lord,’ she whispered, trying to hide her flushed cheeks behind the panel of her bonnet. ‘I shall leave you to make your choice.’
‘And you don’t wish to give me the benefit of your advice?’
‘I don’t wish to incur any more of my mother’s disapproval than I have already, my lord.’
‘By talking to me? Surely not.’
‘She would misunderstand, and so would my sisters. Need I say more than that?’
‘Usually you say too much, Miss Boyce, but on this occasion you have said too little. I thought you had become independent of Lady Boyce’s management.’
‘I have taken a very big step, my lord, but I have hopes that she will visit me, one day, not cut me out altogether. I am already well outside her plans.’
‘But not her influence, apparently. Time you were, then. So, if I am not allowed to advise you, I shall tell you this. Lady Boyce may be allowed to keep a finger in your pie, for the time being, but, by God, she won’t put a finger near mine unless she wants it snapped off. When I want a woman, I shall not be asking her permission.’
‘Not even when the woman is her daughter, my lord?’
‘Not the eldest one, no. Good day to you, Miss Boyce.’
Her cheeks were still very pink when Mr Dimmock joined her to discuss some of the paintings with her and found, to his dismay, that she had so far seen very few of them.
Chapter Six
Leaving William Lake’s lending-library in Leadenhall Street, London, Lord Seton Rayne tossed a pile of books on to the seat of his curricle and climbed up beside them, having accomplished what he had promised to do for his mother, the Marchioness of Sheen, who had been unable to find extra copies for her friends anywhere. He was about to call to his tiger to loose the horses’ heads when he noticed the tall hurrying figure of the Honourable Bart Waverley leap down the steps of the library and dash across to the other side of the street carrying a leather briefcase under his arm. This was singular, Rayne thought, because there had been no sign of Bart inside the library.
Watching the striding figure disappear round the corner, he then looked up at the windows above the library where the gold-printed words read, Mercury Press, Est. 1790. Publisher W. Lake, Esq. Did Bart know William Lake personally? Was there some business between them? Not being one to poke his nose into other people’s affairs, Rayne let the matter rest beside a strange feeling that a connection was escaping him.
Later that afternoon, he made a detour through the winding corridors of Hampton Court Palace on his way from the barrack block and stables to his own apartments bordering the Outer Green Court, his home during weekdays. Pausing for a moment outside the dingy little room where he and Miss Letitia Boyce had exchanged kisses—oh, yes, she had exchanged kisses, he was convinced of that—he smiled and closed the door, continuing his walk round to the gardens on the sunny south side of the palace’s grace-and-favour apartments.
Residents and their elderly guests strolled along the overgrown pathways and sat on benches in the shade, snoozing, reading, or watching the boats on the distant river. One erect resident, lace-draped, white-haired and bespectacled, held a book up high as if she were singing from it. She looked up as Rayne approached, lowering the book with a smile. ‘Lord Rayne,’ she said. ‘Finished for the day?’
‘I have indeed, Lady Waverley,’ he said with a bow. ‘And you?’
Her smile softened as she removed her eyeglasses. She was still a lovely woman, arched brows, cheekbones firmly covered. ‘No, not me,’ she said. ‘I have some way to go yet.’ She indicated the book and the pages yet to be read. ‘It’s the newest one Bart lent me. I’ve been so looking forward to it, you know. Of course, he must be allowed to read it first, dear boy. Come and sit with me a while.’ She drew in a heap of soft shawl and lace, moving up to make room for him.
Rayne sat, removed his helmet, and ran a hand through his hair.
‘Are you not supposed to powder your hair?’ she said, watching the gesture. ‘I thought the Prince’s Own had to wear powder and a pigtail.’
‘We do on parade, my lady. Makes too much mess for everyday wear.’ He looked at the book on her lap. ‘Did you say Bart lent it to you? My lady mother is on Hatchett’s subscription list, but she wants extra copies to give to her friends. They’re very scarce. Where does Bart get his from?’
‘From Lake the publisher. He’s almost sold out of the first edition, apparently, but we’ve known him for years.’
‘Ah! That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Why I saw Bart leaving the Mercury Press this morning.’
‘Oh, did you? Well, he brought me this yesterday.’ She tapped the book. ‘It’s his own copy, given him by the author. Perhaps he was there on some business for her.’
‘He knows the author? So it is a woman, then?’
‘Oh, yes, he knows her well. He meets Lake on her behalf. A young lady cannot go there on her own, can she? Bart’s done all her business transactions with Lake from the very first book. He gets to read it, then he passes it on to me. Am I not fortunate? I doubt I could wait any longer.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Oh, I’ve pestered him for ages to hurry up and—’
‘No, I meant about the author being a young lady. Does she live in Richmond, near Bart?’
‘It may be that she does, but I’m not too familiar with who lives there, so I don’t really know, and he refuses to tell me any more except that she’s earning quite an income from these.’ Again, she tapped Volume One, leather-bound and gold-tooled. ‘Mind you,’ she continued, ‘I have no doubt that Lake is doing very nicely out of it. He’s unlikely to be offering her the kind of deal he’d offer a man, even if she is more popular.’
‘But isn’t that why the author has Bart to act for her?’
She smiled her indulgent, motherly smile. ‘Of course. But you know what dear Bart’s like, don’t you? He was never the forceful kind, was he?’
‘No, my lady.’
The sounds of the late afternoon passed them by with a shower of dandelion clocks, as they thought about Mr Waverley’s many fine qualities, of which forcefulness was not one. ‘Will he ever marry, do you think?’ said Rayne, gently.
The shake of Lady Waverley’s head would easily have been missed, had Rayne not been watching for it. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Shouldn’t think so, Seton. Marriage is not for Bart’s kind, is it?’
‘It’s not unknown, my lady.’
‘But it rarely works. Best to stay single. He’s happy enough.’
‘He’d make a wonderful father.’
Lady Waverley took that as the compliment it was meant to be, and said no more on the delicate subject. Rayne, however, returned
