know him.
Tavin’s fists clenched. His legs twitched. He needed to move. Needed to do something, be anywhere but here. His aunt was a gossip. No doubt she’d tattle to her friends he was in town and at the circus, of all places.
Worse, her whispers would reach his grandmother.
Tavin paced his grandmother’s gold-and-crimson Aubusson rug, no doubt wearing holes into the wool. By his best estimation, he’d waited thirty minutes to be received, twenty minutes past his point of patience.
His occupation demanded waiting, true. Hiding, observing and loitering in cold, in damp, in darkness, all for a case.
But waiting for a woman? That was another matter.
Perhaps he should sit down, but he’d never trusted the dainty-legged, feminine furniture in this room, all painted silk chairs and narrow pink lounges. He’d be seated when all other options were exhausted.
With the click of the latch, the door opened, revealing Groves, the ancient, snub-nosed butler. Striding past the servant in a rustle of plum-colored fabric, the tiny Dowager Duchess of Kelworth bustled into the room. Her lace cap framed her wrinkled cheeks, giving her a maternal appearance, but Tavin wasn’t fooled.
“How nice of you to condescend to visit your grandmother.”
“Forgive my overlong absence, Your Grace.” He bent to kiss the pale, rose-scented wrist of the woman he’d never called Grandmother. He wouldn’t have dared address her as anything but Your Grace or ma’am. Neither, come to think of it, had his mother.
The dowager settled into a Chippendale chair by the hearth. “Tea, dear boy?”
“How thoughtful.” He perched on the fragile-looking sofa where she had bade him to be seated, near enough to note the additional strands of gray peeking out from under her cap. “You are well?”
“I am never unwell. I wouldn’t wish to give my enemies the satisfaction.”
“Indeed not.”
“Nor did I admit to surprise when Caroline mentioned seeing you, at a circus, with children—”
The clatter of cups and silver sounded from the door. The dowager poured fragrant bohea and served buttered bread, which he took despite not wanting it.
“I was with Lord Wyling.” He hoped the explanation was enough. “The boys are his wife’s nephews.”
“Still no heir for him? ’Tis the fault of his wife, for certain. She is but what, a baron’s country relation? What a waste.”
His fingers rapped the arms of his chair. “The Countess of Wyling is a worthy wife to my closest friend.”
Her expression didn’t alter from bland courtesy. “How is your tea? It was our custom to enjoy tea every school holiday, do you recall?”
As if he could forget. Back then, he’d thought those years would be the worst of his life. He’d been a fool. “You taught me many things during those afternoons.”
Like how to pretend he didn’t have a Scottish father.
Tavin’s father might have been too lowborn to wed a duke’s daughter, but he was no pauper. Their home in Perthshire was large and fine, the land abundant with healthy herds of Highland cattle and black-nosed sheep. It was a glorious, rich place where Tavin—although yearning for more attention from his parents—was happy.
And he was Scottish. He had known nothing else, known naught of his English family, until the dowager duchess had appeared like a violent storm, rushing him south as if on a flood. She’d insisted he receive a proper education at Eton—a gift she had not provided his elder brother, Hamish, who was heir to Scottish land, not fitting for her cause.
His grandmother sighed, as if wistful. “I saw more of you in your school days, despite our residence in the same city now. One might be inclined to take offense.”
“I have been traveling on business, Your Grace.”
She waved her hand. “Men and their business. But you are here now. For how long?”
Until Garner freed him from playing nursemaid. “Indeterminate at this time.”
“Then you must come for supper and tell me how your dear brother fares.”
The rich taste of his buttered bread soured on his tongue, and he swallowed it down with a painful jerk. “I would be honored, but you know I cannot provide any information on Hamish.”
She sipped her tea. “’Tis a pity when relations disagree. Even when they are in error, as your mother was. But let us not speak of that. I sense you are not here out of familial duty. Is it something as vulgar as money, then?”
He choked on his tea. “No, Your Grace. I would ask a favor, if I may.”
“Why should you not? My connections are estimable.” Her expression held no trace of self-deprecating mirth or apology. She stated facts, ’twas all.
Why was he less afraid of criminals than the woman before him?
“I require entrance to Almack’s.” And he must have the approval of a patroness to procure a voucher.
Ah, she reacted at last, her brow furrowing like a tilled field. “I may be aged, grandson, but my hearing has not yet gone the way of panniers and powdered wigs. Or so I thought. You said Almack’s?”
He’d prefer to be cuffed by a beefy-armed smuggler than don high-heeled, beribboned shoes and do the pretty at Almack’s. “I did.”
Glee sparkled like jet in her gray eyes. “Almack’s? The most tedious of places for a gentleman of your age?”
“I do not wish to go—”
“No man does. But you will go. This is delicious.”
“You misunderstand, ma’am.” A headache manifested, pounding directly between his eyes.
“Pah. Why else would you subject yourself to the marriage mart if it wasn’t for a female? Am I wrong?”
The pounding in his head intensified. Could he not just lie? “It is not what you think.”
“Of course it is. You are seven-and-twenty, and finally a lady has caught your eye. But Almack’s, darling? Isn’t this like diving headfirst into a shallow pond?”
“Please, Your Grace?”
“Will you not tell me the lady’s identity? If she is to marry into this family I must ensure she is suitable.”
He stared at the plaster ceiling. “I am not marrying anyone.”
“Yet.” She cackled. “Very well. I shall compose a missive to Lady Cowper the minute you leave. She will not deny my request.” She lifted her shoulders like an excited young girl. Or an imp, bent on mischief.
