“You did say that you would attend the theatre with me,” James said, two days later, having popped by Kittridge House for afternoon tea.
Jilly had to admit that she didn’t find his presence quite as galling as she might’ve before. She had even deigned to prepare his tea the way he had requested it this time. Milk and sugar—three lumps. The man had a terrible sweet tooth. He’d plowed right through a plate and half of Cook’s tea cakes already, and showed no signs of slowing down. She had thought about inquiring whether or not his own cook was feeding him at all, but decided against it.
“Be that as it may,” she said. “It cannot be tonight. Aunt Marcheline is indisposed with a headache, and my lady’s maid has the day off.”
“It has got to be tonight,” James replied, a touch crossly. “You haven’t a free evening between now and the Hewlitts’ house party at the end of the week. I don’t care to wait an entire fortnight.”
“Be that as it may,” Jilly repeated, “Some things cannot be helped. This is one of them.”
“Lots of things can be helped when you’re a duke,” he said. “Improbable things. Even impossible ones.” He crammed another pastry into his mouth, chewing viciously. “Give me an hour,” he said. “I’ll return with a suitable chaperone secured.” And he had swept out of the house, fairly bowling over poor Fenton, who had been stationed right outside the drawing room, as he did so.
Jilly had simply rolled her eyes and sighed, then retrieved a gothic novel from the library to read while she awaited the inevitable note that would be sent round admitting defeat. Some things were impossible even if you were a duke.
She was surprised, however, as less than forty minutes later James came striding back in the door without so much as a knock, jabbed a finger in her direction, and declared, “Ha!”
“Ha?” she inquired, snapping the book closed and laying it aside. “What, exactly, do you mean by ‘ha’?”
“I mean I have found you a chaperone,” he said, with a triumphant smile. “A perfectly acceptable one. You may safely attend the theatre with me, and no one will think anything of it.”
He looked so pleased with himself that she nearly expected him to begin rubbing his hands together like the villain in some wretched melodrama. His hair was tousled from the wind, and his coat was just a bit wrinkled, as if he had been in such an all-fired hurry to accomplish his goal that he hadn’t taken care with it. His valet was sure to have conniptions.
“I am afraid it is not that simple,” she said. “My aunt will have to approve this mystery chaperone—”
“Oh, she will,” he said. “I’ve secured the company of Lord and Lady Ravenhurst.”
She felt her mouth drop open. “That’s impossible—they have an engagement this evening. It’s Robert’s uncle’s birthday.”
His grin widened. “They sent their regrets.”
“They did not,” she gasped.