Free Autumn Glory and Other Stories by Bárbara Metzger Page A

that she had not protected the succession from second-son soldiers ruined her temperament. Still, she was nearly all the family Arthur had left except for some old aunts and distant cousins, so he made sure to call on her first, before she heard through the rumor mills that he was back in London. He handed his shako to Henry’s butler Udall and quickly combed his fingers through his blond curls as he followed the poker-backed servant down the hall.
    “At last!” Sylvia did not waste her breath on pleasantries. “I thought you’d never get here. Henry has been gone for over a year now. The least you could have done was sell out your foolish commission.”
    In the middle of a war? Arthur merely bowed over her plump hand, declaring that she looked well. She looked like a stuffed sausage, with a frizz of hennaed curls on top.
    “Well? How could I look well with all the worries on my shoulders, the thousands of details I am constantly bothered with?”
    Since the captain knew he had an excellent man of affairs in charge of the estate, one who communicated with him on a weekly basis, he could not imagine what had Sylvia in a swivet. He did stop wondering, however, why Henry undertook a reckless race to Brighton in the first place. “Yes, well, I am home now, so you may refer any difficulties to me. You have enough funds? The house is in order?”
    She waved his questions aside with a lace-edged handkerchief. Her other hand held a lemon tart. “Of course it’s in order. For the time being. Who knows what will happen next though, with a vagabond for viscount.”
    “Ma’am, I was with Wellington, not a band of Gypsies. Henry agreed I should go. He even bought my commission.” Arthur looked around for a decanter, but saw nothing but a pot of tea, to his regrets. Udall was playing least in sight, wise fellow that he was. At least the lemon tarts were good.
    “Faugh. Henry thought he’d live forever, too. Most likely the same as you do, with no thoughts to the future, to those dependent upon you. What would happen to me, I ask you, if you’d died of that wound?”
    “You’d have a handsome settlement and the dower house at your disposal. No one can take those from you, no matter what far-off cousin is viscount.”
    “Gammon. They are all strangers, not real family. But now that you are here, you will do your duty, I am sure.” Arthur thought about that Austrian princess he was supposed to squire about Town for the Foreign Office and shrugged.
    “Yes, and while you are looking around at the current crop of misses, you can be our escort, now that we are out of mourning and there are so many fetes and balls.”
    Arthur choked on his lemon tart and took a nasty gulp of too-hot tea. Looking around? Escort? We? He could feel a prickle at the back of his neck, the same kind of prickle that used to tell him there was danger ahead, enemies waiting in ambush. “I’m afraid I have duties still. I did write to you concerning this last assignment, didn’t I?”
    Sylvia swept his excuses aside like so many crumbs on her ample chest. “Nonsense. You know what is owed your family. An heir, for one.”
    “Surely it is early days for that. I have no intention of—”
    And Sylvia had no intention of letting this wealthy, titled gentleman slip through her hands. “Yes, and I am hoping you will consider my sister Elizabeth. A lovely girl, well bred, of course, with a handsome portion.”
    Arthur recalled Elizabeth Ferguson from Henry’s wedding. She’d been skinny, spotty, and shy then. He saw no reason to believe she’d improved with age. “Is Miss Ferguson with you in London, then?”
    “Of course. Where else should she be, with all the festivities going on? We’ll be much more comfortable now, with a gentleman’s escort.”
    “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, ma’am. As I explained, I am to be squire to Princess Henrika Hafkesprinke. In fact, I must find my lodgings shortly, in case she and her entourage arrive