y.” She gave his appearance another once-over before returning her attention to the papers before her.
Demmit, he knew he shouldn’t have come up to the house in a clean waistcoat and jacket. She’d most definitely gotten the wrong idea. And of course, she failed to mention Miss Smythe’s whereabouts. Deliberately, if he knew his mother.
He ran his hand over his chin and winced when he came to the nick he’d given himself shaving. Still, in his favor, if his mother had an opinion as to his nattily tied cravat and pressed jacket, she said nothing—for once. He could only imagine the earful he’d be getting if he’d succeeded in convincing his father’s valet, Rogers, to give his hair a trim.
Rather than offer her any further cause for speculation, he dug into his meal and kept his gaze pinned on the food before him.
But it wasn’t long before he broke the silence between them, allowing his curiosity to get the better of him. “Mother?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could muster. “Where is Miss Smythe? Aren’t prospective brides allowed a last supper?” He managed a light smile as if he were just trying to make some pleasant conversation.
After all, it would be odd if he didn’t ask about their houseguest, wouldn’t it?
“She was a bit fatigued from our shopping trip and so I told her not to worry about making herself presentable for supper. Addison is taking her a tray.”
A bit fatigued? He didn’t like the sound of that. “I told you that she shouldn’t be dragged about,” he said, letting his temper get the better of him. “You’ve probably worn her out completely.”
His mother’s brow arched, and once again that knowing gaze fell on him. “I doubt that,” she said with a bemused tone. “She appeared quite fit when I checked on her not a half an hour ago.”
Well, she needn’t smile about it, he thought. His concern had been naught but… Oh, demmit, he could hardly tell his mother that he’d made a promise to take the lady to Brighton. Yet how was he going to do that if his mother insisted on dragging the poor chit about and wearing her to a frazzle?
They ate for a time in silence, Jemmy considering all the ways he could smuggle Miss Smythe out of the shire. If only he had one of the Danvers brothers about. They always seemed to know how to take care of these clandestine matters.
Though if he were truly going to use them as examples, he should well consider that each time one of them had set out to help a lady he’d found himself married to the wily minx.
Jemmy wanted to groan.
Just then, Addison came in. “My lady, Mrs. Radleigh tells me that she found the extra china in the attic, and that along with the plate and silver Lady Kirkwood is sending over, we should have enough to seat all the guests for the midnight supper.” The ever efficient butler noticed Jemmy’s empty glass and immediately filled it.
The man must have known that he was going to need the fortification.
Jemmy shot a wary glance at his mother. “Just how many people do you plan to invite?” He took a sip of the rich burgundy, trying to appear as uninterested as possible.
His mother shuffled through her papers until she found the correct list. “The last count was one hundred and twelve.”
“Wha-a-a-t?” he sputtered.
“Those are only the ones I’m positive will arrive in time. Though I do hope Lord and Lady Worledge can come,” she said, barely sparing him a glance. “It is short notice, but one can always depend on Camilla to bring a crowd along—especially since all five of her sons are currently in Town.” She paused for a moment, a calculating look on her face as she surveyed her list. She glanced up and smiled. “And not a one married.”
Lord Worledge’s rabble? Oh, this had gone too far. Jemmy tried his best to remain calm as he broached the subject with his mother. He failed utterly.
“That horde of idiots?” he burst out. “Are you mad? The eldest is in his cups every waking moment, while the next one gambles without a care, or the means, I might add.” He threw down his napkin and frowned. “How can you even consider any of that lot for Miss Smythe?”
“And whyever not?” his mother demanded. “The viscount shan’t live too much longer. Lord knows, I have a hard time believing he’s lasted these past few years, what with his gout and heart ailment. That only makes his eldest son all that much more appealing, despite his unfortunate tendencies toward drink. Imagine, your Miss Smythe a viscountess, and quite possibly a widow in short order.”
“She is not ‘my Miss Smythe’!” Jemmy said, a mite too adamantly, uncomfortable with the notion of Miss Smythe being married, let alone a widow free of society’s restraints. “Truly, Mother, this is getting out of hand.”
“How so?” Lady Finch asked, setting her pen down. “If Esme is to find Miss Smythe the perfect groom, she will need a good selection of eligible men from which to choose.”
“But don’t you think this is a bit much?” he asked. “Next thing you know, you’ll tell me you’ve invited Prinny and the unmarried dukes.”
“Oh, go on. Miss Smythe is quality, but she’s certainly not royalty. Besides, Esme was quite specific about the sort of man she is looking to match with the gel. And I happen to agree with her.”
“And you think you can get enough of this ‘sort’ here on such short notice?”
“Of course, or else I wouldn’t be borrowing Lady Kirkwood’s spare china service.”
“But Mother, how do you expect the staff to handle all this? After all, we don’t entertain.” In fact, in his entire life he couldn’t think of his parents ever putting on a ball.
His mother had gone back to surveying her list. “Then it is about time we did.”