No Place for a Dame by Connie Brockway

Author:Connie Brockway
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: kc, tbr
ISBN: 9781477808580
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2013-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

By the time the dinner hour had arrived, Avery had worked herself into what Mrs. Bedling would have recognized as “a fine fettle.” The magnitude of Giles’s shabby behavior that afternoon had grown with each passing hour, until she had gone from feeling hurt to furious. When Travers announced that Lord Strand would be dining in and requested the pleasure of her company, she sniffed and quite seriously considered declining the invitation.

But that would mean she would forfeit the opportunity to put a large and noisome bug in his ear and that, she decided, was a pleasure she could not quite deny herself.

So, it was with considerable anticipation of the battle to come that she pushed open the dining room door and announced in her coldest voice, “Lord Strand. So kind of you to condescend to dine with me. However do you control such charitable impul—” The rest of her words faded into silence.

Because rather than Giles’s polished golden perfection, she found herself facing a large, barrel-chested man with thinning, thatch-colored hair and enormous side whiskers, standing on the far side of the dining table. He was dressed immaculately and tastefully, a testament to his tailor’s skill, as not a single crease marred the cut of cloth across his meaty shoulders or thick middle. He had the affable, blocky features of a yeoman except for his nose, which was unexpectedly small and neat. At the sight of her, his brows climbed towards his receding hairline.

“Is that your boy genius, Lord Strand?” he asked, looking past her.

Avery swung around to find Giles standing beside the door. He gave her a lazy smile before returning his attention to the stranger. “Yes, Sir Samuel. This is Avery Quinn.”

She started and stared. This was Sir Samuel Isbill, the president of the Royal Astrological Society, inventor of the Isbill refractory lens? Oh, my.

Burke, who’d been hovering behind Sir Isbill, angled the dining chair behind him a bit closer, making it easier for him to sit down. Wincing, Sir Isbill lowered himself into it then returned his speculative gaze to Avery, still standing transfixed in the doorway. “Gout,” he explained. “I am a martyr to it. What’s your excuse?”

“My excuse, sir?”

“For your deplorable lack of manners? My excuse is the gout. What’s yours?”

“I… I…” Helplessly, Avery looked at Giles.

“I did mention he lacked polish, did I not?” Giles asked.

“You did,” Sir Isbill allowed. “I suppose it makes no matter. We must make allowances for genius.” Then he smiled. It transformed his face and she suddenly saw Neville in him. “Suspect there’s more than a few out there who think I’m a bit of a clunch myself. What strange bedfellows the stars make, eh, Lord Strand? Great bear of a man like me and this little duck-shaped fellow.”

He spoke so matter-of-factly she could not take offense.

“Please, Mr. Quinn, come in. You do speak. I heard you. Now it only remains to be seen whether what you say is worth hearing. Is it?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I think so, sir.

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