Free Barbara Metzger by Miss Lockharte's Letters

sipping his smooth, well-aged drink.
    "That's what I thought."
    When his discussion with Stubbing was over, Wynn went upstairs to scratch on his mother's door. He hadn't had enough to drink to face telling his sister that her would-be paramour would be imprisoned for debt if he showed his face again. And Old Humidor was his mother's problem, not his.
    "No, I cannot face him,” she cried from her chaise longue, having stuffed the novel she was reading under the cushions. Fluttering her handkerchief, she moaned weakly. “It is all my fault, and now we'll be ruined. Susan will never make a good marriage, my only son will hate me forever, and dear Theo will be banned from his clubs."
    "Good grief, Mother, what did the two of you do that you confessed in a hatband? No, please don't tell me, I beg of you. And please do not get yourself in such a state. It isn't good for your health. No one is going to broadcast your secrets, and if they do, no one is going to give the gossip any credit. You are a viscountess, for heaven's sake, one of the doyennes of the haut monde. Now why don't we go down and let Old, ah, Lord Hume take you for a ride in the park?"
    "No, I cannot go out. I cannot face the world.” The hand at her breast added a nice, dramatic touch, she thought.
    It also dislodged the novel, which fell at Wynn's feet. He eyed her suspiciously. “Coming too strong, maman. Just what is it that you don't want to do?"
    The dowager straightened the blanket on her knees, not looking at her handsome, cynical son. She didn't even try to gammon him anymore. “Lenore is sick and cannot chaperon your sister tonight."
    "Do not look at me that way, Mother. It won't kill the chit to stay home for once. She can spend one evening reading improving works or doing needlework with you. It seems to me that you've been embroidering the same chair cushions for the last six years."
    Lady Stanford did not want to discuss her embroidery or the purple-covered novels residing in her workbasket. “Your sister is a debutante. She must go out, must be seen."
    He snorted. “She's been out for well over a year, Mother, and is an acclaimed Toast. She is hardly liable to be forgotten in one night."
    "She has already accepted."
    "Then you and Hume can take her to whichever ball or breakfast or whatever the boring entertainment is tonight."
    "Theo is too distressed. He really is, Wynn. And he gets dyspeptic when he is upset. Besides, he hates to play for the chicken stakes at those affairs."
    "I see, so you think to foist the escort duty off on me. It won't wash, Mother. I have more important things to do."
    "Like hide out in that smelly workroom? Or stay all night at that place in Kensington?"
    "What do you know about the place in Kensington?"
    "What, do you think your father didn't have his chère amie stashed somewhere, that I wouldn't know about such things? If he hadn't, Theo and I mightn't have—but that's not the point. You should be going to these affairs, Wynn, to find a wife. Just think, then it would be her duty to chaperon your sister."
    "Zeus, how did we get from Hume's heartburn to my bride? You haven't been talking to the chaps at Whitehall, have you?"
    "Well, Susan is not going to find an eligible parti sitting at home either. I'll never have grandchildren at this rate."
    "Mother, I—"
    "Go. What do you care that I should be back in Bath, where the doctors are knowledgeable about my condition, the waters are healthful, and the air is clean? You're too selfish to get married, and now you won't help your sister find a husband."
    What, did his mother think he wanted her and Susan living in his house forever? The viscount had been trying to get the chit fired off for ages, it seemed. He might have more luck if she stopped weeping.
     
    "Dash it, Sukey, you look like a sausage, all red and puffy. And I don't appreciate your turning into a watering pot over some foolish masquerade."
    Susan left the window seat in the morning room, where she'd been