“I know Rundell is the Prince of Wales’s favorite and the jeweler of choice of the smart set, but if he can’t accommodate you, try Dalrymple’s on Bond Street. I often shop there for gifts to present to your mother, and she always appreciates his unique designs.”
Griff glanced up and met the earl’s steady gaze, in complete accord with his father for the first time in days. “Thank you, Father. I’ll remember that.”
“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?” Weymouth asked, suddenly acutely aware that time was running out. Soon, there would be no more opportunities for long conversations before the fire at the club and morning rides through the park with his only child. Griffin was leaving soon. And he might never return.
“I can’t,” Griff said. “After my trip to the jeweler’s, I’ve scheduled a meeting with my solicitor and Tressingham and his solicitor in order to draw up the marriage contract and settlement.” He looked at his father. “Which I assured Tressingham you would honor in my absence and in the event I fail to return from the Peninsula.”
Weymouth nodded. “It goes without saying that I would honor your wishes.”
Griff chuckled. “It doesn’t go without saying to Tressingham. He insisted on having it in writing.”
“But of course,” Weymouth replied, forgetting his reputation for having no sense of humor. “One can’t rely simply on a man’s word when the prospect of producing a litter of champion foxhound pups is at stake. One must get that promise down in writing.”
“Not just in writing,” Griff added, “but written into the marriage settlement.”
“And whose idea was that?” Weymouth asked.
“Mine, of course,” Griff told him.
“And he fell for it?”
“Completely. But then, how could he refuse a chance to ally himself with his idol?”
“Remind me never to bargain with you when it’s something you truly want.”
“You already have,” Griff retorted. “Eight days ago. Everything I know, I learned from you.” He grinned at his father. “Like father, like son.”
Weymouth’s smile grew into a chuckle and then into full-fledged laughter. And the sight and sound of the Earl of Weymouth doubled over in laughter was rare enough to induce other members of the club to stop what they were doing in order to watch.
Weymouth laughed until he cried, then carefully removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his eyes before casually signaling the waiter for a refill of coffee. “What have you scheduled after your meeting with the earl?”
“I’ve asked for a few moments alone with Lady Alyssa in order to present her with the ring. And then I’m escorting her and Lady Tressingham to Lady Harralson’s soiree.”
“Why don’t I have Eastman bring your evening things from your town house to Weymouth House? Surely, you can spare a few moments for your mother and me while you’re dressing for the evening.”
Griff nodded.
“Good. I’m sure your mother will appreciate hearing the news from you tonight rather than reading about it in tomorrow’s newspapers.”
Griff stood up. “Why don’t you and mother make an appearance at Lady Harralson’s?” he suggested. “Give the ton something to talk about. And give me the chance to introduce you to Alyssa.” Griff put up a hand when his father would have spoken. “Nothing formal. Just an introduction. We’ll arrange a more formal meeting at Weymouth House later. I’m sure Mother and Lady Tressingham and Alyssa will need to begin preparations for the wedding.”
“Agreed,” Weymouth said, pushing himself out of his chair, standing to embrace his son. “Your mother and I will meet you at Lady H
arralson’s later this evening.” He gave Griffin a wry grin. “Now, I’d better go inform your mother that we’ll be attending.” He winked at Griff. “She’ll want plenty of time to deck herself out in all her ‘official’ Countess of Weymouth finery.”
Chapter Ten
“To make rosewater from the cast-off petals in the garden, gather fresh rose petals from the garden. Place rose petals in deep pot and cover with three cups of water. Simmer for ten minutes. Add one cup of alcohol and pour rose petal mixture through cheesecloth, collecting the liquid into clean, glass bottles. Garnish with sprigs of fresh lavender and a few tiny rosebuds. Cork and store in the wine cellar or buttery until use.”
—Lady Alyssa Carrollton, recipe diary, 26 April 1810
“Alyssa, this has got to stop at once!”
Alyssa looked up from her task and found her mother standing in the doorway. “I cannot stop, Mama,” she said. “I’m in the process of bottling a batch of rosewater.”
Alyssa stood in a room off the kitchen before a massive worktable crafted of scarred oak beams where jellies, jams, and preserves as well as all the household cures and remedies were made. She held a heavy stockpot in her hand and was carefully straining a mass of pulpy rose petals through the cheesecloth covering a long-handled pot.
When the bottom container was nearly full of rose-scented liquid, Alyssa set the stockpot aside and lifted the corners of the cheesecloth, allowing the remaining puddle of liquid to flow through the cloth into the container. Alyssa tied the corners of the cheesecloth and dropped it back into the stockpot. She placed a funnel into the neck of the first of a row of empty wine bottles, then lifted the long-handled pot and began pouring the rosewater through the funnel and into the wine bottle. As the level rose in the neck of the bottle, Alyssa removed the funnel. She dropped a sprig of fresh lavender and two or three tiny rosebuds into the bottle as garnish, then corked it and set it at the far end of the table to cool.