“Actually not,” Roberta said. “I’m legitimate, but from a far branch of the family tree. I only wish that I resembled Jemma.”
“You have her blue eyes,” he said, grinning at her.
“Roberta is going to be my project,” Jemma said. “I’m going to dress her up to look absolutely gorgeous, which of course she is, and then marry her off to whomever she wishes. It’ll be great fun.”
Roberta felt a queer compression around her chestbone. “Are you sure?” she asked. “It will be frightfully expensive. I’m not sure how much I can persuade my father to contribute.”
“Jemma’s husband can manage a dozen debuts and not notice,” Damon said. “I don’t know why Beaumont bothers with his speechifying; he could just buy the votes he needs to get a bill passed, in the time-honored fashion. That’s what father always did.”
“I’m afraid that the third earl—our father—was a tad disreputable,” Jemma said. “You interrupted me, Damon. I was trying to warn Roberta that she might not want my chaperonage.”
Damon looked her over so carefully that Roberta felt herself getting pink. “It’s true that your reputation was marred by merely walking into this den of inequity, or it will be once the English ladies get the measure of my sister. Jemma is unlikely to be a prudent chaperone. The Reeves have been disreputable back to the days of King Alfred, and though I regret to say it, the tendency bred true in both of us.”
“Jemma has neglected to tell you that I am the only child of the Mad Marquess, to use the term the popular press prefers,” Roberta said. “So the ton will have more hurdles than Jemma’s reputation to consider when it comes to my marriage.”
His eyes widened. “You grow more fascinating by the moment. Do tell me a bit of poetry.”
She scowled at him, and then relented. “My father’s letter to you, Jemma, takes the form of a poem in fourteen stanzas.” She opened her little knotting-bag and handed over her father’s letter.
“It’s entitled ‘Epistle to a Duchess,’” Jemma said. Roberta watched her smile fade into a look of puzzlement. “I’m not sure I’m intelligent enough for poetry,” she said, finally.
Which was a kind assessment. “It’s not a question of your intelligence,” Roberta said. “I’m afraid that Papa’s poetry is obscure in the extreme.”
Damon took the poem. “This isn’t so bad. It ever was allow’d, dear Madam, Even from the days of father Adam. Well, I don’t see much of difficulty here, Roberta. Such stuff is naught but mere tautology,” he continued. “What’s tautology again? I can’t remember, if I ever knew. And so take that for my apology. He’s apologizing, Jemma.”
“For what?”
“For imposing his daughter upon your presence,” Roberta said firmly.
Damon was still reading ahead. “Here he’s talking about the solid meal of sense and worth, set off by the dessert of mirth. Very nice rhyme!”
“Sometimes his poetry is quite good,” Roberta said with a flash of loyalty. “He’s writing an excellent poem on David and Bathsheba, for example. One can really understand what he’s describing.”
“Well, this poem ends with your most obedient,” Damon said. “I think he’s asking you to bring out his daughter with all the pomp and circumstance Beaumont can afford, Roberta. My expert judgment.”
Jemma took back the poem and puzzled at it for a moment. “But what’s the part about a rude ungrateful bear, enough to make a parson swear?”
“I find with Papa’s poems that it’s best not to devote oneself too strictly to meaning,” Roberta said.
Damon let out a bark of laughter.