Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I close the door to her room, carrying on to Clara’s. Without knocking, I enter and am greeted by darkness and silence. ‘Bugger,’ I curse, squinting, trying to see but failing, so I step back and take a candle from the table at the top of the stairs and hold it before me, illuminating my youngest sister’s room. I smile when I see her bundled up under the covers, as still as could be. ‘Sweet dreams, sister,’ I say quietly, hoping her dreams are ones perhaps a little more realistic than the stable boy, although I fear my hopes are wasted, as I pull the door closed. But before I can release the knob, I still and think. I think very carefully. I think about Clara and her craftiness. I think about how distracted everyone has been all day, including me. I think about how well I know my little sister.
I open the door again and march across her room, tugging the sheets back, discovering a quite convincingly shaped pile of pillows and blankets before the waft of the sheets extinguishes the candle and I am in darkness again. ‘The little scoundrel!’ I rush to the door.
And walk straight into the frame, my forehead bouncing off the hard wood. ‘Bugger it all to blasted hell!’ I yell, rubbing at my head with one hand and feeling my way to the top of the stairs where I am eventually blessed with the candlelight streaming up from the table by the front door. ‘I’m going to strangle her,’ I declare to no one, taking the steps fast, but slowing down to a less urgent pace when I encounter Mama at the bottom with Wisteria Winters. Damn it, I was hoping to slip out quietly, locate my youngest, wayward sister, and return her to our home without being detected by either Mama or Papa, after, of course, I have given her a thorough bloody scolding.
‘Frank!’ Mama is slurring terribly, a sign, I am sure, of too much indulgence on this eve, though I can hardly begrudge her the luxury of all the champagne, and she has certainly made the most of it. She’s as drunk as only a man should be. ‘I was telling Lady Wisteria that I may be voted a patron of Almack’s!’
I nod to Johnny’s mother. It is no rumour that she is unfathomably beautiful. Her daughter has inherited that. ‘My lady,’ I say, and she smiles softly before Mama drags her to the drawing room.
‘Come, I must tell you about Lady Tillsbury, too, for I am certain you will love her. Oh, did you see my cake? I made it, don’t you know.’
My mother’s relentless and tiresome need to be the most popular lady on the square has not waned in the wake of the scandal. In fact, I believe now she is more determined than ever to show all members of the ton what she is made of, which is endurance. Add in her congeniality and, some might say, vivacity, Florence Melrose is making quite the impression on the other ladies of the square.
I pull the front door open and come to an abrupt halt once again, this time finding Eliza and the Duke in my way. I frown when I see him holding up my sister, and frown harder when she grins at me. ‘I’m a bit top heavy, Frank,’ she slurs, hiccupping.
‘I can see that.’
She falls into Johnny’s chest. ‘Oh dear,’ he says, smiling down at the back of her head. I roll my eyes. He’s even smitten when she’s drunk. ‘Come, my duchess, let me take you home.’
‘Yes!’ Her arms lift with much too much effort and hook over Johnny’s neck, where she practically hangs, looking up at him through squinted eyes. ‘Take me home and do wicked things to me, Your Grace.’
‘My God,’ I murmur, pulling the door closed behind me. ‘You’ve corrupted her.’
‘Oh please, Frank,’ the Duke says, hoisting Eliza up and virtually tossing her onto his shoulder. ‘Your sister needs no corrupting I can assure y––’ he jolts, his eyes widening a fraction.
‘What is it?’ I ask, frowning, craning my neck to see round his big body to my sister hanging down his back. He turns to assist, and Eliza comes into my view. So do her petite hands which are currently, and quite outrageously, squeezing the Duke’s derriere. ‘Oh for the love of God,’ I grumble, disgusted, looking at the Duke, hoping to find disapproval as potent as mine. I am hoping in vain, for he looks delighted, his grin as wide as Belmore Square.
‘How I do love my wife.’
‘Please remember, Your Grace, that your wife is my sister, and I can’t say I appreciate such brazenness in my presence.’ I feel somewhat corrupted myself, and the Duke jolts again as the sound of Eliza’s hands slap his backside, making me flinch, along with Johnny. ‘I cannot bear it,’ I say, passing them quickly. ‘Is it not punishment enough that I must deal with one barmy sister?’ I say, walking with conviction and in long strides towards Mr Fitzgerald’s house. ‘But two?’