Clonmere might have stood up with every blossom in Falmouth’s bouquet at some point. At least one of them had been out before he’d gone to Portugal. As he took his leave of Falmouth, he had the sense that he’d neglected to ask some important question or establish some salient fact…
The niggling, where-are-my-spectacles feeling stayed with Clonmere on the short walk to his townhouse. He kept mostly to the alleys, because the day was sunny, and the carriage parade would start within the hour. Bad enough he would be waltzed off his feet for the next month; but then… Falmouth had only the three daughters, and most hostesses only planned two waltzes per evening.
Perhaps the next month wouldn’t be that taxing after all.
“BUT PAPA,” Lily wailed, “what did you tell him about
“And what did he
“Did you let him say anything
Iris let her sisters chatter, which they did prodigiously well, and she let the earl deal with their anxiety rather than intervene. As the oldest of his lordship’s unmarried daughters—a venerable twenty-six years—Iris usually played the role of peacemaker.
Not this time. Papa had gone too far, dragooning a duke to the altar, and Papa could deal with the consequences.
“Clonmere is a man of considerable self-possession,” Papa replied, holding his plate out to the footman. “Also a fellow with great sense. He expressed delight at the prospect of meeting you all, and said he looked forward to standing up with each of you over the next few weeks.”
Papa produced his signature beaming patriarchal smile, and Iris worried for her sisters. They’d each had at least three Seasons, Lily had had four, missing a year because of her mother’s death. In the parlance of polite society, Falmouth’s daughters were approaching spinsterdom rather than the altar.
The footman set a plate heaped with a steaming, fluffy omelet before Papa, and the benign smile disappeared.
“Where is my bacon? How am I supposed to choke down these boring, half-cold eggs without bacon? What do I pay you for, Thomas?”
Thomas, whose name was Dickon Miller, embarked on the requisite groveling as he added thick slices of crispy bacon to his lordship’s plate.
“Clonmere sounds very formidable,” Lily said, helping herself to another cinnamon bun. “Very ducal.”
“Of course he’s ducal,” Holly retorted, snatching the teapot from under Hyacinth’s hand. “He’s been a duke since he came down from university. Why is there never any sugar on this table?”
Iris passed her the sugar bowl, which had been sitting six inches from Holly’s elbow.
“What was he wearing?” Hyacinth asked. She was the sister with the most shrewdness. As the youngest—by six minutes—the smallest, and the one with
Iris’s hair was nearly black, a legacy from her own late mother, as were her green eyes.
“Clonmere was wearing clothes,” the earl replied. “Good God, have I raised a trio of imbeciles?”
Iris passed Hyacinth the tea pot. “Hyacinth is asking, Papa, in case the duke has a favorite color that was reflected in his choice of waistcoat, in case he favored a particular jewel in his cravat pin, even for daytime wear. She wanted to know if the knot in His Grace’s neckcloth gave a clue to whether the duke prefers simplicity, elegance, fussiness, or some other fashion.”
The earl picked up the newspaper neatly folded by his saucer. “He wore appropriate attire for a morning call. His father was a dandy, always wearing the latest styles, never hiding his wealth if he could flash it about.”
He disappeared behind The Times, while Lily, Hyacinth, and Holly exchanged a horrified glance.
“My ballgowns barely have any lace,” Lily said.
“Mine haven’t any embroidery,” Holly added.
“My slippers are the plainest dancing slippers ever to qualify for the name,” Hyacinth wailed.
From behind the newspaper came a pained sigh. Iris could have distracted her sisters from the scheme they were hatching, but they were the victims of Papa’s ridiculous venture. Let them wreak what vengeance they could.
“I’ll have the carriage brought ’round,” Iris said. “If you’re to plunder the shops of Mayfair, you’d best get an early start.”
“Will you come with us?” Hyacinth asked. “The clerks and shop girls are always so much more attentive when you come along.”
“Please do,” Lily said. “Then we can fortify ourselves with a stop at Gunter’s at mid-day.”
“I won’t fit into my ballgowns if we patronize Gunter’s so frequently,” Holly said, “but I do enjoy a jasmine ice in the middle of a hard day’s shopping.”
