“I love your father,” her mother had told her at the time. “But darling, love is just not enough for women such as myself. I must have adoration, verses, poetry, flowers, jewels . . . not to mention the fact that François is built like a god and hung like a horse.”
Linnet had blinked at her, and her mother had said, “Never mind, darling, I’ll explain it all later, when you’re a bit older.”
She never got around to it, but Linnet had somehow managed to garner enough information to interpret what had caught her mother’s attention with regards to François.
Now her father’s eyes flickered toward her. “Rosalyn loved me the way Augustus loves you. In short: not enough.”
“For goodness’ sake,” Zenobia cried. “This is enough to send me into the Slough of Despond! Let poor Rosalyn rest in her grave, would you? You make me rue the day she decided to accept your hand.”
“It’s brought it all back to mind,” the viscount said heavily. “Linnet takes after her mother; anyone can see that.”
“That’s quite unfair,” Linnet said, scowling at him. “I have been a model of chastity this season. In fact, through my entire life!”
He frowned. “It’s just that there’s something about you—”
“You look naughty,” her aunt said, not unkindly. “God help Rosalyn, but this is all her fault. She gave it to you. That dimple, and something in your eyes and about your mouth. You look like a wanton.”
“A wanton would have had a great deal more fun this season than I had,” Linnet protested. “I’ve been as demure as any young lady in the ton—you can ask Mrs. Hutchins.”
“It does seem unfair,” Zenobia agreed. A golden drop of honey suspended itself from her crumpet and swung gently before falling onto the pale violet silk of her morning dress.
“I hope that you told the countess that I was never alone with Augustus at any point,” Linnet said.
“How could I do that?” Zenobia inquired. “I’m not privy to your social calendar, my dear. I was as shocked as the dear countess, I can tell you that.”
Linnet groaned. “I could strip naked in Almack’s, and still no one would believe that I wasn’t carrying a child, no matter how slim my waist. You practically confirmed it, Aunt Zenobia. And Papa dismissed Miss Flaccide, and I’m quite sure that she’s saying wretched things about me all over London. I truly will have to live abroad, or in the country somewhere.”
“French men are very easy to please, though there is that inconvenient war going on,” Zenobia said encouragingly. “But I’ve got another idea.”
Linnet couldn’t bring herself to ask, but her father asked wearily, “What is it?”
“Not it—him.”
“Who?”
“Yelverton, Windebank’s heir.”
“Windebank? Who the devil’s that? Do you mean Yonnington—Walter Yonnington? Because if his son is anything like his father, I wouldn’t let Linnet near him, even if she were carrying a child.”
“Very kind of you, Papa,” Linnet murmured. Since her aunt had not offered her a crumpet, she helped herself.
“Reducing, my dear. Think about reducing,” Zenobia said in a kindly yet firm tone.
Linnet tightened her mouth and put extra butter on her crumpet.
Her aunt sighed. “Yelverton’s title is Duke of Windebank, Cornelius. Really, I wonder how you manage to make your way around the House of Lords, with your spotty knowledge of the aristocracy.”
“I know what I need to know,” the viscount said. “And I don’t bother with that I don’t need. If you meant Windebank, why didn’t you just say so?”
“I was thinking of his son,” Zenobia explained. “The man’s got the second title, of course. Now let me think . . . I do believe that his given name is something odd. Peregrine, Penrose—Piers, that’s it.”
“He sounds like a dock,” Lord Sundon put in.
“Mrs. Hutchins called me a light frigate this morning,” Linnet said. “A dock might be just the thing for me.”
Zenobia shook her head. “That’s just the kind of remark that got you in this situation, Linnet. I’ve told you time and again, all that cleverness does you no good. People would like a lady to be beautiful, but they expect her to be ladylike, in short: sweet, compliant, and refined.”
“And yet you are universally taken for a lady,” Linnet retorted.
“I am married,” Zenobia says. “Or I was, until Etheridge passed on. I don’t need to show sweetness and light. You do. You’d better polish up some ladylike chatter before you get to Wales to meet Yelverton. His title would be Earl of Marchant. Or would it be Mossford? I can’t quite remember. I’ve never met him, of course.”
“Neither have I,” Lord Sundon said. “Are you trying to match Linnet off with a stripling, Zenobia? It’ll never work.”
“He’s no stripling. He must be over thirty. Thirty-five at least. Surely you remember the story, Cornelius?”
“I pay no attention to stories,” the viscount said testily. “It was the only way to survive under the same roof with your sister.”
“You need to do a treatment to clean out your spleen,” Zenobia said, putting down her crumpet. “You are letting bile ferment in your system, Cornelius, and it’s a very powerful emotion. Rosalyn is dead. Let her be dead, if you please!”
Linnet decided it was time to speak. “Aunt Zenobia, why would you think that the duke would be interested in matching me with his son? If indeed that’s what you were thinking?”
“He’s desperate,” her aunt said. “Heard it from Mrs. Nemble, and she’s bosom friends with Lady Grymes, and you know that her husband is Windebank’s half brother.”
“No, I don’t know,” the viscount said. “And I don’t care either. Why is Windebank desperate? Is his son simpleminded? I can’t recall seeing any sons around Lords or in Boodle’s.”
“Not simpleminded,” Zenobia said triumphantly. “Even better!”
There was a moment of silence as both Linnet and her father thought about what that could mean.
“He hasn’t got what it takes,” her aunt clarified.
“He hasn’t?” Sundon asked blankly.
“Minus a digit,” Zenobia added.
“A finger?” Linnet ventured.
“For goodness’ sake,” Zenobia said, licking a bit of honey off one finger. “I always have to spell everything out in this house. The man suffered an accident as a young man. He walks with a cane. And that accident left him impotent, to call a stone a stone. No heir now, and none in the future either.”
“In fact, in this particular case,” her father said with distinct satisfaction, “a stone isn’t a stone.”
“Impotent?” Linnet asked. “What does that mean?”
There was a moment’s silence while her two closest relatives examined her closely, as if she were a rare species of beetle they’d found under the carpet.
“That’s for you to explain,” her father said, turning to Zenobia.