Page 27

“Giles, will you ride with me?” Rowden asked. “It’s less than a mile. We could even walk, if you’d rather.” Giles was not the most skilled of horsemen.

The boy shrugged and fiddled with his watch chain. “Aunt has the right of it. Nuisance, traffic on Piccadilly. Druther take the coach.”

At some point, Rowden supposed, he would need to stop thinking of his cousin as a boy. Giles was three-and-twenty, done with university. Were the Continent not convulsed with the expansionist ambitions of the French Directory, he would likely be on his Grand Tour, languishing in Naples or Rome or Florence and gaining an education in art, culture, skill at wooing courtesans, and practice at holding his drink.

Instead, with no career or occupation to interest him and the promise of his future situation to smooth his way everywhere, Giles spent his days indulging in the entertainments of London, and Rowden feared his cousin’s choices were taking a toll. He looked a young gentleman of fashion, with his coat of olive green superfine, a buttery yellow waistcoat, and smart gray pantaloons stretching down to his shoes. But the white cravat wrapped up to his chin set off the sallow undertone of his complexion, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

Rowden had watched over him at the Albion the night before and ensured he was given nothing more than pipe tobacco and claret, but his peaked looks continued, and Rowden had not seen him partake of the luncheon Aunt Dobbs ordered after he escorted Sophronia home from her morning errands.

“Perhaps you’d rather rest at home than be dragged out to see paintings of natural scenery?”

He spoke not entirely with the wish to irritate Ro. Giles looked as if he might snap at the slightest strain, like a dry leaf in a wind. Then again, languishing at home might enervate the boy even more, whereas turning out of the house for some fresh air and pleasant company might be the tonic he needed.

“We administered a dose of Complin’s Special, and dear Giles feels quite fortified by it, don’t you?” Sophronia said briskly. It was as if she sensed Rowden’s ploy and meant to cut him off at the gate. “Aunt Edmons swears by its invigorating effects, and even Lily takes a dose now and again. Though you are of a robust constitution in all respects, are you not, my dear?” She directed a look at the younger girl that was sincere in its fondness. “I believe it is your stock. Military men are made of metal.”

“Giles will not want a metallic wife,” Rowden said.

“Every woman requires some steel in her backbone,” Sophronia replied. “She will not survive this world else. Come, ladies, collect your parasols. I hear the coach. Giles, my dear, take my arm?”

And thus she managed to situate Giles and Lily side by side on the rear-facing seat of the barouche, Lily smiling and blushing prettily as she opened her parasol above her head, since the leather covers of the carriage were folded back.

Miss Westall was a charming picture, a delicate daisy in a white muslin walking gown with a shirred bodice that ended in a demure ruffled collar around her throat. Sophronia wore a white gown as well, which clinched the argument about keeping away from the dirt of the road, but the high collar of her gown opened almost like a man’s stock, and the blue twill jacket buttoned over her bodice emphasized her small waist and generous breasts.

Rowden huffed with annoyance as he swung atop Hercules. His heart was steel against her. His guard was up and would remain there.

“I heard you bought several prints at the shop you visited today.” He drew the horse along Sophronia’s side of the carriage as they turned onto the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly, the Baron’s coachman driving and Nate in livery clinging to the platform at the back. Hercules tugged, wanting to overtake the pair pulling the vehicle, and Rowden held him back. “What subject caught your fancy, I wonder?”

Sophronia kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, but the jaunty capote bonnet could not hide the way she set her jaw. “Nothing of great interest.”

“I heard you bought the copper plates as well. Was the work that inspiring?”

“What prints? I should like to see them,” Aunt Dobbs said with her cheery tone. “I always find the satirical broadsides so amusing.”

“These were not.” Sophronia’s words came out clipped. “In fact, I found the subject offensive enough that I bought the plates in hopes of stopping the printing.”

“That is unlikely to work, else the Prime Minister and the King would have tried the same long before this,” Rowden said. “Come, Mrs. Hinton. What caught your eye?”

“I beg we will not discuss it. Look, Lily, that imposing edifice is Devonshire House. I do like the sweep of that double staircase, though I find the outside rather plain. You will like Burlington House, which is just ahead.”

“The Duchess visits the Albion now and again,” Rowden remarked. “She is the most notorious gamester.”

Sophronia turned to peer up at him. “The Albion admits women?”

“Yes, they have separate rooms for dining and socializing. It would be foolish not to admit them when women spend as much if not more than the men.”

“Of course your reasons would be economic.” She turned back to her companion, and Rowden felt the rebuff. “Perhaps we must visit the Albion sometime, though Lily is no gamester,” she assured Giles. “She is the frugal sort and has managed the Colonel’s household for some while. She would be excellent at managing a larger household, I don’t doubt.”

“The Duke and Duchess have the strangest living arrangement, have you heard?” Giles said in return, his gaze on Miss Westall. “Share the house with one Lady Elizabeth Foster.”

“Oh, do tell.” Lily leaned forward, her knees nearly touching the boy’s, and Giles grew animated as he described suspicions that the Duke, envying Lady Foster’s closeness with his wife, had insinuated himself into their friendship by making the lady his mistress.

Rowden waited for Sophronia to reprove him for this talk, but she watched Giles with a small, anxious smile as if she, too, wanted to urge the boy back to health and spirits. She encouraged his gossip about the peccadillos of the great as the barouche angled down Coventry Street. Rowden would have led them up to Lisle Street to reach the Panorama, but the coachman turned down Whitcomb Street and then into the broad expanse of Leicester Square, where he promenaded them around the gardens with the statue of George I looming in the center. Giles’s arm swung as he pointed in various directions, eager to explain the place to Lily.

“One block south, on Orange Street, that is Sir Isaac Newton’s house. I have a copy of his Optics. He is the one who used prisms to discover that there are seven colors in white light.”

“How fascinating,” Lily exclaimed.

“Indeed. And to the north used to be the most imposing house, Leicester House, a great improvement over the dull old Devonshires. Lever had his exhibits there, the most fascinating collection— What did he call it, Rowden? You used to take me there all the time.”