think you would both benefit from a good night’s sleep. Sometimes problems look different in the morning.”
“I don’t know what’s going to be different.”
“Emma…”
“Oh, very well.” Emma sat stiffly for a moment and then relaxed against Charles.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me about Isabelle and Claire and the boys. What new tricks is Henry up to?”
Meg turned to look out the window again. Emma’s voice droned on in the background, talking about nine-month old Henry and Charlie, who was almost three, and Isabelle and Claire, Charles’s orphaned nieces; telling Charles all the boring, everyday details of their lives that he missed when he was away in London.
Meg pressed her forehead against the glass, but that didn’t cure the sudden ache in her heart.
Would she ever have anyone with whom to share such mundane stories?
“This is splendid news, Pinky. I wish your father were with us. He’ll be so pleased when we tell him.”
“Mother, you promised not to use that ridiculous nickname any more.” Parks opened the door to their rooms in the Pulteney Hotel. “And I cannot imagine Father would notice if I were married or not. Which I won’t be. Married, that is. Didn’t you hear Miss Peterson? She refused my offer.”
Mother brushed by him. “Oh, pish! That is merely a temporary setback. You know as well as I do the girl has no choice. She must wed you.”
“Who must wed whom?” Miss Agatha Witherspoon, Mother’s friend and sometime companion, looked up as they entered the parlor. She put aside the tome she was reading, dropped her slippered feet from a low table, and sat up. “Never say Pinky’s been getting under some chit’s skirts?”
“Of course not. Well, not exactly.” Mother sat next to Agatha on the settee.
Parks counted to ten. Twice. It did not help.
“Will you please not use that infernal nickname!”
“Pinky!”
He glared at his mother.
“Oh, very well—Johnny. But you must learn to keep your temper under control. It is most inappropriate to raise your voice.”
Agatha was grinning like a bedlamite. “So, the dry old stick actually has some sap running through his veins?”
“Agatha, please. You are embarrassing Pinky.”
“Mother!”
“I mean Johnny. And he is not old—he’s just past thirty.”
“Humph. He acts like he’s as old as Methuselah.” Agatha snorted. “Older. If Methuselah was like those other Old Testament fellows, he knew his way around a bed better than Pinky here.”
“Now, Agatha, Pinky”—Mother looked at him—“um, Johnny has a nice widow in the village—”
“Mother!”
“Really, Pin-Johnny, what did I say about raising your voice?”
He was going to strangle her. He was going to strangle his mother and her elderly friend.
“I believe I could use some brandy,” he said instead.
“Splendid. You may pour me a glass as well. Agatha, would you care for some brandy?”
“Certainly. Now tell me all, Cecilia. What has Pinky been up to?”
“John!” Parks said. “Or Parks. Or Mr. Parker-Roth. Not Pinky. Do you understand, Miss Witherspoon?”
Agatha shrugged. “Oh, very well, but I will tell you you have no sense of humor, sir. It is a distinct fault in your character.”
He handed Agatha her brandy without spilling it down the front of the ridiculous red and gold men’s banyan she was wearing, though he was sorely tempted to. “Thank you. I will certainly make note of your observation.”
She rolled her eyes. “I do feel for the poor girl you’ve compromised, but perhaps she’s as dour as you are.”
He contented himself with baring his teeth in a formation that might pass for a smile and taking a seat in the chair farthest from the ladies.
“What are you doing awake anyway, Agatha?” Mother asked. “I thought you were too tired to come out tonight. I expected to find you sound asleep.”
Agatha took a healthy swallow of her brandy. “You know I only came up to Town with you to visit Ackermann’s and the Royal Academy and perhaps go to the theater, Cecilia. I want no part of all the social torture. Can you see me standing in some stupid ballroom? I’d die of boredom listening to all those fat-pated frumps prose on and on about the other society nodcocks.” She looked at Parks. “Though tonight might have proved an exception. Tell me, who’s the young lady Pinky—I mean, John—has lured into misbehavior?”
“I did not lure the young lady into misbehavior.”
“No? Why am I not surprised? So what did happen? Some argument over the flora turn ugly?”
“Stop, Agatha. You are as bad as Pin-Johnny. No, I believe the young lady did the luring—and it was not Johnny she lured, but Vis—some other man.”
Thank God Mother had chosen discretion at the last moment. Agatha was obviously not one of society’s gossips, but she also did not watch her tongue. She would think nothing of linking Miss Peterson’s name with Bennington’s. She probably would delight in it—she knew how much Bennington hated her.
“So why is John the one stuck making the offer?”
“He was the one caught in the, um, act.”
“Mother, there was no ‘act’!”
“Perhaps not that Lady Dunlee saw; however…” Mother raised a damn expressive eyebrow.
Agatha grunted. “Sounds like the chit’s no better than she should be. Perhaps a little money judiciously applied will solve the problem. Who did you say she was, Cecilia?”
“I didn’t, but it’s no secret. Lady Dunlee was spreading the tale through the ballroom as quickly as her lips would move. It’s Miss Margaret Peterson—and no, money is not the answer. The girl is good ton. Her sister is the Marchioness of Knightsdale.”
“Knightsdale?” Agatha sat up a little straighter. “That’s the Draysmith family. Lady Bea is a friend of mine.”
“She was there. I believe she was acting as Miss Peterson’s chaperone.”
Agatha sprayed brandy over her banyan. “Lady Bea, a chaperone? That’s rich. What cod’s-head thought Bea would make a good duenna? She was never one to be overly concerned with propriety. Isn’t Alton still her butler?”
“Yes, well, I don’t
