Free Duel of Hearts by Anita Mills Page B

suppose,” she decided. “Then there is no help for it, is there? If you are caught, we will have to see the girl established. I would not for the world behave shabbily to your wife, Tony, and I’d not see her cut by the ton either. Mind you, I do not like it that she is a Cit, but if she carries on the Barsett line, I’ll give her her due.”
    â€œInterrupted by a timid knock at the door, the old woman barked impatiently, “Yes—what is it?”
    The door opened slowly to admit Mrs. Buckhaven bearing a small tray of sweet cakes. “Cook did not have many left,” she apologized as she set the tray down.
    â€œSweet cakes! Humph! Ring the bell-pull and see if there’s aught substantial left of dinner, Bucky! M’nevvy’s nigh famished—ain’t you?” she asked Tony. “Well, whilst you eat, we shall plan how best to present Miss Cole this Season. Bucky”—she turned her attention to her companion again—“we are opening Davenham House for a party in honor of m’niece-to-be. Tony’s marrying an Original! And, Bucky, do get my glass and a pen—we’ve got a guest list to plan. I mean to set the ton on their ears! Invite everybody! Give ’em enough to gossip about each other so’s they’ll leave the gel alone!”
    â€œEverybody, Aunt Hester?” Tony asked, suppressing a grin.
    â€œEverybody! Don’t mean to leave any of ’em out! Rakes, gamesters—the whole lot of ’em!”
    â€œBut, Your Grace—the Season calendar is set for April, I am sure,” Mrs. Buckhaven ventured timidly.
    â€œNonsense! London’s thin of company yet, ain’t it? Besides, ’tis Davenham House I am opening to them, Bucky—they’ll come.”

Chapter 9
9
    H aving spent a sleepless night tortured by her fears for her father and nightmares of Lord Lyndon, Leah rose early and invaded her father’s chamber. To her relief, he looked much better, his color having improved greatly, and he was his usual irascible self. As she entered the room, she heard him muttering to his valet, “Damned Frenchie doctor.”
    â€œI collect you were wishful of your morning coffee,” she greeted him as she took a tray from the retreating footman. “Well, Dr. Fournier says ’tis not a restful drink, and therefore—”
    â€œI say hang Fournier—aye, and his prohibitions also,” he grumbled. “Afore long, there’ll not be a thing left to enjoy. A man might as well die and take his chances with perdition.”
    Having listened to the doctor’s opinion last night that her father did indeed have a weak heart, she forbore to argue for fear of oversetting him. “Humor him and see to his rest,” he’d advised. So she held her tongue and set the tray on a bedside table, saying brightly, “You have not even looked to see what Monsieur prepared this morning, have you?”
    â€œDon’t have to—ten to one, it ain’t fit for a man.” He raised his head to watch her lift the warming cover, then lay back. “Porridge! Ought to have known—pap fit only for a babe, I tell you! Well, I won’t have it, miss, and so I have told Wilson already! ‘If ’tis some damned horse mash,’ I told him, ‘I don’t want it.’ ” He eyed her with disfavor and shook his head. “And now here you bring it back to me.”
    Unperturbed, she reached for the napkin and tucked it under his chin. “It will not make you as bilious as sausages will,” she observed mildly as she dipped the silver spoon into the bowl. Leaning over him, she held the spoon in front of him and waited.
    â€œOverreaching yourself, ain’t you, missy!” he snapped. “I ain’t a babe to be fed.”
    â€œOf course you are not,” she said soothingly, “but you must eat if you are to feel better. Hunger makes you ill-tempered,