It was a preposterous plan, but apparently the Shrewsbury cakes were somewhat effective, because Juliana was half convinced it might work. However, the cakes didn't seem to be affecting Amanda's view of James, and Juliana wasn't about to see her own project fail.
Although she knew she should resume sewing, she stepped to the window and gazed out at the unceasing rain. The trouble was, unless the Shrewsbury cakes worked magic, there was only so much she could do herself. James would have to do the rest.
Obviously his good looks weren't enough to do the trick. Maybe she should coach him in the ways of wooing. He was, after all, a man consumed by his avocation—with all the time he spent doctoring, perhaps he hadn't had the opportunity to acquire the sort of aristocratic polish necessary to win a lady like Amanda.
Of course, getting him to agree to such training could prove a delicate matter, since, in her experience, the male of the species was often reluctant to admit to any deficiency. But she would bring along some of the Shrewsbury cakes and hope they'd help convince him.
She turned from the window, returning to her chair and the third of thirty frocks. New Hope Institute was closed on Sundays, but she'd pay James a visit tomorrow.
TWELVE
"WHAT DO YOU think of this dress, dear?" Sitting across from James at the breakfast table Monday morning, Cornelia held up her copy of La Belle Assemblée, open to one of the hand-colored fashion plates. "Shall I order something like it for the next ball?"
"It's lovely, Mother." Given that his mother hadn't shown any interest in clothes since his father died, James knew he should be pleased to see her enjoying life again. But instead he was rather annoyed that his plot to convince her to stop pressuring him had failed so miserably.
"I had a wonderful time dancing," she said for at least the dozenth time since the ball.
The only respite he'd received from her happiness was the few hours she'd spent overnight with her sisters. She'd enjoyed that, too, to hear her tell of it. Aurelia and Bedelia's peach-ridden town house was near Oxford Street with all its shops. A perfect distance from his own mansion in St. James's Place—close enough for an easy visit but far enough that he didn't see his aunts every time he stepped out the door.
He folded the Morning Chronicle and set it carefully by his plate. "I have an idea, Mother."
"Hmm?" She flipped a page of her magazine.
"Why don't you move back in with your sisters? You could help them redecorate and get rid of some of that peach. I'm sure you'd enjoy that more than living here with me."
Cornelia hadn't always lived with him. When he'd returned to England following his years in the army and at medical school in Edinburgh, he'd established his own household. After his father's death, when James inherited Stafford House and the country estate that went along with his title, his mother had moved in with her widowed sisters, wishing not to intrude on his life with his wife. But then Anne died two years ago, and Cornelia came running back home to "help" him.
And here she'd stayed. For too long. He loved her dearly, but a man was entitled to some privacy and autonomy. He'd truly appreciated her "help" while he'd needed it, but he'd long since recovered some semblance of a life, even if he didn't feel ready to fall in love and remarry.
"Don't be foolish, James. Should my sisters ever decide to redecorate, I can help them from here. Who would run this household if I abandoned you? Stafford House is one of the largest homes in London."
One thing he wasn't lacking was money. "I have a staff. And I can hire more people should I need to."
"That's not the same as having family oversee matters." She flipped another page, tilting her head to peruse the dress pictured. "I won't even think about moving out until you have a wife."
Yet another reason to marry. But he'd want to fall in love first, and that wasn't going to happen.
"Very well, then," he said. It was senseless to pursue this any longer. That would only cause hard feelings, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt his mother. "I must be off." He pushed back from the table and rose. "I wish you a pleasant day."
She looked up. "I trust you haven't forgotten that Bedelia is expecting you this morning?"
Damnation. He had. His mind had been on other things. Especially a hazel-eyed sprite he had no business thinking about.
Most annoying.
"I haven't time, I'm afraid." He shrugged into the tailcoat a footman held out. "Only one doctor volunteered today, so I must fill the other spot," he said, buttoning the coat. "I'm expected at the Institute by ten."
"The people can wait a little longer for their vaccinations. Bedelia has been suffering with chest pains."
"Bedelia is fine, Mother."
"I'm sure you're right." She paused for a sip of her tea. "But what if she isn't?"
"THIS DOESN'T look like a nice neighborhood," Aunt Frances said with a worried frown.
"It's perfectly safe, I assure you." Reaching over the basket of Shrewsbury cakes on her lap, Juliana pulled the carriage's curtains closed.
"Herman doesn't like the dark," Emily said, reopening them.
"Herman should have stayed home," Juliana told her. Aunt Frances was peering out the window again, looking even more nervous, so she dug into her reticule for something to distract her. "Here, Auntie. I forgot to give you this letter. It arrived in the morning mail."
Emily stroked Herman's olive green scales, for all the world like he was a real pet. "I never get letters."
"I never get letters, either." Eyes wide behind her spectacles, Aunt Frances broke the seal and held the paper up to the light. As she
