Agnes’s hands had crept up to cover her cheeks. “It is really true, then?” she asked, doubtless rhetorically. “You are going to marry Dora?’ Her eyes suddenly brightened with unshed tears.
“Why you sly dog, George.” Flavian set down his glass, jumped to his feet, and crossed the distance between them in order to pump George’s hand up and down in a hearty shake and then thump him on the back. “And to think that all of us in the club have been busy p-putting our heads together to think of a worthy lady who might t-tempt your fancy and take you off our hands. It is very lowering, let me tell you, for a man to be reduced to m-matchmaking, but you showed no sign of doing it for yourself. Yet all the time you had your sights upon my sister-in-law. I could not be happier, and Agnes is ecstatic. You can tell by the fact that she is w-weeping.”
“Oh, I am not,” she protested. “But . . . Oh, George, you cannot possibly know what this means to me. Dora gave up her life for my sake when I was a child. She stayed at home to raise me after our mother left when she ought to have been enjoying a come-out Season here in London. She might still have had that Season after the worst of the scandal died down if she had pressed the matter with Papa, but she never did. She would not even go to Harrogate when our Aunt Shaw would have taken her about and introduced her to some eligible gentlemen. She was quite adamant that she would stay with me, and she never once complained or made me feel that I was a nuisance and had blighted all her hopes. But now at last she is to have her happily-ever-after? With you of all men, George? And oh, dear, now I am weeping. Thank you.” The thanks were for the large handkerchief Flavian had pressed upon her. He rubbed a hand over the back of her neck while she dried her eyes and blew her nose.
Happily-ever-after? The term made George a bit uneasy. He certainly did not have that to offer, but then Miss Debbins did not expect it. They were both old enough and experienced enough at life to understand that no marriage could offer unalloyed happiness. Not that he was a cynic. He was not, and neither, he was quite sure, was she. They were both realists. Of that he felt sure.
But . . . Happily-ever-after? For a moment that sense of foreboding threatened again.
The next ten minutes or so were taken up with answering all the questions they had for him. Finally, though, he got to his feet and withdrew a letter from an inside pocket.
“I have other calls to make,” he said, “though I made this one the first for obvious reasons. I shall do my very best to make your sister happy, Agnes. She wrote to you while I was still in Gloucestershire so that I could bring the letter in person.”
Agnes took it from him. “I am quite confident that you will make each other happy,” she said.
Flavian shook hands with him again. “I hate to say anything to deter you, George,” he said, “but has it occurred to you that we will be b-brothers-in-law?”
“A terrifying thought, is it not?” George said cheerfully.
He was still smiling as he left the house and made his way to Portman Square to see if Ralph and Chloe were at home. Wheels had been set in motion, and everyone of importance to him must be informed in person.
He was a bit surprised to discover that he was feeling something very like exuberance. If he was to regret his hasty decision to marry, it was certainly not happening yet.
He hoped it never would.
* * *
Dora left for London five days after her betrothed, having taken a hasty and, in some cases, a tearful farewell of her pupils, her neighbors and friends, and Mrs. Henry, who had decided to remain among her family and friends in the neighborhood of Inglebrook rather than accept the offer to accompany her employer into her new life in the capacity of personal maid. Dora traveled in opulent style, the duke having insisted upon sending his own carriage for her along with what seemed an extravagant complement of liveried footmen and burly outriders and even a maid. It was really almost embarrassing—and undeniably pleasurable. The deference shown her wherever they stopped along the road during the journey was something to which she must accustom herself, she supposed. Plain Miss Debbins, traveling post, as she had planned, would have been virtually ignored.
For the final hour before arriving at Arnott House on Grosvenor Square, she sat with her nose almost pressed to the window of the carriage, even though rain was drizzling down outside and the heavy gray sky added a pall of dreariness to everything below. It did not dampen Dora’s spirits. This was London at last, and she could almost believe that the streets were indeed paved with gold. It was a good thing, she thought, that the maid was dozing against the opposite corner and therefore was not watching her quite unsophisticated delight in it all.
Her stomach was feeling more than a bit fluttery, however, by the time the carriage rocked slightly on its springs and drew to a halt. Here she was, twenty years late but about to carry off surely the greatest matrimonial prize the Season had to offer—even if he was forty-eight years old. She controlled her smile at the silly thought—the maid was waking up and setting her skirts and her cap and bonnet to rights.
What would Agnes say? And Flavian?
She was soon to find out. As one of the duke’s liveried footmen set down the steps and reached up a white-gloved hand to help her down, the doors of the house opened and both Agnes and Flavian appeared in the doorway. Dora lost sight of them for a moment as the footman angled a large umbrella over her head and she hurried across the wet pavement and up the steps. And then she stepped inside and was enfolded in her sister’s arms. Flavian stood to one side, beaming at her.