“Me?”
The footman simply held out the tray.
Marek took the letter. He didn’t recognize the hand that had writtenMr. Brendanneatly across the center of the folded paper. He unfolded it and read.
Dear Mr. Brendan,
I hope you are well and not disappointed with the dreadful cold. I have some exciting news and wish to invite you to join me for afternoon tea at half past five to hear it.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Honeycutt
What in bloody hell was this? What scheme was she playing at now? It was probably something ridiculous, a rumor she’d heard at the market that meant nothing to anyone. He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. It was nearly five o’clock.
“Is there a reply, sir?” the footman asked.
Marek glanced over his shoulder at the ministers gathered around a small table in the common room. Dromio stood up and waved at him, gesturing for him to come, then shouted across the room for him.
Which was the lesser of two evils? Lord Dromio? Or Mrs. Honeycutt? He closed his eyes and sighed again. Dromio was decidedly the worst option. He opened his eyes. “No need for a reply. I will deliver it myself.”
The footman nodded and stepped away.
Marek waved at Dromio, but went in the opposite direction. He first went to his room to freshen up. He combed his hair and tried to buff his boots, but they were too worn to shine now. His hair had gotten too long, and while he would like to have it trimmed, there was never time to find a barber. He examined himself in the small mirror on the chest of drawers and frowned. He had the growth of a new beard on his face, and the knot on his neckcloth, no matter how often he untied it and tied it again, would not stay straight.
Why did he care? Maybe because it was the first time in a very long time anyone had paid any particular attention to him. Except for old Lady de Florent, who often brought him freshly baked bread, told him he needed a trim, inquired about his dogs, his horses, his sheep, asked whether or not he thought it would be a wet year, should she plant barley or oats, and various sundry other things.
Mrs. Honeycutt paid attention to him, and he realized, as he brushed some lint from his shoulder, that for the first time in a long time, he cared how he appeared.
As a result of his fussing, he was a quarter of an hour late to her tea.
Someone had placed a wreath of holly on her red entrance door, reminding him that Christmas would be soon upon them, in a matter of a couple of weeks. He reached through the circle of the wreath and rapped with the door knock a few times. Moments later, the door was opened by an elderly gentleman holding a yellow cat.
“Well! Good afternoon, sir. Or is it evening?” the old man asked, poking his head out and glancing up at the sky.
“It is...evening,” Marek said. His gaze flicked to the cat and back to the old man. “Ah... Mrs. Honeycutt sent an invitation.”
“Did she?” He sounded pleased. “To what?”
Was he Mrs. Honeycutt’s father? Grandfather? Marek gestured to the interior of the house. “To call.”
“Ah. Shall I tell her who is calling?”
“Please. Mr. Brendan.”
“You’ve an odd way of speaking, Mr. Brendan,” the man said. “What accent is that? French?”
“Weslorian.”
Mrs. Honeycutt suddenly popped up over the old man’s shoulder. “Mr. Brendan! How good of you to come.”
The old man turned around to see her, and she stepped forward, all smiles, dressed in a butter-yellow gown that had the effect of making her look somewhat ethereal.
Her smile sizzled in his veins. “I’m very happy to see you!” she said, and before he understood what was happening, she threw one arm around his neck and hugged him, patting him on the shoulder like someone’s aunt.Look how tall you’ve grown, lad.
Marek did not return her effusive greeting. He stood stiffly, not knowing what to do. He’d never been greeted like that by an acquaintance. Certainly not a female one.
“Lord! I beg your pardon, Mr. Brendan,” she said, and quickly let him go, stepping back. “I tend to forget myself. Come in, come in,” she urged him, waving him forward.
