expression. “Why did you have to give
him
my room?”
Good Lord. “Does it matter? It’s too late to do anything about it now.”
Lady Whitby raised her chin in clear preparation of sweeping out of the foyer. “Come along, Anna. I knew we shouldn’t have accepted this invitation.”
“She ought to be glad to have you for a neighbor,” Lizzie told her cousin. “Your grandmama would have scandalized her far more.”
A throat clearing stopped any reply Snowley might have made. “Your pardon, my lady.” Caruthers stepped into the spot Lady Whitby had just vacated. “Cook needs you in the kitchens right away.”
Marvelous. For the cook to summon her when her guests had just arrived could only signal a disaster. Wasn’t this house party off to a perfectly swimming start?
—
Pendleton’s accommodations weren’t any more comfortable or well appointed than Dysart’s quarters. In fact, he mused as he sat facing the door in a brocade wing chair, this chamber was possibly less spacious.
The man’s luggage stood crammed hard by the bed, along with several extra pairs of boots. Not Hessians but proper riding gear. In fact, his trunks were stuffed with buckskins and weathered topcoats, the sort of garments a man who spent his days in the saddle preferred. In deference to society, Pendleton had included a few ensembles suited to evening activities, but without so much as a single pair of dancing slippers.
Dysart knew this, because he’d already rifled through Pendleton’s possessions. He’d been looking for God only knew what. Something that might indicate Pendleton was still up to no good, but there Dysart came away empty-handed. Still, it was better to know what one might be up against.
In this case, it turned out to be a lot of nothing. But that thought was small satisfaction weighed against the interview to come.
Or perhaps
confrontation
was a better term. No matter how he thought of it, Dysart intended to come out of this meeting with the assurance Pendleton would keep quiet about their history together.
Footsteps thudded in the passageway, coming closer. Dysart let himself slump in his seat, one booted ankle over his knee, the image of calm and casual, when inside he was anything but. The mere thought of Pendleton and all he’d done was enough to set Dysart’s blood to boiling. Yet, he must appear as if he had all day and nothing better to do than avoid the marriage-minded mamas downstairs. A full dozen years since he’d left polite society, and not a single thing had changed.
So why not pay a surprise visit on an old friend? Or at least that’s what he wanted Pendleton to think.
The handle turned, and the door swung partway open. “I should like a private word with the duke at the earliest possible convenience,” Pendleton said.
Whoever he’d addressed—Caruthers or a footman—gave a muffled reply, but based on the tone, it was less than encouraging. No shock there, when the duke believed himself at death’s door.
“See what you can do.” Pendleton reached into his coat—for a coin, no doubt. “It’s important.”
Then he pivoted and froze. Dysart watched his expression solidify into a mask.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Pendleton measured his words carefully, as if he had very few of them to waste. “How have you been keeping, Gus?”
Dysart rested his wrist on his bent knee. As gestures went, it was better than making a fist. “It’s Dysart now. Just Dysart. As long as we find ourselves at the same house party, I wanted to make certain we’ve got that straight.”
Pendleton moved into the room and closed the door. “What corner of hell did you crawl out of?”
“One on Bow Street. I work for the law now, so you might want to keep on my good side.”
“What is it you want?”
For one thing, he’d like to know what important business Pendleton had with Sherrington, but that could wait. “Right now, I’d prefer to keep the past buried. If you don’t go digging it up,
him
my room?”
Good Lord. “Does it matter? It’s too late to do anything about it now.”
Lady Whitby raised her chin in clear preparation of sweeping out of the foyer. “Come along, Anna. I knew we shouldn’t have accepted this invitation.”
“She ought to be glad to have you for a neighbor,” Lizzie told her cousin. “Your grandmama would have scandalized her far more.”
A throat clearing stopped any reply Snowley might have made. “Your pardon, my lady.” Caruthers stepped into the spot Lady Whitby had just vacated. “Cook needs you in the kitchens right away.”
Marvelous. For the cook to summon her when her guests had just arrived could only signal a disaster. Wasn’t this house party off to a perfectly swimming start?
—
Pendleton’s accommodations weren’t any more comfortable or well appointed than Dysart’s quarters. In fact, he mused as he sat facing the door in a brocade wing chair, this chamber was possibly less spacious.
The man’s luggage stood crammed hard by the bed, along with several extra pairs of boots. Not Hessians but proper riding gear. In fact, his trunks were stuffed with buckskins and weathered topcoats, the sort of garments a man who spent his days in the saddle preferred. In deference to society, Pendleton had included a few ensembles suited to evening activities, but without so much as a single pair of dancing slippers.
Dysart knew this, because he’d already rifled through Pendleton’s possessions. He’d been looking for God only knew what. Something that might indicate Pendleton was still up to no good, but there Dysart came away empty-handed. Still, it was better to know what one might be up against.
In this case, it turned out to be a lot of nothing. But that thought was small satisfaction weighed against the interview to come.
Or perhaps
confrontation
was a better term. No matter how he thought of it, Dysart intended to come out of this meeting with the assurance Pendleton would keep quiet about their history together.
Footsteps thudded in the passageway, coming closer. Dysart let himself slump in his seat, one booted ankle over his knee, the image of calm and casual, when inside he was anything but. The mere thought of Pendleton and all he’d done was enough to set Dysart’s blood to boiling. Yet, he must appear as if he had all day and nothing better to do than avoid the marriage-minded mamas downstairs. A full dozen years since he’d left polite society, and not a single thing had changed.
So why not pay a surprise visit on an old friend? Or at least that’s what he wanted Pendleton to think.
The handle turned, and the door swung partway open. “I should like a private word with the duke at the earliest possible convenience,” Pendleton said.
Whoever he’d addressed—Caruthers or a footman—gave a muffled reply, but based on the tone, it was less than encouraging. No shock there, when the duke believed himself at death’s door.
“See what you can do.” Pendleton reached into his coat—for a coin, no doubt. “It’s important.”
Then he pivoted and froze. Dysart watched his expression solidify into a mask.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Pendleton measured his words carefully, as if he had very few of them to waste. “How have you been keeping, Gus?”
Dysart rested his wrist on his bent knee. As gestures went, it was better than making a fist. “It’s Dysart now. Just Dysart. As long as we find ourselves at the same house party, I wanted to make certain we’ve got that straight.”
Pendleton moved into the room and closed the door. “What corner of hell did you crawl out of?”
“One on Bow Street. I work for the law now, so you might want to keep on my good side.”
“What is it you want?”
For one thing, he’d like to know what important business Pendleton had with Sherrington, but that could wait. “Right now, I’d prefer to keep the past buried. If you don’t go digging it up,
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