“I heard every word. But that duke—handsome, brooding devil that he is. I do like a bit of arrogance when it’s deserved, and I suspect in his case it is. The man has potential, but it won’t hurt him to be taken down a peg or two.”

“Potential? He’s a duke!”

“Yes, dear, I noticed, but he’s also just a man, and a man, as dear George pointed out, who has no doubt been indulged and spoiled and pampered all his life. I’ve never had any time for that silly mother of his.”

“The duchess is a friend of mine,” Aunt Agatha said stiffly.

“Yes, I know, strange as it is. Can’t think what you see in her, Aggie—and, yes, I know she’s your goddaughter but you needn’t be friends with a goddaughter—but of course, she’s a duchess, so of course you’re friends.”

Aunt Agatha made an offended huffing noise and stared out the window for a minute or two. Aunt Dottie glanced at George and winked. George grinned back at her.

Aunt Agatha thought of another grievance. “And that reminds me, Dorothea. What did you say to the duke as we were leaving?”

Aunt Dottie smiled. “I reminded him about our ball, of course—Rose did give him an invitation, didn’t she, George?”

“Yes,” George said. “In person.” He hadn’t exactly received it with pleasure. His response at the time had been scathing. She’d added her own mite: If you came, you could demonstrate to the ton your supreme indifference. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? He’d ignored her, acted as if she wasn’t even in the room.

“Of all the foolish things,” Aunt Agatha snapped. “Of course he won’t come to the ball. Why would he court humiliation? Attend a ball that was to have been his own wedding ball and is now to celebrate Rose’s hole-in-the-corner marriage to a nobody? Ridiculous!”

“That boy will surprise you,” Aunt Dottie said tranquilly.

“Which one?” George asked.

“Both of them, I hope. Rose’s husband is a dark horse, and the duke is a dark horse of a different color.” She clapped her hands. “All these lovely handsome young men. I’m so looking forward to the ball.”

Aunt Agatha snorted.

Chapter Five

Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.

—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA

Several evenings later, Sinc called in at Everingham House to collect Hart for a card night out with friends.

“Won’t be a minute,” Hart told him, shuffling through a pile of invitation cards. “Just need to get this off. Help yourself to a drink if you want one.”

Sinc sauntered over to the bottles and decanters set out on a side table and with comfortable familiarity helped himself. “What is it?”

“Just need to respond to an invitation.”