bed of his mistress—a fact that had become one of the more enduring jokes among the ton . It had been less funny to Elliott’s mother—not funny at all, in fact, even though she had long known, as everyone had, of her husband’s infidelity.
Everyone but Elliott.
As well as longevity, the males of their line were also renowned for the long-term mistresses and their children that they kept in addition to their wives and legitimate offspring. His grandfather’s liaison had come to an end only with the death of his mistress ten years or so ago. There had been eight children of that relationship. His father had left five behind, all comfortably provided for.
No one could accuse the Wallace men of not doing their part to populate the country.
Anna had no children—his or anyone else’s. Elliott suspected that she knew a way of preventing conception, and he was glad of it. He had no children of other mistresses either.
He might have sent George down here alone, he reflected, bringing his mind back to the present situation. Bowen was perfectly capable of carrying out the business himself. Elliott had not needed to come in person. But duty once embarked upon, he had found, imposed its own dreary code of honor, and so here he was in a part of the country that must be the very middle of nowhere even if it was picturesque—or would be once spring decided to show its face if George was to be believed.
They had put up at the only inn in Throckbridge, though it was but a country establishment with no pretension to elegance—it was not even a posting inn. They had intended to proceed to business before the afternoon was out. Elliott had hoped to begin the return journey tomorrow though George had predicted that another day, perhaps even two, was a distinct probability—and even that might be an overoptimistic estimate.
But the inn had proved to boast one fatal feature, as so many village inns did, dash it all. It had assembly rooms on the upper floor. And those rooms were to be put to use this very evening. He and George had had the singular misfortune of arriving on the day of a village dance. It really had not occurred to either of them that the inhabitants of a remote English village might take it into their heads to celebrate St. Valentine’s Day. It had not even struck Elliott that this was St. Valentine’s Day, for God’s sake.
The assembly rooms were directly above his head as he continued to recline in his chair beside the fire despite the fact that it was not a vastly comfortable piece of furniture and the fire needed more coal and the bell rope was just out of his reach. The assembly rooms were also directly above his bedchamber. They were directly above everything . There would be no escaping the sounds and vibrations of prancing feet thumping over his bed for half the night. His ears would be assailed by merry music—doubtless inferior and inexpertly played—and loud voices and louder laughter.
He would be fortunate indeed if he were able to snatch one wink of sleep. Yet what else was there to do in this godforsaken place but try? He had not even brought a book with him—a massive oversight.
Sir Humphrey Dew, whom Elliott had never met before this afternoon, was the sort of gentleman who asked a thousand questions and answered nine hundred and ninety of them himself. He had asked them if they would do the village the honor of attending the ball and assured them that he was much obliged to them for their kind condescension in so honoring his humble self and neighborhood. He had asked them if he might call for them at eight and assured them that they were doing him far more honor than he would be doing them a favor. He asked if he might then present them to a select number of his neighbors and assured them that they would not be sorry to make the acquaintance of such agreeable and distinguished persons—though none as agreeable and distinguished as themselves, of course. Lady Dew would be
Everyone but Elliott.
As well as longevity, the males of their line were also renowned for the long-term mistresses and their children that they kept in addition to their wives and legitimate offspring. His grandfather’s liaison had come to an end only with the death of his mistress ten years or so ago. There had been eight children of that relationship. His father had left five behind, all comfortably provided for.
No one could accuse the Wallace men of not doing their part to populate the country.
Anna had no children—his or anyone else’s. Elliott suspected that she knew a way of preventing conception, and he was glad of it. He had no children of other mistresses either.
He might have sent George down here alone, he reflected, bringing his mind back to the present situation. Bowen was perfectly capable of carrying out the business himself. Elliott had not needed to come in person. But duty once embarked upon, he had found, imposed its own dreary code of honor, and so here he was in a part of the country that must be the very middle of nowhere even if it was picturesque—or would be once spring decided to show its face if George was to be believed.
They had put up at the only inn in Throckbridge, though it was but a country establishment with no pretension to elegance—it was not even a posting inn. They had intended to proceed to business before the afternoon was out. Elliott had hoped to begin the return journey tomorrow though George had predicted that another day, perhaps even two, was a distinct probability—and even that might be an overoptimistic estimate.
But the inn had proved to boast one fatal feature, as so many village inns did, dash it all. It had assembly rooms on the upper floor. And those rooms were to be put to use this very evening. He and George had had the singular misfortune of arriving on the day of a village dance. It really had not occurred to either of them that the inhabitants of a remote English village might take it into their heads to celebrate St. Valentine’s Day. It had not even struck Elliott that this was St. Valentine’s Day, for God’s sake.
The assembly rooms were directly above his head as he continued to recline in his chair beside the fire despite the fact that it was not a vastly comfortable piece of furniture and the fire needed more coal and the bell rope was just out of his reach. The assembly rooms were also directly above his bedchamber. They were directly above everything . There would be no escaping the sounds and vibrations of prancing feet thumping over his bed for half the night. His ears would be assailed by merry music—doubtless inferior and inexpertly played—and loud voices and louder laughter.
He would be fortunate indeed if he were able to snatch one wink of sleep. Yet what else was there to do in this godforsaken place but try? He had not even brought a book with him—a massive oversight.
Sir Humphrey Dew, whom Elliott had never met before this afternoon, was the sort of gentleman who asked a thousand questions and answered nine hundred and ninety of them himself. He had asked them if they would do the village the honor of attending the ball and assured them that he was much obliged to them for their kind condescension in so honoring his humble self and neighborhood. He had asked them if he might call for them at eight and assured them that they were doing him far more honor than he would be doing them a favor. He asked if he might then present them to a select number of his neighbors and assured them that they would not be sorry to make the acquaintance of such agreeable and distinguished persons—though none as agreeable and distinguished as themselves, of course. Lady Dew would be