“Everything is fine, Teo, but we haven’t much time.”
“For?”
“You know that Señora Martinez and I are leaving for Paris soon.”
“Sí.”Not only did he know it, he was counting the days.
“And here you are still muddling through this estate business!”
Muddling through.It was an odd complaint for something as tedious as his work was. Mateo spoke Spanish, French, and English fluently. But his competency in reading and writing the three languages was not equal, with English being the weakest. He found the written word terribly confusing, what withthereandtheirandwhereandwear, and so forth. That, coupled with his grandfather’s handwriting, which was so tiny as to require the use of a magnifying glass, had slowed his progress considerably. What was it he’d been reading this morning?To consider some additions to be made to themagnam bibliothecam, and of matters relating thereto; that the gentleman be pleased to lay prints of his case on his lordship’s table...He’d puzzled over the tiny writing for an hour before deciphering that. And it meant nothing to him.
“I am not muddling. Perhaps you have forgotten, but the Abbott estate is quite large and involved.”
“Yes, yes...but if you don’t finish your review and make some decisions, they will have robbed us blind, if they haven’t already.”
“Qué?”What was she talking about? “Who? Mr. Callum?” he asked, referring to the estate agent.
“I almost forgot why I came for you,” she said, gliding over that baseless and nebulous accusation. “I’m hosting a dinner party.”
This was not news—she seemed to host one every other day. On rare occasions, she could force him to attend, but he generally preferred to take his meals in his rooms without having to play the part of society’s latest find. “What has that to do with—”
“And I have someone for you to meet.”
Mateo groaned. He stared at his mother with her dark hair and stark blue eyes and trim figure with all due suspicion. She had a habit of doing this to him, of throwing a lot of things at him at once. Disconnected things. Things that would give him pause, all so that she could slip in something particularly disagreeable.
“You’ve got that sour look, Teo. It’s only Lady Lila Aleksander from Denmark.”
“Perdóname,”rumbled a male voice.
Mateo and his mother both turned toward the arch, where the family butler, Borerro, had appeared. He bowed. “Your guests have arrived,señora.”
“What,now?” Mateo glowered at his mother.
“Oh, Mateo,” she said with a sigh full of disappointment. He was nearly twenty-nine years old, head of the duchy, and it amazed him that his mother could still find reasons to be disappointed in him. “You must be more confident.”
What in the hell was she talking about? His problem was not a lack of confidence, it was—
“Elizabeth? Where have you gotten off to?” A middle-aged woman and a gentleman ambled through the arch, squeezing into the small walled area beside Borerro.
“Thank you, Borerro,” his mother said, and to her guests, “Come in, come in! Our gardens are small but pleasant.”
“It’s beautiful,” the woman said. She looked to be in her fifth or sixth decade. She had a full figure, and her dark hair was lightly streaked with gray. Her smile was full of warmth, as if she was seeing a long-lost cousin. The gentleman was also middle-aged, with a thick mustache, as was the current fashion. Mateo remembered him—he’d been at a reception that the English prime minister, Mr. Gladstone, had hosted in Mateo’s honor.
What had these two to do with him? He guessed his mother probably wanted him to grant a patronage.
“Your grace!” the woman trilled, turning her attention to him. “What an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. Or should I call you Don Santiava? I don’t know which is proper.”
“Teo,” his mother said, and placed a hand on his arm. “May I introduce Lady Lila Aleksander of Denmark.”
Mateo’s body stiffened. This was beginning to feel like an ambush.
“And the Earl of Iddesleigh,” his mother continued.
“Beck,” the gentleman said, and strode forward, hand extended. “Everyone calls me Beck. I suppose Iddesleigh does not trip off the tongue. Please do call me Beck.” He smiled. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
Mateo reluctantly stepped forward to shake the man’s hand.
“I think, my lord, if I may offer an opinion,” Beck continued as he shook his hand, “that as you are in England to assume the title of viscount, perhaps you ought to be styledmy lord. What do you think?”
