same breath of wind tangled in her skirts, and for an all too brief moment, he caught a hint at the full extent of her curves. Lovely, lush contours that his hands wished to explore in greater detail. The image of those breasts overflowing his hands sent a rush of blood to his groin.
Damn it all. He had no business even thinking such things, let along curling his fingers into fists to prevent him from acting on the impulse.
She is not for one such as you.
Hell, she’d never have noticed him, let alone spoken to him, if not for her business with Bow Street. Best to see that ended, before he did something stupid. He should take her aside and tell her now, before anyone had a chance to spot him.
Before he could act, the first carriage rumbled to a halt, and a gentleman alit. In turn, each of the sisters inclined their heads. Dysart’s brows lowered to a scowl.
Snowley. Naturally, he’d be the first on hand.
Dysart’s gaze strayed down the line of coaches, one after the next, noting crests. He may as well mind the arrivals on the off chance he recognized someone first. Even if Lady Elizabeth had rattled off the guest list for him last night and none of the names had given him pause, his experience demanded he take heed.
Down the line.
Similar Books
