“No, sir. I always hang left. If you kink my cock with a misplaced seam, we shall have words, you and I,” Cal said.
Never mind. Still awkward.
“The poor lad’s ears are bright red, Cal. Apologize for embarrassing him,” Ethan commented, taking a seat and resting an ankle on his knee.
Cal glanced down at the man who held a measuring tape snug against what one would assume to be the left-dangling member in question. “Do conversations about cocks embarrass you? So sorry to offend. You might be in the wrong business, though. I imagine there are a great many cocks in your line of work.”
Ethan muffled his laugh with a hand and shook his head. The tailor’s assistant stammered something that seemed to appease Cal, then went back to making notes and taking measurements.
“Don’ they already have your measurements on file? You’ve been coming here since you were in nappies.”
“These will be Cossack trousers in the new style. Looser fit for my fencing bouts with the Puppy,” Cal said.
“You’ll look utterly ridiculous and probably still lose. You know that, right?”
“They’re the height of fashion,” Cal said.
“Right, as you said. If nothing else, they’ll allow plenty of room tae dangle left while your young friend runs circles around you.”
“Never underestimate the importance of the dangle. And I long ago gave up any hope of you understanding fashionable dress.”
“About damn time. Are we done here, or will you be a while yet?” Ethan exchanged a look with the tailor’s assistant, who scuttled back so Cal could step down from the dais. “I need tae get tae my meeting with Macdonell and don’ want tae be late.”
“I’m famished, so I’ll come with you. You’re meeting at the coffeehouse, right?” Cal asked, accepting the tailor’s assistant’s help shrugging back into his coat and boots.
“Aye. A kidney pie sounds perfect. I’ve spent the last week asking around, and Lady Charlotte didn’t exaggerate. The brew he made in Westmorland is spoken of very highly, but from what I’ve heard, his methods differ from the gentleman we met in Warwickshire. I’d like your read of him. I’ll have tae work with the man, after all, and we both know I’m getting desperate tae fill the position.” Ethan gathered the small bundle from the bookstore. “Maybe after a pint I can convince you tae rethink those trousers.”
Chapter Eleven
Lady Agatha stood before the window, tapping her cane on the floor in an agitated rhythm. The sun backlit her silver hair and black dress, giving her the look of an elderly avenging angel. The way she twisted the brass knob of her cane, it wouldn’t surprise Lottie to discover a sword stashed inside, ready to burst into flames, channeling the vengeance of God.
Heavenly vengeance would be useful right about now. She’d been expecting fallout since leaving Montague by that pond and borrowing his phaeton—fine, she’d stolen it. But she’d given it back. With his wounded pride, and possibly broken nose, she’d known he wouldn’t let the situation stand, even though she’d hoped he would choose discretion and slither back under whatever rock he’d come from. Even so, she hadn’t expected blackmail. At the window, she swung back to traverse the room again until she reached the sofa.
“I should have listened to my gut. I knew something felt off about him. But no, for Father’s sake, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Agatha, you told me he wasn’t suitable. Darling—hell, even Lord Amesbury—warned me off the man. Montague is nothing but a low-life, scummy, awful pile of excrement. Bastard.” Clutching the letter she’d received in one hand, she nibbled at her other thumbnail—an anxious habit from her childhood she’d thought eradicated.
“I should chastise the language, but frankly, my dear, you understate the matter,” Agatha said.
Waving the letter in the air, Lottie wailed, “What am I going to do? He’s sending an engagement notice to the Times. I won’t marry that man, and I told him as much. But Father gave his blessing, in writing. Father is drawing up contracts, and that house Rogers wrote about must be part of it. Montague and Father have me cornered. He wants to call on me and discuss wedding details, as if Dawson hasn’t already turned him away several times.”
“I would never ask you to let him call. I do not know what happened between you, and I do not need to. If you cut ties and he is responding with this blatant manipulation, I know you are in the right,” Agatha said.
Lottie slumped onto the sofa, resting her forehead in her palm, and tried to think through the situation. Hard to do when all she wanted to do was rage and cry. Father appeared to be ignoring her wishes by going forward with the engagement. Montague was more wily than expected, and she had no idea how to get out of this. She’d dispatched a messenger as soon as the letter arrived, but she didn’t have much faith that it would do any good. Even riding hell-for-leather, the messenger would take several days to reach Stanwick Manor, and the engagement notice would be in Friday’s Times.
A tap on the door interrupted her downward spiral. Dawson entered. “Pardon me, milady. Lord Amesbury is here. Would you like him to return at a later date?”
Before Agatha could reply, Lottie said, “Send him in, Dawson.”
Aunt Agatha gave her a concerned look, and Lottie shrugged. “I don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do. Maybe Amesbury will have an idea.”
“Since when are you two friends?”
“It’s a recent development. I feel like I can use all the friends I can get right now, don’t you?” She didn’t regret her offer of friendship, although thinking of Amesbury as a friend didn’t feel natural yet.
Lord Amesbury took one tentative step into the room. He’d taken care with his dress before calling, and the effort made Lottie smile, despite the events of the morning. The
