Free The Importance of Being Wicked by Miranda Neville Page B

their masters’ new clothes. Miss Brotherton would appreciate them too.
    That final thought rang a false note. Nothing in his acquaintance with her indicated the slightest interest in fashion, men’s or women’s. Her cousin, on the other hand, demonstrated a distinct sense of style. He could readily imagine her being attracted to gentlemen of tonnish appearance, like that abominable Horner. He wouldn’t want to look like that blackguard with his wandering hands. Horner was the kind of man Mrs. Townsend admired.
    But Mrs. Townsend had considerable influence on her cousin. She thought Thomas a stick-in-the-mud, she’d made that perfectly clear. If he improved his appearance, she might put in a good word for him with Anne. That was, of course, the only reason to impress her. He had no other motive in seeking her approval of his person.
    â€œI daresay London tailors’ prices are excessive,” he remarked.
    Minchin looked horrified at the introduction of such a vulgar topic. “Naturally, no reputable tradesman would dun Your Grace.”
    Of course not. He could buy half the contents of Bond Street on his credit. But adding to his father’s debts was not his goal in coming to London. His niggling sense of responsibility quashed the fleeting urge to order an entirely new wardrobe. A new coat or two would be quite sufficient for Mrs. Townsend.
    For Miss Brotherton, rather.
    And they wouldn’t be striped.
    M r. Schweitzer proved accommodating—also persuasive. Thomas assuaged his guilt at ordering so many new garments by calling them an investment. The tailor’s accommodation didn’t extend to an ability to deliver a new coat in less than a fortnight. Thomas escorted Miss Brotherton on an afternoon visit to the British Museum without being able to test the efficacy of his improved wardrobe. His lack of the latest mode mattered not a whit. Compared to the gentlemen patronizing Montagu House that day, he was a dapper monument to the tailor’s art.
    It was, undoubtedly, the most tedious three hours he’d ever spent. His companion evinced enormous and interminable enthusiasm for the most appalling lot of rubbish: rusty coins, broken pots and—in particular—tiny square tiles in varying shades of dull.
    Things looked up a little in the carriage on the way home, when Miss Brotherton subjected him to a minute interrogation into the location, size, and terrain of his various estates. Since he was well versed in the extent of her own very numerous acres, he found this interest encouraging. She must be considering the marriage of their holdings, which would produce a landed fortune surpassed by few in England.
    â€œAnd in Wiltshire,” he concluded his accounting, “there are about six hundred acres, mostly arable.”
    â€œHave you ever followed a plow, Duke?”
    â€œAre you serious, Miss Brotherton?”
    â€œI would so like to. Mr. Hooke of Wiltshire discovered not one but two Roman villas on his land when the plow threw up tesserae.”
    Tesserae, tesserae. He’d heard that word. “Those little tiles you were showing me?” Insisted on showing him. No wonder they were all the color of mud. That’s where they’d come from.
    â€œThe small tiles from which the Romans made their paved floors. Mr. Hooke found the most elegant mosaic pavement under his fields. How I would like to see it.”
    â€œHow fortunate for him. You should visit.” No doubt she was suggesting that after their marriage they might, during a visit to his estate in that county, call on Mr. Hooke. He had no objection.
    â€œThink how marvelous it would be to discover such remains and excavate them. You should order your tenants to look carefully when they plow.”
    He could just imagine what his tenants would say to such a command, not to mention the loss of productive land should any Roman ruins be discovered.
    â€œHave you looked on your own