Chapter Forty-One
Onslow Square looked much prettier in the sunlight.
Or it would have, had I not been in the grip of a massive hangover which turned the sunlight glinting off iron railings and car windows into a direct affront. I huddled into the entryway of Mrs. Selwick-Alderly’s building and contemplated the buzzer. Part of me was inclined to pop two more Tylenol, call Mrs. Selwick-Alderly with dire tales of bubonic plague, and flee home to my darkened flat.
Of course, that meant getting back on the Tube. The Tube is not the place for a queasy stomach.
If it had just been a matter of an unsettled stomach, I might have braved the Tube. But I was weighted in place by the bundle in my arms. In a capacious Waterstone’s bag, I carried the bulging, plastic-wrapped package of manuscripts. I had promised Mrs. Selwick-Alderly that I would return it today, so return it today I must.
Last night . . . what had I been thinking? I resisted the urge to bang my head against the intercom. I had made an absolute ass of myself in front of Colin Selwick. Oh God. I hadn’t fallen over, had I? Or sung anything? I desperately searched my mental archives, wincing as I flipped through last night’s collection of embarrassing memories. No falling and no singing. I could always call Pammy tonight and make sure. I didn’t think there were any big black spots in my memory, but that’s the problem with black spots, isn’t it? You can’t know they’re not there because you can’t remember them in the first place. Urgh.
What I did remember was bad enough. Why in the hell did I have to hit him with that glow stick? And the glow stick was minor compared with grabbing him and yanking him across the room. Not that any of it mattered, I reminded myself for the fiftieth time. If anyone ought to be ashamed, it was Colin Selwick. What was the idea of letting me think his sister was his girlfriend? To be fair to him, I was the one who had leaped to the conclusion that she was his girlfriend. But he might have disabused me of the notion. The only reason I could come up with to explain why he hadn’t done so was that he was afraid I would fling myself at him if I thought him girlfriendless. Not exactly flattering. Do I look that desperate?
I really hoped Colin Selwick had gone back to Selwick Hall. Or out to a movie. Or anywhere. I didn’t care where, just so long as it wasn’t 43 Onslow Square.
Okay. Enough dithering. I would return the manuscript, have a cup of tea with Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, and go home. Nothing to make a big deal about. I pressed the buzzer.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Elo—”
“Come right up, Eloise,” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly called down, only in the way of buzzers, it came out, “Grrr grrr grrr, rrrr.” The metallic crunching noises reverberated through my skull.
Hauling my aching head up to the first landing, I was trying to arrange my face into a suitably amiable expression when I caught sight of the open door. And its occupant.
So much for the attempt to smile.
“Feeling a bit rough?” inquired Colin Selwick from his spot against the doorframe.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I muttered. It wasn’t fair. He’d been out last night, too, tossing down the champagne, and there wasn’t so much as a dark shadow under his eyes. All right, so I’d had a four-glass head start on him, but still. He had no right to look quite that bright and alert and well rested.
Since I couldn’t express any of that, I vented some of my disgruntled emotions by shoving the plastic-wrapped pile at him. “Here. I’ve brought your aunt’s manuscripts back.”
From the look on his face as he accepted the package, it didn’t look like his aunt had ever gotten around to informing him about the manuscript loan. The only word to describe him was nonplussed. Fortunately, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly appeared before Colin could regain his powers of speech.
“Eloise! Welcome!”
“I’ve brought the manuscripts,” I repeated, for lack of anything better to say. Colin, fortunately, seemed to have passed from alarm to resignation without passing rage; or, if he was angry, he was holding his tongue as he passed the manuscripts silently to his aunt. “They’re all there,” I added, for Colin’s benefit.
“I’m sure they are.” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly ushered me into the parlor, Colin following silently behind. Damn, I had been hoping he would go away. How could I ever speak freely to Mrs. Selwick-Alderly with Colin lurking there? I couldn’t look at him without wincing.
The parlor looked much the same as it had the day before yesterday, right down to the tea tray, only this morning the fire was unlit. And there were three cups on the tray instead of two. Damn, damn, damn. I sank onto the same side of the sofa I had occupied on my last visit, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly to my left. Colin flung himself into the overstuffed chair next to my side of the sofa.
“How’s your sister doing?” I asked pointedly.
Colin didn’t miss a beat. “Much better,” he said promptly. “She thinks it was a dodgy prawn sandwich she ate for lunch yesterday.”
“What’s all this?” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly looked up from the tea tray in some concern. “Is Serena ill?”
Colin explained, while I accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Selwick-Alderly and browsed among the biscuits, searching for something plain. “You’ve won an admirer for life, Eloise,” he finished, stretching his long legs out comfortably in front of him. “She was singing your praises in the cab home.”
This was not what I had expected. I cast a suspicious sideways glance in his direction.
“That was very kind of you, dear,” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly said approvingly. “Biscuit, Colin?”
Colin took three.
Since he clearly wasn’t going anywhere, I decided to just go on as though he weren’t there. Putting my teacup down on the coffee table, I leaned towards Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, effectively cutting Colin out of the conversation.
“What did happen after Richard and Amy returned to England?”
Mrs. Selwick-Alderly tilted her head to one side in thought. “They were married, of course. Both Jane and Miss Gwen returned briefly from France for the occasion—Edouard as well. The Bishop of London performed the ceremony at Uppington House, and the Prince of Wales himself attended the wedding breakfast.”
“Good old Prinny,” commented Colin. “Probably hoping to revive the droit de seigneur.”
I ignored him. Mrs. Selwick-Alderly had more effective tactics. “Colin, dear,” she asked, “would you fetch down the miniatures?”
Colin loped across the room to fetch. Carefully, he freed the two small portrait miniatures that hung above the trunk from their tiny hooks and brought them over to Mrs. Selwick-Alderly.
“These were painted shortly after their wedding,” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly informed me, as Colin dragged his chair closer. Planting an arm against the side of the sofa, he leaned over my shoulder to look at the miniatures. I scooted closer to Mrs. Selwick-Alderly. “This”—she passed me the first painting, a man in a high collar and intricately tied cravat—“is Richard.”
I had expected him to look like Colin. He didn’t.
Lord Richard’s face was narrower, his cheekbones higher, and his nose longer. The coloring was similar, but even there Lord Richard’s hair was a shade lighter, and his eyes were, even in the tiny portrait, a distinct green. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising after two hundred years for a family resemblance to have died out. It was Amy’s comments about blond hair and a supercilious expression that had led me astray. I considered the latter. Hmm, maybe the family resemblance hadn’t entirely died out after all.
“And this”—Mrs. Selwick-Alderly handed me the second miniature, as I settled Lord Richard carefully in my lap—“is Amy.”
Amy’s dark hair was pulled into ringlets at either side of her face, like Lizzie’s in the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice, and she wore a plain, high-waisted, white muslin gown. In her hand, extended as though towards the occupant of the other miniature, she held a small flower, shaped like a bluebell, but of a deeper hue. Purple, in fact. Despite my lack of horticultural knowledge, I had a feeling I knew which species of flower Amy was holding. Cute. Very cute.