For a long moment, Mrs. Quince sat still, her hands still folded neatly in her lap. Then she gave a worn smile, the relief on her face stark. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will work hard and do my best.”
“I am perfectly sure you will.” Christiana rose. “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then tomorrow it is. Elkins will show you around today, so you have an eye for the house.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Christiana tucked the painting behind her chair and rang for Elkins. The painting would have to go, but not yet. She wanted to keep it a little longer. Foolish, when the man was elsewhere in the house, but she had a strange attachment to this depiction of him. All his flaws on full display—and Christiana adored every single one.
Yes, she would burn it soon. Just… not quite yet.
Hugh cast asidehis cravat and accepted the next one his valet handed him. It had been such a long time since he had dressed for dinner outside the manor that he felt as though he had forgotten how to behave.
Admittedly, it was a small gathering; Mrs. Barnaby had arranged a small dinner with Christiana to welcome them into the neighborhood. “Something that ought to have happened well before now, dear,” she had said. “But never mind that now.”
Hugh’s fingers shook on his cravat, and he concentrated.
Ever since the festival just a week or so ago, he had known Christiana was on a crusade to integrate him more firmly into the community. They had even, somewhat to his horror, attended the village church on Sunday. His family had a box there, of course, and he always donated generously to the church’s causes, but since the fire, he had never stepped foot inside the building.
Naturally, everyone had stared.
But Christiana had taken his hand, and eventually, they had focused back on the vicar, who was desperately trying to engage them in the word of God. After, Hugh had endured endless small conversations with curious people attempting to ascertain if he were about to burst from his skin and become the monster of fable.
Needless to say, it had been an unpleasant few minutes, but he had remained polite, and Mrs. Barnaby had found him after the service and coerced him into accepting this invitation.
Once his cravat was appropriately tied, he made his way downstairs to the library, where he knew Christiana would be. And there she was, resplendent on the floor in an ice-blue gown, the skirts of which flowed about her like a silken sea.
“No ink this time, I hope,” he said by way of greeting.
She laughed, holding her hands—holding a book—up for his inspection. “No Latin today.”
“Then what?”
“French.” She showed him the book, which was once againConnaissance des Temps. “Is it time to go?”
“I think so.” He extended a hand, and she clasped it, letting him pull her to her feet. “If this goes poorly, I will put the blame squarely on your shoulders.”
She patted his lapels, though his valet had brushed him down before he’d left the dressing room. “Very well, but Mrs. Barnaby will not have invited anyone who would think badly of you.”
“Come, then. Let’s get this travesty over with.”
She giggled, light and girlish, as she tucked her hand in his arm. “Always so positive, Your Grace.”
He smiled despite himself, his cheek pressing against the cool wood of his mask. “I have not yet learned the talent of overbearing optimism.”
“For shame!”
They moved out of the library together. Amelia, to her everlasting delight, had been invited with them, and she waited in the hall, nearly fizzing with excitement. Hugh’s heart gave a pang. At her age, he had already been ensconced in Oxford, learning to be an adult—or something approaching one. He had been given far more freedom than she had ever known.
Well, in London, she would have her taste of freedom, and no doubt she would make the most of it.
Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby’s house was situated a mile or two south of Grancott, on a modest estate. The carriage ride took very little time, and as they arrived, pulling up outside the two-story home, Christiana took Hugh’s arm. “Wait. Hugh, please, your mask.”
Every muscle in his body tightened. For so long, his mask had been his final defense; to sacrifice it now, when he felt as though he would walk into a den of lions, felt like a step too far. But Christiana slipped her hand in his.
“No one here is going to run screaming,” she murmured. “And we’re here with you.”