Trevelstam sat, setting his half-sipped drink on the table. “How do you fare?” he asked. “Haven’t seen you much since your return.”
“Well enough,” Michael grunted. Considering that he was being forced to sit with some ninny who wanted to marry Francesca’s dowry. No, make that her double dowry. The way gossip spread, Trevelstam had probably already heard the news from Sir Geoffrey.
Trevelstam was slightly more sophisticated than Sir Geoffrey-he managed to make small talk for a full three minutes, asking about Michael’s trip to India, the voyage back, et cetera et cetera et cetera. But then, of course, he got down to his true purpose.
“I called upon Lady Kilmartin this afternoon,” he said.
“Did you?” Michael murmured. He hadn’t returned home since leaving that morning. The last thing he had wanted was to be present for Francesca’s parade of suitors.
“Indeed. She’s a lovely woman.”
“That she is,” Michael said, glad his drink had arrived.
Then not so glad when he realized it had arrived two minutes earlier and he had already drunk it.
Trevelstam cleared his throat. “I’m sure you are aware that I intend to court her.”
“I’m certainly aware of it now.” Michael eyed his glass, trying to determine if there might be a few drops of brandy left after all.
“I wasn’t certain whether I should inform you or her brother of my intentions.”
Michael was quite certain that Anthony Bridgerton, Francesca’s eldest brother, was quite capable of weeding out unsuitable marriage prospects, but nonetheless he said, “I am quite sufficient.”
“Good, good,” Trevelstam murmured, taking another sip of his drink. “I-”
“Trevelstam!” came a booming voice. “And Kilmartin, too!”
It was Lord Hardwick, big and beefy, and if not yet drunk, not exactly sober either.
“Hardwick,” both men said, acknowledging his arrival.
Hardwick grabbed a chair, scraping it along the floor until it found a place at the table. “Good to see you, good to see you,” he huffed. “Capital night, don’t you think? Most excellent. Most excellent, indeed.”
Michael had no idea what he was talking about, but he nodded, anyway. Better that than actually to ask him what he meant; Michael was quite certain he lacked the patience to listen to an explanation.
“Thistleswaite’s over there setting bets on the Queen’s dogs, and, oh! Heard about Lady Kilmartin, too. Good talk tonight,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Good talk, indeed. Hate when it’s quiet here.”
“And how are the Queen’s dogs faring?” Michael inquired.
“Out of mourning, I understand.”
“The dogs?”
“No, Lady Kilmartin!” Hardwick chortled. “Heh heh heh. Good one, there, Kilmartin.”
Michael signaled for another drink. He was going to need it.
“Wore blue the other night, she did,” Hardwick said. “Everyone saw.”
“She looked quite lovely,” Trevelstam added.
“Indeed, indeed,” Hardwick said. “Good woman. I’d go after her myself if I weren’t already shackled to Lady Hardwick.”
Small favors and all that, Michael decided.
“She mourned the old earl for how long?” Hardwick asked. “Six years?”
As the “old earl” had been but twenty-eight at the time of his death, Michael found the comment somewhat offensive, but there seemed little point in attempting to change Lord Hardwick’s customary bad judgment and behavior at this late stage in his life-and from the size and ruddiness of him, he was clearly going to keel over at any time. Right now, in fact, if Michael was lucky.
He glanced across the table. Still alive.
Damn.
“Four years,” he said succinctly. “My cousin died four years ago.”
“Four, six, whatever,” Hardwick said with a shrug. “It’s still a bloody long time to black the windows.”
“I believe she was in half-mourning for some time,” Trevelstam put in.
“Eh? Really?” Hardwick took a swig of his drink, then wiped his mouth rather sloppily with a handkerchief. “All the same for the rest of us when you think about it. She wasn’t looking for a husband ‘til now.”
“No,” Michael said, mostly because Hardwick had actually stopped talking for a few seconds.
“The men are going to be after her like bees to honey,” Hardwick predicted, drawing out the bees until it sounded like it ended with four Zs. “Bees to honey, I tell you. Everyone knows she was devoted to the old earl. Everyone.”
Michael’s drink arrived. Thank God.
“And there’s been no whiff of scandal attached to her name since he died,” Hardwick added.
“I should say not,” Trevelstam said.
“Not like some of the widows out and about,” Hardwick continued, taking another swig of his liquor. He chuckled lewdly and elbowed Michael. “If you know what I mean.”
Michael just drank.
“It’s like…” Hardwick leaned in, his jowls jiggling as his expression grew salacious. “It’s like…”
“For God’s sake, man, just spit it out,” Michael muttered.
“Eh?” Hardwick said.
Michael just scowled.
“I’ll tell you what it’s like,” Hardwick said with a leer. “It’s like you’re getting a virgin who knows what to do.”
Michael stared at him. “What did you just say?” he asked, very quietly.