shoulder opened Lady Fuddlesby’s bedchamber door, always left ajar for just this purpose. He swaggered across the room to where the lady, seated at her toilet table, applied rouge with a light hand to her round cheeks.
The soft pink of the cosmetic matched the decor of her ladyship’s apartments. Most of the gowns in her wardrobe were of that same hue, pink being her favorite and most becoming color.
Unlike her horse-mad sister, Clara, Lady Fuddlesby was all that was feminine. She could lay claim to great beauty in her youth and, despite the addition of thirty unwanted pounds, was still attractive at three and fifty.
“Oh, my dearest Knight, whatever have you there?” she asked, eyeing the parchment now dented with fang marks.
Knight in Masked Armour, for that was his full name, stood on his hind legs and dropped the missive in Lady Fuddlesby’s plump lap.
Breaking the seal, she said, “A letter from my younger sister. How singular! One wonders how she found the time away from her horses.”
Lady Fuddlesby perused the lines, clucking her tongue and emitting an occasional gasp. Knight sat at her feet in a patch of afternoon sunlight, his tail twitching with interest.
“Oh dear, oh dear. We are to have company, Knight. My niece, Henrietta. You have never met her, for she has spent her life isolated in the country, the poor dear. Goodness, she may arrive tomorrow!”
Perhaps in understanding of this bit of intelligence, and loath to share Lady Fuddlesby’s attentions with anyone, Knight turned his whiskers down. It had just been the two of them these past five years, unless one counted a house full of servants. Viscount Fuddlesby had died of an apoplexy one evening at White’s, over a particularly unfortunate hand of cards.
At the viscount’s death, Lady Fuddlesby had been obliged to pay off his excessive gambling debts. While she was left with the town house, and a sufficient but not large income, she found the cost of living in London and being in Society to be exorbitant. A more clever woman might have managed well, but while Lady Fuddlesby had a kind heart, she was somewhat lacking in judgment when it came to practicalities and economies.
“Well, it seems my sister has made a mull of it. I shall be obliged to introduce the gel to Society and find her a husband. Oh dear, oh dear, I do hope she’s in looks. It does make finding an eligible parti easier if one has beauty, especially when one is a mere squire’s daughter.”
A furrow that had appeared between Lady Fuddlesby’s brows eased. “I daresay I shall come about, Knight. After all, a generous draft on Mr. Lanford’s bank is included, so we needn’t worry the cost, and oh, I am sure Henrietta is a delight since her mama deplores her lack of interest in horses. It will be quite as if I had a child of my own.”
At these last words, a reproachful meow came from Knight’s throat.
“Oh! Forgive me, my darling boy,” Lady Fuddles-by cried. She reached down to scratch behind Knight’s ears, bringing an expression of intense contentment to his masked face.
Lady Fuddlesby straightened in her chair. In her mind she began to go over the upcoming Season’s list of eligibles. She did not get far in these musings before the Duke of Winterton’s name cried out in her brain.
No! Flying much too high, she thought. Still, how wonderful it would be, after all these years.
Clara had made her come-out the same year as Lady Matilda Danvers. They both had been drawn to the seventh Duke of Winterton. Matilda had won him, though, since she had been an earl’s daughter, while Clara was only a plain miss.
Forgetting almost thirty years of a comfortable marriage to Viscount Fuddlesby, Lady Fuddlesby grew agitated at the memory of her defeat.
How gratifying it would be if she could bring about a match between her niece and the present Duke of Winterton. Perhaps she would send him a card, asking him to call ... but she would have to see the girl first and be
The soft pink of the cosmetic matched the decor of her ladyship’s apartments. Most of the gowns in her wardrobe were of that same hue, pink being her favorite and most becoming color.
Unlike her horse-mad sister, Clara, Lady Fuddlesby was all that was feminine. She could lay claim to great beauty in her youth and, despite the addition of thirty unwanted pounds, was still attractive at three and fifty.
“Oh, my dearest Knight, whatever have you there?” she asked, eyeing the parchment now dented with fang marks.
Knight in Masked Armour, for that was his full name, stood on his hind legs and dropped the missive in Lady Fuddlesby’s plump lap.
Breaking the seal, she said, “A letter from my younger sister. How singular! One wonders how she found the time away from her horses.”
Lady Fuddlesby perused the lines, clucking her tongue and emitting an occasional gasp. Knight sat at her feet in a patch of afternoon sunlight, his tail twitching with interest.
“Oh dear, oh dear. We are to have company, Knight. My niece, Henrietta. You have never met her, for she has spent her life isolated in the country, the poor dear. Goodness, she may arrive tomorrow!”
Perhaps in understanding of this bit of intelligence, and loath to share Lady Fuddlesby’s attentions with anyone, Knight turned his whiskers down. It had just been the two of them these past five years, unless one counted a house full of servants. Viscount Fuddlesby had died of an apoplexy one evening at White’s, over a particularly unfortunate hand of cards.
At the viscount’s death, Lady Fuddlesby had been obliged to pay off his excessive gambling debts. While she was left with the town house, and a sufficient but not large income, she found the cost of living in London and being in Society to be exorbitant. A more clever woman might have managed well, but while Lady Fuddlesby had a kind heart, she was somewhat lacking in judgment when it came to practicalities and economies.
“Well, it seems my sister has made a mull of it. I shall be obliged to introduce the gel to Society and find her a husband. Oh dear, oh dear, I do hope she’s in looks. It does make finding an eligible parti easier if one has beauty, especially when one is a mere squire’s daughter.”
A furrow that had appeared between Lady Fuddlesby’s brows eased. “I daresay I shall come about, Knight. After all, a generous draft on Mr. Lanford’s bank is included, so we needn’t worry the cost, and oh, I am sure Henrietta is a delight since her mama deplores her lack of interest in horses. It will be quite as if I had a child of my own.”
At these last words, a reproachful meow came from Knight’s throat.
“Oh! Forgive me, my darling boy,” Lady Fuddles-by cried. She reached down to scratch behind Knight’s ears, bringing an expression of intense contentment to his masked face.
Lady Fuddlesby straightened in her chair. In her mind she began to go over the upcoming Season’s list of eligibles. She did not get far in these musings before the Duke of Winterton’s name cried out in her brain.
No! Flying much too high, she thought. Still, how wonderful it would be, after all these years.
Clara had made her come-out the same year as Lady Matilda Danvers. They both had been drawn to the seventh Duke of Winterton. Matilda had won him, though, since she had been an earl’s daughter, while Clara was only a plain miss.
Forgetting almost thirty years of a comfortable marriage to Viscount Fuddlesby, Lady Fuddlesby grew agitated at the memory of her defeat.
How gratifying it would be if she could bring about a match between her niece and the present Duke of Winterton. Perhaps she would send him a card, asking him to call ... but she would have to see the girl first and be
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