“My goodness, is it you, Douglas?” Simon Ambrose, Lord Montague, came quickly to his feet, blinked as he shoved his glasses up his nose, and nearly tripped over a journal that had fallen from the table at his side. He straightened himself and his vest.
“Yes, Simon, and I am here without invitation. I hope you will allow me to enter.”
Simon Ambrose laughed. “As if you wouldn’t be welcome to come into my bedchamber if you wished to leap through my window.” Simon frowned. “Of course, you wouldn’t be quite so welcome if you slipped into Maybella’s bedchamber, but that is a possibility that isn’t likely to occur, is it?”
“No more than you climbing in through Alexandra’s bedchamber window, Simon.”
“Now that is a thought that tickles my brain.”
“Don’t let it tickle too much.”
Lord Montague laughed, waved Douglas to a seat. “It is very pleasant to see you. Maybella, here is Lord Northcliffe. Maybella? ”You are not here? How very odd that I don’t see her, and I’d believed she was close by, maybe sewing in that chair over by the window. Simon sighed, then brightened. “Surely Corrie must be near. You know, she’s quite able to entertain guests in her aunt’s absence. Or maybe not.” He threw back his head and yelled, “Buxted!”
“Yes, my lord,” said Buxted, hovering at Lord Montague’s elbow. Simon shot into the air, knocked his glasses off, and stumbled backward to hit against a small marquetry table. Buxted grabbed his arm and pulled him upright with such energy that Simon nearly went over on his nose. Once Simon was upright, Buxted handed him his glasses, and straightened the table. He then began brushing off his master, saying, “Ah, my lord, what an idiot I am, surprising you as I would a young lass who’s hiked up her skirts to cross a stream.”
Simon said, “Ah, yes, that is better, and quite enough. What happens when you surprise a young lady with her skirt up, Buxted?”
“It was a thought that shouldn’t have traveled further than my fantasies, my lord. Wipe it from your mind, sir. Long white legs, that’s all there can be at the end of that delightful thought.”
Douglas remembered what Hollis had once said of Buxted, “He is quite maladroit, my lord, altogether scattered in his brain, and quite an entertaining fellow. He and Lord Montague fit together excellently.”
Douglas smiled to see Buxted still brushing off Simon even as Simon was trying to push him away. “Buxted,” Simon said, slapping at his hands, “I have need of Lady Maybella. If you cannot find her, then bring Corrie. Perhaps she is helping in the kitchen, the girl loves to bake berry tarts, at least she did when she was twelve. Douglas, do come in and sit down.”
“I don’t know who is where, my lord, no one tells me anything at all,” Buxted said. “Ah, my lord Northcliffe, please do be seated. Let me move his lordship’s precious journals from this lovely brocade winged chair. There, only three left, and that makes the chair look interesting, does it not?” Buxted hovered until Douglas sat himself on the three journals. Then he went flapping from the room, his bald head shiny with sweat.
Douglas smiled at his host. He quite liked Simon Ambrose. Simon was luckily rich enough so that he was known as eccentric, rather than batty. And he was as eccentric today as he’d been twenty years before, when, after his father had passed to the hereafter, Simon, now Viscount Montague, had taken himself to London, met and married Maybella Connaught, and brought her home to Twyley Grange, a neat Georgian house built upon the exact foundation of the granary attached to the long-defunct St. Lucien monastery.
Douglas knew that women vastly admired Simon until they came to know him well, and realized that his very handsome face and his sweet expression masked a mind that was usually elsewhere. But when, upon rare occasion, his mind did focus, Douglas knew he was very smart. Given Simon’s mental inattention, he’d wondered upon occasion how the wedding night had gone, but surely something had transpired since Maybella had birthed three children, all, unfortunately, having died in infancy. Simon had a younger brother, Borty, who was as batty as he was, waiting in the wings. His brother was obsessively devoted to the collection of acorns, not leaves, like Simon.
Simon said, his glasses now firmly on his nose, “Truly, Douglas, I didn’t forget you were coming, did I?”
“No, this is a surprise visit, Simo
n. I’m here because I fear my wife would come if I didn’t.”
“That’s all right, isn’t it? I quite like Alexandra. She could come into my bedchamber anytime she wished.”
“Yes, she is likable, but you can forget her coming through your bedchamber window, Simon. The point is that my wife has no taste in clothes.”
“I see. Goodness, I had no idea. I assure you, whenever I see her, I am struck by how very round and white, er, well, it’s best to stop right there, isn’t it? She is very lovely, I will say, and wisely leave it at that.”
“That is because I dress her,” Douglas said.
“Now there is a thought that stirs the imagination.”
“Don’t let it stir too much, Simon.”
“Yes, I can see that such an observation might quiver the embers of a man’s passions. But she is really quite lovely-well, perhaps it is best that I put a period to that thought. Now, is there a problem with Maybella’s clothes, Douglas? Or mine?”
Douglas sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “No problem at all. This is about Corrie. The thing is, Simon, Corrie is just like my wife in that she has no idea about clothes. When my wife told me she would speak with Maybella and advise Corrie, I knew that to avert complete disaster I had no choice but to come here myself and see to it. Now, if you will call in Corrie, I will tell her what it is she must wear. You know, the colors and styles of gowns and such. Of course, you want her to appear her best in London.”
“Well naturally,” Simon said, and blinked rapidly. “I’ve always thought Corrie dressed quite nicely, like her aunt, as a matter of fact, when she’s not wearing her breeches. Isn’t that odd that all her gowns are light blue, like Maybella’s? And her boots-they are always highly polished, at least they were the last time I chanced to notice them. But, perhaps that was a long time ago. I don’t often notice feet, you know.”
“No, probably not. I agree with you. Her breeches, in particular, are doubtless of excellent style and cut. But the thing is, Simon, London is a vastly different place. Young ladies don’t wear boots in London nor do they wear stylish breeches. You do remember?”
Simon sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. “Aye, Douglas, I remember all too well. It was only ten years ago that Maybella dragged me to London, to see a balloon ascension, she assured me. I was moved by her attempt to please me because I very much wanted to see the balloon ascension, Douglas, and it was indeed an incredible sight, but I fear I was taken in. It was six weeks before I could come home. There was only one other balloon ascension during that very long, tedious time. Do you mean that I must go there again?”
“Yes, you must. However, I fear that a balloon ascension isn’t a certain thing. The weather in the fall is unpredictable, and as you know, balloons need to have clear weather and very little wind.”