Page 63 of Honor Requires

“Aunt Lizzy! You must come and see—”

“No, no, tell her about the soldiers—”

“You promised a story—”

“I did not promise it this morning,” Elizabeth said, though she allowed herself to be drawn into their eager circle all the same. “And if I am to be surrounded in this fashion, I shall require at least one of you to speak sensibly at a time.”

This produced a moment of solemn consideration, followed immediately by renewed enthusiasm, though a little better ordered.

Jane watched with amusement. “They will have you entirely at their command if you are not careful,” she said.

Elizabeth laughed.

“I fear they already do.”

It was some time before she escaped them, and when at last she did, she returned below to join Jane for tea in the smaller drawing room. The room, though less grand than those reserved for entertaining, was her favorite within the house. Its windows overlooked a peaceful stretch of the street, and the light that filtered in, even on a gray day, seemed gentler there.

Jane was already seated, the tea things arranged neatly before her.

“You have been detained,” she observed with a smile.

“I have been besieged,” Elizabeth corrected, taking her seat. “Your sons are most determined in their affections.”

“I am glad of it,” Jane said simply. “They adore you.”

Elizabeth’s expression warmed. “And I them.”

There was a pause, companionable rather than strained, as Jane poured the tea.

“I have something to tell you,” she said after a moment, her tone brightening.

Elizabeth glanced up. “Something of consequence, I think, if your manner is any indication.”

Jane smiled. “It may prove so. Bramley brought the news this morning.”

Elizabeth waited.

“There is a new neighbor,” Jane explained. “The house across the way—Ashcombe House, the plaque says—has at last been taken.”

Elizabeth set down her cup with care. “Indeed? I had thought it destined to stand empty forever.”

“So had I,” Jane agreed. “But it is now occupied by a gentleman newly arrived in London. A foreign nobleman, no less.”

Elizabeth’s brows lifted slightly. “How very dramatic.”

Jane laughed. “You must not dismiss it so quickly. Bramley says he is a count—from Sardinia, I believe. His name is…Mr. Dantès. No—Count Dantès. Or perhaps Vendicarsi is the title.”

Elizabeth considered this. “And we are to accept, without question, that a Sardinian count has chosen our street above all others in London?”

“It does seem a fortunate coincidence,” Jane admitted. “Though Bramley assures me the gentleman is possessed of a considerable fortune.”

“Ah,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Then the mystery is solved. Wealth will always find its way to Mayfair.”

Jane smiled at that, though her eyes held a spark of curiosity. “My husband intends to call upon him on the morrow.”

Elizabeth’s interest sharpened, though she did not immediately show it. “Does he indeed?”

“He does. And he suggested—” Jane hesitated, then continued with eagerness, “—that we might invite the count to dine, once the acquaintance is established.”