Equally unpleasant was the fact that Lady Flora always seemed to know where he had been. He went to Pitt’s quarters in the Inns of Court, and she was ready with a comment about Pitt’s Indian policy. He went for a ride with Gill, and that evening she commented that Gill was getting a bit old for his short pants.
“Gill doesn’t wear short pants!” he snapped, wondering if she’d gone mad.
She smiled. “It’s merely a gentle comment about the earl’s need to grow up,” she told him. “I hear he tries to draw portraits, like a veritable maiden. One has to wonder whether he’s even had a woman, if you will excuse the indelicacy.”
He did mind the indelicacy, though there was no way to say such a thing. He didn’t want an indelicacy from his mother-in-law. In fact, he didn’t want to see her ever, not at breakfast, nor at luncheon, nor waiting up when he returned, breathing concern. But not curiosity—never curiosity, because she always seemed to know what he was doing.
Occasionally she would inform him, in passing, where she was going or the changes she had made to this or that room.
“Did you ask Poppy?” he asked once, when she informed him that she was changing the hangings in the east parlor to a rich persimmon.
“Poppy?” she said, looking as startled as if he’d mentioned King George himself. “Poppy? Of course not.” And she walked away, looking as if the ghost of a daughter fled before her.
Fletch couldn’t help thinking it was peculiar.
It had been months since he’d even seen Poppy. Though of course he wasn’t really looking for her, because he was establishing—trying to establish—himself in the House of Lords. But he had been to every party worth noting and she was never there. Yet she was still living with Jemma. Or perhaps not. No one would tell him.
He had received a discreet note from his banker, informing him of Her Grace’s private account; of course he dispatched a large sum of money immediately. One did, when one’s wife left. That is, none of his friends’ wives had actually left, but he felt the etiquette of the situation was obvious.
The question—the real question—was what he should be doing with himself.
He knew what Poppy thought he was doing. He was supposed to be indulging himself in the company of women.
In reality, he was spending most of every day in the House of Lords. He was bent on making a name for himself, making a difference in government. Making a difference to his country.
His wife thought he was simply frolicking with courtesans. And she didn’t care.
The thought was searing.
Why should Poppy care? She never liked making love to him. And now she said she never loved him at all.
So why should that bother him?
He was due to luncheon with Fox, at Mrs. Armistead’s house. And he’d heard rumors of lovely women and intimacies…
It shouldn’t bother him.
Chapter 25
The Duke of Villiers’s bedchamber looked like the back of a waterfall to Charlotte: all dim and silvery with just a few candles strewn about. In the middle of the room was a resplendent bed, hung with watered gray silk embroidered with bluebells.
Villiers was lying against the pillows, looking very white and stark. His cheekbones were always pronounced; May had once proclaimed him alarmingly handsome, and Charlotte had thought it a fair comment. But now his skin seemed translucent. He waved a hand in greeting, and Charlotte saw it was painfully thin, his knuckles sharp-cut. A rush of pity gripped her.
“Please do me the honor of sitting,” he said. “Thank you for paying me a call.”