But I have Fergus with me. Perhaps you might send it around?’
That would buy time to consider the possibilities in private.
Letty gave Fergus a disapproving stare. ‘I cannot think why you have a dog in town at all. Or, if you must, why a servant can’t take it for an airing.’
‘Well, you see, Letty,’ Hunt said cheerfully, ‘since he is my dog, I like to walk him. So, send your—’
Letty snorted. ‘One can only hope that a wife will curb some of your bachelor habits. I dare say I can put up with the wretched animal in my drawing room. It appears well behaved enough. I shall see you in a few minutes.’ She rapped with her cane on the ceiling. ‘Drive on, Bagsby!’
Hunt stared after the carriage as it lumbered away from the curb. He glanced down at the dog. ‘Much help you were! Couldn’t you have misbehaved for once?’
Fergus just grinned up at him. Hunt snorted. ‘It would serve you right if I did let a wife change some of my bachelor habits.’
* * *
Hunt, fortified with his brother-in-law’s brandy, rose as Letty sailed into her drawing room a short time later. She gave Fergus, lying quietly by the hearth, a disapproving look, but said nothing. Hunt suspected that not a single woman on this new list would care for dogs in the house. Idly he wondered if Lady Emma minded dogs in the house.
Letty took the chair opposite him and arranged her skirts very precisely. ‘Caro and I have given a great deal of thought to this.’ She frowned. ‘The last thing you want in a wife is any breath of scandal. I am sad to say that there is often far more than a breath about many widows.’ She gave him a searching look. ‘Are you sure you won’t consider—?’
‘No virgins,’ he said. He cleared his throat as Letty’s brows shot up. ‘Your list?’
Letty scowled. ‘It isn’t a list, as such. Merely a suggestion.’
‘A suggestion?’ He stared at her. ‘Just one? Do you mean that in the length and breadth of Britain you can only suggest one possible candidate? Who?’
Letty preened a little. ‘My goddaughter—Amelia Trumble.’
Hunt stared. ‘Amelia? She must be well over thirty, surely!’
Letty bristled. ‘Twenty-seven. And she is a very good sort of woman,’ she said. ‘You could hardly do better, especially since you already know her.’
Hunt didn’t see that as an advantage. Amelia Trumble was about the most boring female of his acquaintance. Her late husband, eldest son of Baron Trumble, had been equally dull. How a young woman of twenty-seven contrived to make herself look and act forty, he wasn’t sure, but...
‘Dear Amelia is the very pattern of Respectability and Good Sense,’ Letty pronounced.
He knew that. And Respectability and Good Sense were all very admirable. But did they have to be allied with Dullness?
‘She would make you a most dutiful wife, Giles. She has every qualification—including an annuity that remains with her and would do for pin money. Nor will you be bothered with her son. As Trumble’s heir he will remain in the custody of his grandfather.’
Hunt frowned. ‘She would leave the child with Trumble?’ He was surprised that it bothered him. Most men would be delighted not to have the evidence of a woman’s previous marriage underfoot, but—he saw a woman wearing a neat grey gown, her daughter snuggled in her lap... He shoved the memory away.
‘Trumble would not countenance otherwise,’ Letty said. ‘No doubt Amelia would visit the child, but she is not unduly sentimental.’
The memory of Emma’s face as she accepted her son’s shamefaced apology slid into his mind. Unduly sentimental?
But...he didn’t dislike Amelia. She just didn’t interest him. Did that matter? If Letty and Caro were satisfied he’d done his duty...
‘Very well. I’ll consider your suggestion. By the by, are you acquainted with Lady Emma Lacy?’
She blinked. ‘Who is—? Good God! Emma Brandon-Smythe, you mean? Giles, she may be a widow, but you are not considering an alliance with that dreadful creature, are you?’
‘What?’ Hunt stared at her. ‘No. Of course not.’ Dreadful creature? ‘I ran into her in Hatchard’s, that’s all. It took me a moment to place her.’
Letty snorted. ‘No doubt the shameless hussy presumed upon your acquaintance with Dersingham and forced herself upon your notice. She ran off, you know—from the altar, no less!—to live openly with young Lacy. And then persuaded him to make an honest woman of her. Dersingham cast her off regardless and naturally the Keswicks do not recognise her.’ Letty shuddered. ‘If she approaches you again, you must ignore her as everybody else does. I wonder at Hatchard allowing her in the shop. I shall have a word with him about that. Disgraceful that she is permitted to mingle with her betters!’
‘Oh, that won’t be necessary, Letty.’ Hunt’s mind spun. Lived openly with Lacy? In sin? Ran off from the altar? That had to be exaggeration. ‘I doubt she will approach me again.’ Not after she’d come close to telling him to go to hell. In fact, she hadn’t approached him at all. He had spoken to her. How the devil could he deflect Letty? The last thing he wanted was to have Letty force John Hatchard to refuse Emma admittance! ‘Ah, is Amelia in town?’
Letty looked gratified. ‘Dear Amelia is not in town just yet, you know. Would you wish me to—?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ Hunt fixed her with a steely look. ‘You will say nothing whatsoever to anyone about this. Is that quite clear?’ Thank God he’d deflected her from Emma Lacy. ‘Just let me know when Amelia is expected in town.’ Letty was right; for a man who wanted a convenient wife, Amelia would be the perfect choice. Convenience was often a trifle dull.
However, he would return Miss Georgie’s handkerchief. He was going to make quite sure Lady Emma understood that the Marquess of Huntercombe only trolled for books in Hatchard’s.
Disappointment and rage lashed at Emma over the next two days. Disappointment that Huntercombe’s apparently disinterested kindliness towards the children had been anything but disinterested and rage that he had used them in his attempt to get close to her.
Harry and Georgie could talk of little but Lord Huntercombe and Fergus. Emma even overheard Harry tell his sister what a jolly good idea she’d had with the handkerchief. ‘Because no matter what Mama says, I’m sure he’ll bring it back!’
Georgie, openly smug about the predicted success of her scheme, asked Emma, ever so casually, just how long it took to launder a handkerchief. ‘In a big house, Mama.’
It might have been funny had Emma not been so angry. And if she were honest, angry with herself for feeling even for an instant that betraying flicker of interest. Had she accidentally encouraged him? Did she have to be rude to every gentleman who spoke to her to avoid this sort of thing? And somewhere in all that there was hurt. Why she had thought Huntercombe would be different, she had no idea. After eleven years she
