“Yes, but I want to say goodbye theproperway, and I can’t do that here.” Mr. Bailey threw open the door and dragged her out into the hallway, his lips descending to hers before the door closed again.
Lady Gertrude giggled. “Prudence will not be coming back.”
Quite unconventional.
Emma leaned over to Lady Noble. “I do not wish to be rude, but your brother-in-law… he works?”
Lady Noble laughed. “He’s not the only one.”
“Trent,” Lord Noble barked at a dark-haired gentleman standing in the darkest corner of the room, “close your ears. You’re about to be insulted.”
“No!” Emma stuck a hand out. “No, I mean no insult. It is simply highly unusual.”
Mrs. Kingston placed a gentle hand on the arm of Emma’s chair. “You are being teased. We are quite aware of how unconventional we are. Mr. Bailey owns a printshop. As does my husband. And Mr. Trent owns the Hotel Hestia on Conduit Street.” Her hazel eyes were clear and kind, and her coiffure—the lightest shade of brown before it could be called blonde—tilted a bit with the angle of her head. It needed more pins, clearly.
Mr. Kingston seemed to like the mess of it, though. He tweaked a fallen curl as he leaned over his wife’s shoulder, a wink in his eye. “If it makes you feel any better, Lady Emma, I’m an earl’s bastard.”
“No! I mean… oh.” She rubbed a palm down her face. “I am going to stop talking. I’m usually a bit more coherent than this.”
“We make a disorienting impression.” This from Lady Helston. Or was it Mrs. Trent?
They both possessed hair as glinting gold as their eldest sister and shared the same sharp blue eyes and lithe frames. Emma looked at one then at the other, then took them in at the same time. She blinked, then shook her head as the ladies laughed.
“Yes,” one of them said.
“We are twins,” the other added. Nothing but good humor in both voices.
Emma searched for something to say that wouldn’t embarrass her.
“And yes”—Lord Helston, who’d been looking at a book upside down, snapped it shut and joined Mr. Trent in the dark corner, clapping him on the shoulder—“we can tell them apart.”
Mr. Trent grunted but strode straight toward the twin sitting in a puddle of sunlight streaming through the window. He placed a proprietary hand on her shoulder. Then he sneezed. His wife laughed and placed her hand over his.
No wonder the duke had kissed her last night. The entire family was entirely too free with their affections.
“We are terrifying the poor woman,” Lady Noble said. “Put on your best manners, please, Merriweathers.”
Lord Noble tapped his wife’s shoulder, and some silent communication passed between them. “What do you say, gentlemen? Can we behave, or must we leave?”
“Are we being kicked out?” Lord Helston asked.
“We are.” Mr. Trent pushed Helston toward the door.
But the viscount resisted long enough to tug a curl at his wife’s nape, muttering, “Why can’t they just ask us to leave in plain words?” before following the others into the hall.
As the door closed, Mr. Trent asked, “Can we interrogate Clearford?”
A chorus of muffled male laughter preceded the sound of banging on the door across the hall.
“Was our brother in a good mood when you left him?” Mrs. Kingston asked, her eye on the door, “or a sour one?”
“Go away, you buffoons!” The duke’s cry came clear and menacing through solid wood walls.
“Ah. Sour, I see.” Mrs. Kingston winced. “Apologies. But do not worry. They’ll wander off to the coffee house soon, and all will be right with the world.”
“Forget the men.” One of the twins—Lady Helston?—moved her chair closer to Emma. “How many matches have you made?”
“Twenty-five.”
