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The Pickerings paid the drivers no mind, their slick society smiles already firmly in place. As they ever were where Gran was concerned. As one of the wealthy families who had come to the Isle for health reasons and remained once it came into fashion, they liked to present themselves as benign benefactors to all who visited Synne. They were also horribly vain, outspoken, and always trying to ingratiate themselves into society. They made no secret that they wanted a title for their only daughter, a girl who, thankfully, had more sense than both of her parents combined. A fact that might just work in Margery’s favor where the duke was concerned.
If, that was, the girl’s parents didn’t botch any attempts at matching their daughter with the man within the first minute. Which they were in danger of doing, if the way they stopped in the middle of the walkway and stared at His Grace was any indication.
Mr. Pickering was the first to recover. “My dear Lady Tesh, Mrs. Kitteridge,” he effused, all the while eyeing the duke askance. “How lovely to see you both out and about on this fine day. But who are your companions? I don’t recall seeing them on Synne before.”
Gran, rolling her eyes in blatant disgust at the man’s fishing for information, nevertheless made the necessary introductions. After which an immediate change came over the couple, their caution replaced with a disturbing cunning.
“Your Graces,” Mr. Pickering said, with a bow so deep Margery was certain he’d eventually be kissing his own posterior if his daughter hadn’t yanked on his sleeve. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. A pleasure, indeed. You’re for London after your visit, you say? We have longed to bring my darling daughter for a proper season, but my dear Mrs. Pickering’s health has thus far prevented us from making the trip.”
It was doubtful that was the true reason why. Margery eyed the girl. More than likely it had been Miss Bronwyn Pickering who had been the one to put a stop to any such trips. Unlike her parents, the girl had never seemed particularly interested in toadying up to society. No doubt bored—or embarrassed—by her father’s fawning attentions to the duke and his mother, Miss Pickering stepped away from their group and became thoroughly engrossed in the stationer’s window display.
The girl hadn’t shown the least interest in the duke upon meeting him. Which, Margery hated to admit, was an improvement over any other young woman they’d met with today. Biting her lip, she moved to her side.
“That stationery is quite lovely,” Margery said, peering at the selection of fine vellum within. “It would be perfect for writing letters to a dear friend or relation.”
“Yes,” Miss Pickering murmured, adjusting her spectacles. “Though I’ve no one to write to, and so it would be wasted on me.”
Margery blinked. Well, she certainly hadn’t expected that.
“Though,” the girl continued, pursing her lips, “I daresay it would give the proper gravitas to my correspondence with the Entomological Society of London.”
Margery smiled. “I see you are still interested in insects.”
“Entomology, Mrs. Kitteridge. From the Latin wordentomon, which means ‘notched,’ and therefore refers to the segmented body of the insect.”
“Er, yes. Of course,” Margery said. She cleared her throat. “One wonders you don’t wish to visit London and the Entomological Society yourself.”
The other woman’s expression fell at that and she returned her attention to the window. “Yes, well, I’m afraid since Waterloo, the Society has met only occasionally. And there is no sense in my hying off to the capital until a proper society is founded. Besides, I have ever so much work to do on the Isle.”
“I see,” Margery said. Though, of course, she didn’t.
But she had approached the girl with a purpose. “His Grace is from Cheshire County. I daresay there are some interesting specimens there you would not find on the Isle.”
“Hmm, yes. I suppose.”
“You should ask His Grace about them.”
“Yes. Later. For now, I really must purchase that notebook; it will be perfect for recording my specimens. If you’ll excuse me?” And with that she was off, disappearing into the shop.
Margery stared after her for a time, not quite sure what had just happened. The young woman, while incredibly smart and sensible, was prone to changing the track of a conversation without warning. While it could be unnerving, it in no way removed her from consideration for the duke. Truly, the only thing working against the girl was her parents.
Which, she realized with dawning horror as she turned and spied Mr. Pickering sidled up close to the duke’s scarred side, was considerable, indeed.
“Waterloo, eh?” the man was saying. He peered closer at His Grace’s scars, his lip curling in a kind of fascinated disgust. Suddenly he grinned and waggled his brows. “I bet you killed a good number of Frogs in your day. Big fellow like you—pardon my bluntness, Your Grace—must have been a sight to behold in that glorious battle.”
A flash of something—annoyance or pain or anger—was quickly smoothed from the duke’s brow. “I would hardly call it glorious.”
“Yes, yes,” the man said, obviously not put off in the least by the duke’s attempts to halt the distasteful conversation in its tracks. “But those French had it coming. Backing an upstart, marching on innocent people, killing and raping.”
“Mr. Pickering”—the duke’s expression darkened—“I hardly think this is the place for such a conversation.”
Mr. Pickering cast a glance at the females present. “Too right. Of course, Your Grace. How noble of you.”
He stood perturbed for a time, staring at the duke’s cane. Margery, who had been about to intervene, took a relieved breath. Mayhap the man would finally see sense.
Suddenly, however, Mr. Pickering leaned in close and said in a loud whisper that did nothing at all to hide the curiosity in his voice, “Saw your share of men killed, eh? What was that like?”
And that was enough of that. Margery stepped forward as the duke’s face turned ashen. “Your Grace,” she exclaimed, forcing a bright smile though she longed to tell Mr. Pickering exactly where he could stick his curiosity, “you were telling me just yesterday that you were a great lover of timepieces, were you not? The jeweler across the way has the most cunning display set up in the window if you’ve a mind to see it.” Before he had time to answer her, she turned to Mr. Pickering. “If you’ll excuse me for stealing His Grace away.”
