The only one of their wives not yet obviously blooming—and he suspected it truly was not yet—was Letitia.
Somewhat to his surprise, all his men looked pained. He looked at Jack Hendon. “You’re an old hand—any tips?”
Jack closed his eyes, shuddered, then opening them, shook his head. “Don’t remind me—I never figured it out.”
“The difficulty,” Jack Warnefleet said, “is in being subtle when what you want to do is put your foot down and state categorically that they can’t do that—whatever ‘that’ is at the time.”
Deverell nodded. “No matter what you say, how tactfully you try to put it, they look at you as if you have the intelligence of a flea—and then just do whatever they were going to.”
“Why is it,” Christian asked, “that we, the other half of the equation as it were, are considered to have no valid opinions on such matters?”
“Probably
because,” Tony replied, “our opinions are ill-informed, being based on a woeful lack of intelligence.”
“Not to mention,” Gervase added, “us having no experience in the field.”
Royce glanced at them. “Those sound like quotes.”
Tony and Gervase answered as one. “They are.”
“What worries me even more,” Tristan said, “is what comes next.”
They all looked at Jack Hendon.
He looked back at them, then slowly shook his head. “You really don’t want to know.”
All considered it, but none of them pressed.
Royce smiled wryly. “What cowards we are.”
“When it comes to that…yes.” Christian drained his glass, then turned the conversation to the recent developments surrounding the Corn Laws. They were all peers, all managed estates of various sizes, all had communities under their protection; Royce listened, learned, contributed what he knew, his gaze resting on Minerva as she stood chatting with Letitia and Rose halfway down the room.
Another lady approached—Ellen, Minerva’s friend, one of her matrons-of-honor; Ellen joined the group, then spoke specifically to Minerva and indicated one of the side doors. Minerva nodded, then excused herself to Letitia and Rose and, alone, went to the door.
Royce wondered what household emergency she’d been summoned to deal with…but why would Cranny or Retford or any of the others use Ellen to ferry a message? The summons had to be about something else…
He told himself it was their recent discussion of delicate conditions and their primitive responses that was playing on his mind, but…with a nod he excused himself and started moving through the crowd.
He felt Christian glance at him, sensed his gaze following as he made his way to where Letitia and Rose were still talking. They looked up as he halted beside them.
“Where’s Minerva?”
Letitia smiled at him. “She just stepped outside to meet someone.”
“They had a message from your half brother, or something like that.” Rose tipped her head toward the side door. “They were waiting out there.”
Royce looked toward the door—and knew Minerva wasn’t in the hallway beyond it. Every instinct he possessed was alive, pricking. Leaving the ladies without a word, he moved toward the door.
Christian drew near as he opened it.
The hallway beyond was empty.
He walked into the narrow space; to his right the hall led back into the house while to his left it ran along the ballroom a little way, then ended in a door to the gardens. Common sense suggested Minerva had gone into the house; he prowled left, drawn by a white clump on the floor before the door.
Christian followed.
Royce stooped to pick up a beribboned band covered with white silk flowers—Minerva’s mother’s wedding favor; Minerva had worn it on her wrist. Bent over, he froze, sniffed. Turning his head, he crouched, looked; from the base of the umbrella stand he teased out a scrap of linen…a handkerchief.