Lady Clementine nodded eagerly. “I could see why you should want to keep it.”
“I cannot,” Roman muttered.
Aunt Mary shook her head with a sigh. “The men of my family are not romantic souls. However, my husband feared the content to be too scandalous and for a while it was sealed in my dressing table. We moved it some years ago when the room was redecorated but I cannot recall where it was put, unfortunately.” She pressed a finger to her head. “My memory is not what it was.”
“Goodness.”
Roman spied Lady Clementine’s soft smile and resisted the desire to roll his eyes. But of course his aunt would have the evidence of the treachery his family were so desperate to forget. But of course Lady Clementine would enjoy the mystery and the romance of it. Could these women not be practical for two minutes?
“Do you have any idea where it might be?” Roman asked.
His aunt took a leisurely gulp of lemonade and shrugged. “I shall have to think carefully.”
“I can help you search for it,” suggested Lady Clementine.
Roman narrowed his gaze at her. “You can do nothing. You cannot search a whole house in the time you have left.”
She shot a glare his way. “But if I do not find it, someone else might.”
“Who knows of this letter?” he asked his aunt.
“Only myself, your father – now you, of course – and my husband.” Aunt Mary paused. “At least, I’m fairly certain we were the only three.”
He closed his eyes briefly. Wonderful. For all they knew, his aunt had been careless with her chatter and told someone about the letter. It was powerful evidence and could well be used against the family. He had no intention of it going anywhere else other than onto hot coals.
“If this person is trying to get to the letter,” Lady Clementine said, “it would be prudent for us to find it first.”
“Yes, and two people have a better chance than one,” his aunt concurred.
Well, now he really wanted to go and lie down. Or better yet, have a stiff drink. More time with Lady Clementine would be a dangerous thing indeed; both for their reputations and his sanity.
Chapter Seven
If it wasn’t for Ivy, Clem would most decidedly not be attending this reading. The crowds outside the assembly hall indicated Sir Teddy Bromwich’s appearance was to be a popular one. Clem resisted the urge to roll her eyes when she heard a man nearby tell his lady companion how compelling the man’s latest book was.
If his last book was anything to go by, Clem had no interest in reading it. As far as she could tell it was some sort of male fantasy in which the hero, despite being an inexperienced English gentleman, was able to save the world from many a hideous beast and swoop every woman he met into his arms. It was all nonsense, as far as she was concerned.
Ivy, however, was not so judgmental and deemed every book to be of merit, even if it was utter nonsense. Her sister thought something could be gleaned from any piece of writing. Clem glanced at her dark-haired, dark-eyed sister and allowed herself a smile. She was too damned sweet, and useless authors like Sir Teddy did not deserve her sister’s time.
“Should we head in, Mama?” Ivy asked, moving onto tiptoes to peer above the crowds. “I do not much fancy remaining out here.”
“Just a moment,” Mama said, patting Ivy’s arm. “I was hoping to see Mrs. Lewis. I need to return her shawl.”
Clem scowled. “I thought she was visiting with her daughter in the country, Mama. She was to return before the start of the Season I think.”
“Oh yes.” Her mother laughed—the sort of laugh that always drew attention no matter where they were. It always made Clem smile. “One day I shall forget my own head.”
Lady Fenhurst thought differently apparently if the statuesque woman’s sniff and withering glance over were anything to go by. Mama ignored the look or was ignorant to it and Clem shot her own hard stare back. From the corner of her eye, Clem saw Ivy tighten her grip on her beaded reticule. Their reasoning for remaining in Bath was that the majority of those who visited were in ignorance as to the family’s reputation or did not care as much but that didn’t mean they managed to avoid censure entirely.
Of course, Lady Fenhurst was about the biggest snob in Bath and was determined to wheedle her own way back into the good graces of thetonby any means necessary, even if it meant giving their mother, the Countess of Portchester, the cut direct.
Clem couldn’t bring herself to care what Lady Fenhurst thought of them. If the woman’s hat choices were anything to go by, she had no taste at all. If only her shyest sister had not seemed bothered by it, she would not have even noticed.
“You might find a suitor here,” her mother said.
A suitor? She gave her mother a slanted look. Why should her mother wish her to find a suitor? Surely her near brush with marriage nearly ten years ago at such a tender age should be enough to put her mother off the idea.
“Why are you speaking of marriage, Mama?”