“But surely you must know, Griselda,” Sylvie persisted.
“Men are not like women. Since they don’t debut, they tend to appear in London on their own schedule.”
“Do you have any idea when he first appeared?”
She did, as it happened. ’Twas an embarrassing thing, but she did. There weren’t many tall men with his rakish air appearing each year. Griselda shuddered. God forbid she should grow to be like one of those matrons who sat in the corner of the room and giggled over the young men coming down from university.
“Griselda?” Sylvie asked. There was an amused little smile in her eyes.
“I believe he first appeared in London around four years ago. If he came directly from university, that would make him around twenty-four.” It was appallingly young.
“And you cannot be thirty yet. It’s hardly a difference at all.”
“Flatterer! I have passed that birthday, as you must well know.”
“Then you must be at most a year past thirty,” Sylvie said. There was a sincere ring in her voice that soothed Griselda’s spirits. “Darlington looks as if he would like to gobble you up.”
Griselda smiled uncertainly.
“I could never countenance such passion,” Sylvie said, taking out her fan at the very idea. “His eyes actually look hot when he watches you. You do know that he watched you quite a bit at Lady Mucklowe’s, don’t you?”
Of course, she’d seen him leaning against the wall. “Making a cake of himself.”
“Men are so prone to that,” Sylvie said, and hesitated. “Griselda, do you mind if I ask you a question about Mayne?”
“Of course not. Although if you’re going to bemoan the fact that he makes a cake of himself over you, I already know that. My poor brother is absolutely ravished with love.”
“Yes,” Sylvie said. “But I wish to speak to you about his discontent. He is not a happy man, you know? Perhaps he has always been like this, with a touch of the restlessness with his life?”
“No indeed,” Griselda said, startled. “Mayne was a cheerful boy, and he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself—” She stopped. “But you are right in that he has changed in the last year or so. “He used to race around the ton making little scandals wherever he went and—to my mind—enjoying himself greatly. But then he fell in love.”
“Ah,” Sylvie said, leaning forward. “I should have known there was a lady at the heart of it. Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Griselda said, wondering if she were breaking a promise.
“No fidelity between brothers and sisters,” Sylvie said, with that uncanny ability she had to know what someone was thinking. “The only true loyalty is between female friends. You must tell me, Griselda, if only so that I know what is causing his agitation.”
“Her name is Lady Godwin,” Griselda said reluctantly.
“A very, very slender woman with a great passion for music?”
“Is there anyone in the ton whom you have not met?”
“Yes, of course. I have not been presented to Lady Godwin, for example. But I like to know as much as I can about people; it is what makes life interesting. So he fell in love with this Lady Godwin, did he?”
Griselda looked carefully at Sylvie, but there wasn’t even a shadow in her bright eyes. Truly, she was a Frenchwoman. “Mayne did fall in love with her,” she admitted. “I believe the countess briefly flirted with the idea of having a tryst with him, but she ultimately decided to remain with her husband. They are very happy together and I heard that she is having a second child. Or perhaps she’s already had the child; I can’t remember and I haven’t seen her recently. She’s likely in the country.”
“In that case, she must be enceinte,” Sylvie pointed out. “If the child were already born, she would be here for the season.”
“Perhaps,” Griselda said, wondering a little at Sylvie’s dispassionate tone. “I believe she is a very fond mother.”
“Even so, one might bring an infant to London,” Sylvie said. “So Mayne experienced a great unrequited passion, is that it?”
“Something of the sort,” Griselda said. “And since then, he has not engaged in affaires of any kind.”
“How long ago was this entanglement with the countess?”
“Two years?” Griselda said doubtfully. “At least that long. Rafe hadn’t started his guardianship of the Essex girls yet, as I recall.”
“Mayne has not taken a mistress in two years?” Sylvie seemed greatly struck by this. “Of course, you may simply be unaware of his interests.”
“It’s possible,” Griselda said. “But I’ve seen a great deal of him. You know, he was engaged to Tess Essex, who married Felton. And then he acted as something of a companion to Imogen Maitland, who just married Rafe.”
“I find it extraordinary that a duke wishes all and sundry to call him by his first name,” Sylvie remarked. “Holbrook asked me to call him Rafe as well. Can you imagine?”
“Yes,” Griselda said.
“I am worried that Mayne has fallen into a melancholy,” Sylvie stated. “While I am all that is sympathetic, naturally, I must tell you that I have a natural antipathy to dismal people. My father suffered terribly after the death of my mother. We fled shortly after her burial, and then we were so far from his relatives and friends. You can imagine.”
“I can only try.”
Sylvie sighed. “The reason I did not come to London until now, when I am truly at an advanced age myself—all of twenty-six—was because my poor papa could not spare me. He was very despondent most of the day. It is only last year that he met a nice widow, married her, and is feeling much more cheerful. Even so, he spends most of his day in a way of which I cannot approve.”
“What does he do? He lives in Northhamptonshire, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, in Southwick. He has bred a great many dogs there. And he allows several of them into the house, you understand.”
Griselda nodded.
“This is not just a house,” Sylvie said. “He built it along the lines of one of the great French country houses, Château des Milandes. It is beautiful—but full of dogs.” Her dismay was evident.
“Oh dear,” Griselda said.
“He lets them out, and then he goes outside to see where they are, and he brings them back in. Mind you, we have footmen who could very well do this work, if the dogs must come in the house. But my father has such a fondness for these animals that he thinks to read their mind.” Sylvie sighed again. “I could not persuade him to come to London for the season. Luckily, my godmother is kind enough to chaperone me, but I think Papa should leave those dogs occasionally.”
“You don’t like dogs?”
“I had a little poodle as a child. Of course, I am fond of a well-behaved animal. But these have large tails. They bark, they smell, and sometimes they swim in the lake. Luckily, the widow whom he married is quite fond of animals. I was so grateful to her for taking over my father, I cannot tell you. I was beginning to see myself wasting away in that château, with no one for company but my father, my sister, and the dogs! My little sister, you understand, takes after my father and does not—” she paused impressively—“mind dog hair!”