A Gentleman of Unreliable Honor by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781962291125
Publisher: Grace Burrowes Publishing

I was a former soldier, a gentleman, and a dutiful son. To that list, I contemplated adding the term failure.

I still hadn’t the first inkling who had stolen my mother’s letters or why, much less whether that same person might have purloined items of sentimental value from other ladies. Drayson’s missing sketches baffled me utterly.

As I made my way to Her Grace’s sitting room, I reminded myself that one was obligated to report even a lack of progress, however mortifying the exercise. Then too, I had yet to request Her Grace’s aid in the matter of serving as Hyperia’s chaperone, and that detail required attention before I presented myself in Perry’s boudoir.

I tapped on the sitting room door and was bade to enter by a soft female voice. Miss Wisherd was at the sideboard, tidying up a tea tray.

“My lord, good morning.”

“Miss Wisherd.” I bowed slightly, because she was owed the deference. “Is Her Grace awake?”

“Awake and at her correspondence. Shall I let her know you’d like a word?”

I was to keep my visit short, apparently, which suited me well. “Please.” My mother routinely took a breakfast tray in her room, and it had never occurred to me that she might be using the early hours to tend to business.

Her Grace appeared in the doorway to her bedroom. “My lord, is something amiss?”

She wore a forest green morning gown, a darker green wool dressing gown belted loosely at her waist. Her slippers were plain and had no heels, and her hair was in a thick braid over one shoulder. Dishabille rendered her appearance no less formidable.

“Your Grace.” This bow was more punctilious. “No cause for alarm, but the morning will be spent attending services, and I thought to have a quick chat.”

“Come. The light is better in the bedroom. Wisherd, I can dress myself. Leave the tray for the house staff. You aren’t an underfootman.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Wisherd withdrew, the sitting room door clicking softly behind her.

“She’s no great fan of this gathering,” the duchess said. “I expect some of the footmen think flirtation is their due. I have made it excessively plain she is under no obligation to indulge their vanity.”

Wisherd, like a junior officer among seasoned veterans, had to make her peace with those footmen, else the tray would still be sitting on the sideboard this time tomorrow.

“I broke my fast with young Canderport,” I said. “I gather he has come to dread house parties.”

“But his mother and sister insist, and he’s too kindhearted to send them on without him. They might actually learn to cooperate if he did. They squabble in a competition for his notice.”

As I followed my mother into the spacious high-ceilinged bedroom, I had an odd sense of déjà vu. Her Grace’s strategy had merit. A lot of merit. If mother and daughter were cast on each other’s resources, they might find common ground, however small. From that toehold, greater cooperation might result.

The duchess’s approach was different from the one I’d suggested—seeking Miss Frampton’s aid—but simpler to effect.

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