Her ladyship rose. “That is all I wanted to know. I am glad you were not injured, and I am really very interested in your sword parasol, but perhaps not today.” She turned to her mother. “Mama, are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, dear.” She rose from the sofa. “I have some choice words for a certain male child of mine.”

At the mention of Montagu, tears pricked Eleanor’s eyes. She was not going to cry. Yet she must tell her family she now knew he was not the man she thought he was. “I have decided Lord Montagu and I do not suit. I am going to my chamber.”

“I will go with her,” Grace said, and Eleanor was glad. She needed to talk with someone.

* * *

Matt stared at the door as it closed behind his wife and sister. Lady Bellamny had informed them of what had occurred. Then Lady Montagu and Lady Lytton told them Montagu had been in a towering rage and blamed his sister for the attack on Eleanor. The question they must deal with now was what to do about the idiot’s behavior and Eleanor’s refusal to marry him because of it. Matt had no doubt his sister and Montagu had been intimate. Unfortunately, in this family that became a minor event when a gentleman became a tyrant. Left to the ladies, Eleanor would be sent abroad to travel or some other such thing. It was up to Matt to try to get the couple back together again in time for the wedding.

He turned to his cousin and brothers-in-law. “Does anyone want to take a wild guess at what Montagu said to her?”

Kenilworth’s elbows were on the chair arms and he pressed the tip of one finger to his mouth. “I think it will have been along the lines of telling her she can no longer have anything to do with the mine. And she will do as he says.”

“At least I wasn’t that stupid,” Rothwell mused.

Of course he almost lost Louisa by not telling her what she needed to know.

Kenilworth strolled over to the sideboard and held up a decanter of wine. “One of us has to talk to him.”

Matt nodded, and his old friend handed him a glass of his own wine. “It must be someone who behaved in the same fashion and understands what Montagu is suffering.”

Rothwell took a glass of claret as well. “That would not be me.”

“No.” Matt took a sip of wine. “Nor me, nor Kenilworth. Merton.”

He took a glass from Kenilworth. “Yes, I’ll do it.

Rothwell saluted Merton with his glass. “Groveling will be required.”

“You’re still not over that?” Kenilworth quipped. “I’m certain the rest of us have recovered from our groveling.”

Rothwell looked into his wineglass, then twirled it. “I may never be over it. Dukes aren’t supposed to grovel.”