“I expect the truth was you were bored,” Fitz lightly countered, thinking how satisfying it would be to launch the pesky lapdog across the room. “And you needed a change of scene.” Bending down, he held his hand out to be inspected by the odious little animal.
“Perhaps,” the dowager duchess said with a coquettish smile. “But you’re always the main reason I come home.”
He glanced up from under a wave of black hair as Pansy licked his fingers. “Is Kemal in town?”
“We traveled together from Paris.”
That answered all his questions: his mother’s sudden change in plans, her ostensible annoyance with Lady Montrose, her early arrival. Kemal must have some urgent business in the city. Picking up the dog after it had decided Fitz smelled familiar after all, he carried it to the table, handed it to his mother, and kissed her cheek. “Are you staying long?” Taking a chair beside her, he held out his hand for the brandy Norton was carrying his way.
She smiled. “Some people would think that an insensitive question.”
“You know very well it’s not.” He smiled back. “You’re my only love. I was simply wondering whether we have any common social engagements in store, whether you’re on your way to Green Grove or planning on settling in.”
His mother waved her slender hand in a fluttery little gesture. “I have no plans.”
“You’re waiting on Kemal, you mean.”
“Only partly. I wanted to spend some time with you, darling.”
Fitz drank down half the brandy in one swallow. Not that he didn’t adore his mother, but she had no compunction interfering in his life. Which always required he give the appearance he had nothing of interest for her to meddle in.
“I hear you’ve been unable to charm some young lady into selling you her bookstore. I thought your seductive charms were quite unrivaled.”
He almost choked on his brandy. “Good God, mother,” he said, swallowing to clear his throat. “You don’t believe that rubbish.”
“Of course I do. Everyone does. And why shouldn’t they? It’s no secret you’re much in demand with the ladies. So tell me, what does this young lady not like about you?”
Not very much, he decided, recalling last night with an unexpected jolt of pleasure. “It’s not about me,” he said, taking pains to show no emotion. “She doesn’t want to sell her store.”
“You haven’t offered her enough.”
“Yes, Mother, I have. Apparently, it’s not about money.”
The dowager duchess’s brows rose. “You don’t say. The cardinal virtues are not yet dead,” she sardonically noted. “I expect she’s holding out for more,” she cooly added.
“If you don’t mind, Mother, Hutchinson is very capable of taking charge of the situation. You and I need not bother ourselves.”
“I heard you may lose ninety thousand if your development has to be suspended.”
“You’ve heard a great deal it seems.”
“You needn’t be grouchy. I’m simply concerned. I’m your mother. I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy. Rest easy in that regard. As for this bookstore, all will be resolved in good time,” he gruffly said.
Julia Montagu smiled sweetly. She knew better than to continue to press her son when he spoke in that tone. “Were you with anyone I know last night?” she pleasantly inquired. “Clarissa perhaps?” She reconsidered. “Of course not-her husband’s back in town, and he does have his rules, doesn’t he? What a strange little man. But then he’s in biscuits or something, isn’t he?”
“Soap,” Fitz corrected.
“You don’t say.”
“I do. It’s very good soap according to all reports,” he mildly noted. Clarissa, the fourth daughter of an impecunious earl, had married one of the new multimillionaires recently brought into the peerage thanks to the Prince of Wales’s penchant for gambling. Wales liked to surround himself with arrivistes who didn’t mind lending him money-never to be repaid, of course.
But unlike the aristocracy who had learned long ago to discreetly look the other way when it came to the little peccadilloes of marriage, Lord Buckley insisted Clarissa keep him company when he was in town.
“So,” the dowager persisted in honeyed accents, “if not Clarissa, was she anyone I know? And you needn’t look at me like that. I’m sure the news is circulating below stairs as we speak and the whole town will know by teatime.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mother. Since when have you become a voyeur?”
“Don’t tell me then,” she soothingly replied, recognizing whomever he’d been with was not someone of her acquaintance. As aware as she that gossip traveled at lightening speed, Fitz normally would in some minimum fashion at least tell her who he’d been with since inevitably everyone in society would soon know anyway.
Musical beds was not only common but also habitual in the aristocracy. Once a wife had done her duty by providing her husband an heir, she was allowed her pleasures. And while everyone knew who was sleeping with whom, as long as wives and husbands discreetly ignored the details as it pertained to them, conjugal harmony was maintained.
“I’ll be out this afternoon,” Fitz declared, fending off further questions by changing the subject. “Hutchinson might have some new information for me as it relates to this bookstore. Are you dining at home tonight or are you going out?”
“We’ve been invited to Bunny’s.”
He didn’t have to ask who she meant by we. “In that case, I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Have you met my new secretary Stanley?”
“I have indeed. A most lovely young man. Do you like him?”
He smiled. “How could I not since you arranged for him to enter my employ.”
“Dear Abigail is in such straits I knew you wouldn’t mind helping her son. A shame she has a husband so bloody poor at cards.”
Fitz instantly thought of Edward St. Vincent and his wife-particularly his wife-when he shouldn’t. It took him a fleeting moment to shake off Rosalind’s image, and when he spoke his voice was unexpectedly husky. “Don’t worry about Stanley.” Quickly clearing his throat, he went on in a normal tone. “I’ll see that he is well compensated, and if the boy wishes to move on to larger endeavors at some point I promise to see him properly placed.”
“Thank you. You’re a darling. You’re my darling,” she softly said, wondering who he’d been thinking of a moment ago when his voice had gone soft. Her son was not a man of sentiment, other than in their relationship, where he was most tender. She’d have to speak to Sarah. Darby never gave up a clue when it came to her son, but she and Sarah had been close for years. Hadn’t they both been mother to Fitz? “Have you eaten, sweetheart?” she politely asked, intent on putting her son at ease, purposely not commenting as he held his empty glass out for a refill. “I believe all your favorites are on the sideboard.”
“I’ll eat later.” He handed a flunkey his glass and said, “To the rim.” He was finding it difficult to ignore the images of Rosalind that had come to mind when his mother had unfortunately mentioned gambling. The kaleidoscope of graphic, sexually explicit scenes was deeply unwelcome. Swivelling around, he searched for the flunkey. Where the fuck was his drink?
Julia wasn’t particularly concerned that Fitz was drinking his breakfast. That wasn’t uncommon for men of his class. But she’d not seen that shuttered look in his eyes in years. Having survived all the bad times with the former duke, she and Fitz were extremely close. She knew when he was unsettled. “Tell me about the design of your new development, darling,” she interposed, hoping to assuage his moodiness with something of interest to him. As one of the largest property owners in Mayfair, Fitz usually enjoyed discussing his urban projects.
“Later, Mother. Once things are resolved.” And having received his brandy, he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it.