“Her Grace is in the morning room, Your Grace. She has a caller.”
Henry put his hand upon the newel post.
“A caller.”
“Mr Vexley, Your Grace. He has been with Her Grace this past quarter of an hour.”
He turned, and walked the length of the entrance hall, and pushed open the door of the morning room.
The room smelled of rain upon orchids. The fire had been lit and let go low, as Violet had begun to leave it of an afternoon, and the grey of the day stood at the windows. His wife was on the green settee with her back to the light, in a plain gown of dark blue, the same one she’d worn upon their first meeting. Her hands were loose in her lap and Edmund Vexley was upon the settee opposite with his elbows on his knees and his face inclined toward her. Between them on the low table lay a spray of something dark-leaved and white-flowered, the wax of the petals catching what little light there was. Sarah was at the fireplace with a piece of mending across her lap, and her eyes very firmly upon it.
He caught the end of what Violet was saying. “…not since I was a girl, and then it had not flowered well.”
Her voice was soft and quick and quite unlike the voice she used on him.
Edmund was attentive, half-smiling.
She was laughing.
It went through him like a draught.
She caught sight of him at the door, and the sound stopped.
Edmund rose to his feet. He was thirty this year and the years sat lightly upon him, for he was tall and dark and had the sort of face that forgave its owner a great deal, though his judgment had not always merited the pardon.
“Iredell.”
“Edmund.”
“You will forgive my intrusion. I had business in Bond Street and thought to bring the orchids in person rather than entrustthem to a footman. I have not until now had the honour of meeting your duchess.”
Henry did not move from the door.
“So I see.”
“Her Grace tells me she has some knowledge of botany. The Brassavola is a difficult specimen. I had thought she might enjoy the attempt.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
Violet had risen from the settee. She stood with her hands folded before her, but Henry noticed the slight movement of her fingers fidgeting against her skirts. The colour of her laughter was still high in her cheeks. He looked at her and could not look anywhere else because the pleasure coaxing the colour was not his.
“Will you not stay for dinner, Mr Vexley?” she said. “Mrs Garrick makes wonderful roast.”
“He shall not.”
Violet turned sharply toward her husband. Edmund’s mouth opened and closed.
“My wife was kept from her rest last night by my own ill conduct,” Henry said, “and is in want of a quiet evening. You will forgive me, Edmund, if I send you on your way.”
“Of course.”
His cousin recovered swiftly and bowed over Violet’s hand.
“Your Grace. The pleasure has been entirely mine. I shall hope to call again when it is more convenient.”
“I shall look forward to it, Mr Vexley.”
“Cousin Edmund, I beg of you. We are family.”