walked to a sideboard and poured a finger of brandy. “Just last week, Mrs. Meldrin refused to attend a dinner party because of a facial blemish. Damned if Caroline or I could see a single thing wrong with her, not so much as a bit of red. But she refused to budge, absolutely refused to believe she had anything but a mountain perched on the end of her nose.”
“Are you. . .are you telling me Patience left because of a pimple?”
Mr. Meldrin handed him the drink and poured one for himself. “You’re not much for riddles, are you?”
“I’m a bit distracted.” He swallowed the liquid down, uncaring that he generally avoided spirits. He was already working on a plan that would allow him to be completely foxed before the night was out.
“The pimple is something of a metaphor,” Mr. Meldrin said. “Patience’s blemish is not quite so imaginary as my wife’s, but neither is it quite the mountain she believes it to be. Or perhaps, more importantly, the mountain she is certain others believe it to be.”
“Mountains out of molehills. Yes, I get it.” He couldn’t quite grasp the fact that, on top of everything else, he was having a conversation about pimples. “The difference here, is that your wife told you about her blemish.”
“At length.”
“I can’t tell Patience she’s overreacting if I don’t know what she’s reacting to.”
“As I said, she needs time. Time,” Mr. Meldrin emphasized before William could interrupt with an argument, “you could make at Lord Hartwell’s Christmas ball next month.”
“The Christmas ball.”
“Indeed. My wife and daughter were able to gain a promise of attendance from Patience. Our estate is but a half day’s ride from London. She’ll be returning on the eighteenth, the day before the ball, and leaving again the day after.”
“May I ask how they managed that?”
“Patience is remarkably susceptible to guilt, and my wife and daughter entirely too accomplished at providing it. They made something of a fuss at Caroline being left without her friend for the remainder of the Little Season.” Mr. Meldrin ran the back of his hand across his jaw. “It’s not a method I normally condone, but in this instance, I allowed it.”
Because he appreciated the result more than he disapproved of the method, William chose not to comment.
Mr. Meldrin swirled the liquid in his glass. “Do you know the odd thing about pimples, Lord Casslebury?”
“I. . .” They were back to pimples? He ran a tired hand down his face. “I’m sure I don’t.”
“The odd thing is that there’s no telling who will make mountains out of them. Nor is there any way of knowing who will point those mountains out to all and sundry.” He looked at William over his glass. “Mr. Seager saw something tonight. Something Patience would have preferred he had not.”
Bloody hell, Mr. Seager knew her secret, but not him? “I see. Any idea where I might find Mr. Seager?”
“His home, I imagine.”
“Right.” William set his drink down. “You’ll excuse me?”
“By all means, but a final piece of advice before you go? When Patience does confide in you, you might wish to avoid using the word ‘overreacting.’ It seems to have an adverse effect on women.”
* * *
William did indeed find Mr. Seager at home—a slightly less than fashionable townhouse on the very edge of fashionable Mayfair, where he was seated at a very small table, in his very small study, with a very large decanter of brandy within grasping distance.
William took a seat across from him and said a quick prayer of thanks that the decanter retained most of its contents. Mr. Seager was a trifle thick even when sober. Though William had never seen the man in his cups, he’d wager a considerable sum the condition wouldn’t enhance the man’s powers of perception.
Mr. Seager tipped his glass at him. “Thought you’d be at the dinner yet, my lord. Or were you run off as well?”
William decided to ignore
“Are you. . .are you telling me Patience left because of a pimple?”
Mr. Meldrin handed him the drink and poured one for himself. “You’re not much for riddles, are you?”
“I’m a bit distracted.” He swallowed the liquid down, uncaring that he generally avoided spirits. He was already working on a plan that would allow him to be completely foxed before the night was out.
“The pimple is something of a metaphor,” Mr. Meldrin said. “Patience’s blemish is not quite so imaginary as my wife’s, but neither is it quite the mountain she believes it to be. Or perhaps, more importantly, the mountain she is certain others believe it to be.”
“Mountains out of molehills. Yes, I get it.” He couldn’t quite grasp the fact that, on top of everything else, he was having a conversation about pimples. “The difference here, is that your wife told you about her blemish.”
“At length.”
“I can’t tell Patience she’s overreacting if I don’t know what she’s reacting to.”
“As I said, she needs time. Time,” Mr. Meldrin emphasized before William could interrupt with an argument, “you could make at Lord Hartwell’s Christmas ball next month.”
“The Christmas ball.”
“Indeed. My wife and daughter were able to gain a promise of attendance from Patience. Our estate is but a half day’s ride from London. She’ll be returning on the eighteenth, the day before the ball, and leaving again the day after.”
“May I ask how they managed that?”
“Patience is remarkably susceptible to guilt, and my wife and daughter entirely too accomplished at providing it. They made something of a fuss at Caroline being left without her friend for the remainder of the Little Season.” Mr. Meldrin ran the back of his hand across his jaw. “It’s not a method I normally condone, but in this instance, I allowed it.”
Because he appreciated the result more than he disapproved of the method, William chose not to comment.
Mr. Meldrin swirled the liquid in his glass. “Do you know the odd thing about pimples, Lord Casslebury?”
“I. . .” They were back to pimples? He ran a tired hand down his face. “I’m sure I don’t.”
“The odd thing is that there’s no telling who will make mountains out of them. Nor is there any way of knowing who will point those mountains out to all and sundry.” He looked at William over his glass. “Mr. Seager saw something tonight. Something Patience would have preferred he had not.”
Bloody hell, Mr. Seager knew her secret, but not him? “I see. Any idea where I might find Mr. Seager?”
“His home, I imagine.”
“Right.” William set his drink down. “You’ll excuse me?”
“By all means, but a final piece of advice before you go? When Patience does confide in you, you might wish to avoid using the word ‘overreacting.’ It seems to have an adverse effect on women.”
* * *
William did indeed find Mr. Seager at home—a slightly less than fashionable townhouse on the very edge of fashionable Mayfair, where he was seated at a very small table, in his very small study, with a very large decanter of brandy within grasping distance.
William took a seat across from him and said a quick prayer of thanks that the decanter retained most of its contents. Mr. Seager was a trifle thick even when sober. Though William had never seen the man in his cups, he’d wager a considerable sum the condition wouldn’t enhance the man’s powers of perception.
Mr. Seager tipped his glass at him. “Thought you’d be at the dinner yet, my lord. Or were you run off as well?”
William decided to ignore
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