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The late viscount had needed Allendale’s protection, and Allendale—a man who had valued familial pride over his actual family—had thrown his son to the wolves.
“How was your nap, Aunt?” Jane asked. “What’s that?” Aunt Harriet slowly lowered herself into a wing chair. “My cap?” She touched a blue-veined hand to the delicately beribboned bit of lace tied over her thinning locks. “Your rest!” Jane said a little more loudly. “Yes. Quite right. It is the best of all my caps.”
This is my favorite line I’ve ever read
“They contrived to rub along.” St. Clare’s mouth curved into a slow, derisive smile. “What an epitaph.”
“Show them in, Jessup,” Allendale said. “The only thing this farce lacks is an audience.”
“Enough.” Maggie placed a staying hand on Fred’s sleeve. “I mean it. I’m bored to tears with all this bluster.
“And Enzo? Try and find a sharper needle than the one you used in Rome.” Enzo flashed a grin before disappearing once again into the dressing room.
“You’ve developed a talent for understatement.” “And you’ve developed a skill for hiding your true feelings.”
“This may come as a surprise to you, Fred, but I have no desire to be traipsing about the countryside on a hot day. I’d far rather stay at home. And yes, when acquaintances from town come calling, I invite them in and offer them tea. Would you prefer I have the servants cover the windows and remove the door knocker?”
St. Clare helped Enzo out of the cab. “How did they get the better of you?” he asked in a low voice. “You were armed to the teeth.” Enzo answered him in Italian, his words accompanied by an apologetic shrug.
“Miss Honeywell shot it out of my valet’s hand,” Lionel said. “A fascinating display.”
