“Does he realize, do you think,” Lady Scattergood said, “that he’s marrying a brainless widgeon?”
“He must, and clearly doesn’t mind,” Zoë said. “He’s known her more than three years, after all.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Izzy said.
“There’s no accounting for love,” Clarissa said softly.
“I predict Milly will become known in future for prefacing all her utterances with ‘Thaddeus says,’ ” Zoë said.
“I suppose someone will inform Mrs. Harrington,” Clarissa said after a minute.
“Thaddeus will have it all in hand,” Izzy said. “He’s that sort of man.”
There was a sudden outbreak of yapping in the hall. Lady Scattergood glanced at the open doorway, stiffened, grabbed her lorgnette and made an outraged exclamation. “There’s another one! What does Treadwell think he’s doing, letting men into the house? That’s the second one today! Has he completely lost his touch?” She pointed the lorgnette at someone just outside the door. “What the devil are you doing in my house, sirrah? Zoë, stay with your sis— The gels.”
There was a scramble to put down teacups, but before the others could rise and see who Lady Scattergood was talking to, Lord Foxton stepped inside, moving carefully to avoid stepping on any of the small dogs swirling around his ankles.
Julian had decided on his course. It was a trifle drastic, but otherwise he could envisage only ever seeing Zoë in short visits, with her sisters lurking, ready to interrupt at a crucial time. And if he were to have any hope of winning her, he needed to get her alone so that they could talk.
He’d been a fool, he knew. He should have trusted her from the start, but being evasive, especially with women, had been a habit for too long. It had served him in the past. He’d always tried to keep them at bay and avoid being tied down, but now, when he was ready—more than ready; he was determined to commit—he was hoist with his own petard: she didn’t trust him.
He’d been on his way to Lady Randall’s house because, of both Zoë’s sisters, he’d decided that Clarissa would be the most sympathetic to his cause—she was a romantic, he was sure. But passing Lady Scattergood’s house knowing he would not be admitted there, he was surprised to see the door wide open and some fellow bodily lifting that pompous old butler, turning and dumping him on the steps outside.
Fascinated, he’d stopped the carriage at once and watched as the fellow stepped inside the house and the butler stood on the front step, trying to straighten his clothesand regain his usual impassive mien. With limited success. He then went inside, leaving the front door standing ajar.
That was enough for Julian. Shouting to his coachman to hold the horses, he jumped down and slipped inside the house, where he witnessed a fascinating scene. As things became clearer, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or swear. The fellow was taking some girl away, eloping possibly—she was off packing her things.
If there was a goddess of irony, she would clearly be having a good laugh at his expense.
He stood, watching from a quiet corner as the fellow ushered the girl out into a waiting carriage and they bowled away.
First the dogs and then the old lady spotted him. “What the devil are you doing in my house, sirrah?” she said, brandished her lorgnette. “Zoë, stay with the gels!”
Of course they all hurried toward the door and stared at him.
He swept them a deep bow, saying with a flourish, “Good morning, ladies. I see you are all dressed for an excursion. I presume that is your barouche waiting in the street.”
“What business is it of yours, sirrah?” the old lady snapped. “I didn’t invite you into my house and I don’t want you here now. Get out! Shoo! Scat!”
“My deepest apologies, Lady Scattergood,” he said smoothly. “I saw the front door was open and, perceiving there was some sort of disturbance inside, I was concerned for your safety and that of the ladies.”
Zoë rolled skeptical eyes at him, confirming yet again—not that Julian needed any further confirmation—that she was the one for him.
The old lady snorted.
Julian continued. “I wondered whether Miss Benoît would be interested in a drive. It’s a mild morning and the sun is out, though for how long is anyone’s guess.” The oldlady scowled and opened her mouth to refuse, but he said quickly, “Naturally I have a very reliable chaperone waiting in the carriage to accompany us.”
The old lady’s scowl remained, but Lady Randall, after a brief silent exchange with her sister, Lady Salcott, stepped forward with a smile, saying, “That sounds delightful, Lord Foxton. I’m sure Zoë would enjoy it, especially seeing as you’ve gone to all the trouble of hiring a respectable chaperone. We were just saying we needed a break and were planning an excursion, weren’t we, ladies?”
Zoë eyed her sister doubtfully. Julian hid a smile. Dear Lady Randall, so sweet, so gullible.
Lady Salcott gave him a sharp look, then nodded. “Yes, you go ahead with Lord Foxton, Zoë. Clarissa and I will follow in the barouche.”
“Excellent.” Julian bowed again. He’d bowed more in the last five minutes than he had in a month. “Shall we, Miss Benoît?” He offered her his arm, and she took it, her expression entirely skeptical. She knew he was up to something; she just couldn’t figure out what.
As they stepped outside, Julian could hear the old lady upbraiding the butler for letting men into the house. The poor fellow was bleating excuses, but she wasn’t having any of it.
He indicated his carriage, and Zoë jerked to a halt. “That’s a traveling carriage.”
