You. The unexpected thought caught him off guard, and Wes coughed again, a little too hard. “No,” he rasped. “I was looking for the library.”
She smiled. “You’ve discovered it! As have most of the other guests. Lady Bridget is working on her play.”
“Farce,” said the girl, sotto voce.
Mrs. Cavendish closed her eyes for a second. “Were you seeking something in particular?”
“Er . . . A book,” he said, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say.
She gave him a patient look. Anyone looking for the library would naturally be seeking a book. “Of course. Have you anything in particular—?”
“No, no, I’ll just have a look around. Don’t mind me,” he said hastily. He strode to the nearest shelf and frowned thoughtfully at it.
“I don’t say that the play must be a model of logic and wit, but even a farce has some sense to it.” Mrs. Cavendish returned to her conversation with Lady Bridget, her voice lower but still audible to Wes’s alert ears.
“This scene has sense! See, the pirate arrives to find the swan sick with love for the lonely spinster, which stokes his own affections for her.”
“But on the next page you’ve got a ghost arriving to deliver a prophecy.”
“That also makes sense. He’s a ghost because he drowned in a flood. As there’s a pirate and a swan, a flood would affect both of them.”
Wes choked on another laugh, trying again to make it into a cough. He could just picture the struggle Mrs. Cavendish was undergoing. The ladies behind him fell silent. He realized he was staring at a selection of books about sheep farming, about which he knew nothing and cared even less, and walked to the next bookcase.
Their conversation resumed, even more quietly. “But Bridget, the prophecy is about who shall marry the prince. Where is the prince?”
A gusty sigh, presumably from Lady Bridget. “Viola, there must be a prince.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t written that part yet!”
This time he coughed so hard to cover his amusement, he felt light-headed. It would serve him right if he fainted right here in front of everyone because he’d been eavesdropping. Justin was glaring at him in incredulous outrage, and by the time Wes fished out his handkerchief to mop his stinging eyes, Mrs. Cavendish was beside him.
“I will ring for the maids to dust,” she said. “I do apologize, my lord, I’d no idea it was so unpleasant in here.”
“Not at all,” he croaked through dry lips. Hoist by his own damn petard.
“Then let me send for a cup of tea,” she suggested. “I could have it sent to your room, if you wish.”
“Yes, Uncle, I do think that would be a good idea,” Justin put in from across the room. “You must mind your health, after our long journey here.”
Wes glared at him as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. Mind his health, indeed, as if he were a feeble old man. He might look deranged after this, but he was not feeble. “Entirely unnecessary, Mrs. Cavendish. Some fresh air is all I need. Perhaps I’ll take a turn in the garden.”
“It’s snowing out, you know,” put in Lady Bridget. “Absolutely pelting down. The doors are probably frozen shut. Tea in the morning room would be far more comfortable.”
“Serena and Mr. Jones are in there,” said Lady Alexandra.
Bridget’s head came up. “Arguing?”
Her sister looked surprised. “No, silly, why would they be arguing? Serena despises him. I think they’re rehearsing lines for your ridiculous play.”
“Farce,” said Bridget.
“A talking swan is ridiculous.” The young man beside her raised his brows, and she gave him a teasing smile. “Yes, Lord Gosling, I know you play the swan. I’m sure you shall do your best, but you must admit it is ridiculous.”
“Not in the slightest,” declared Lord Gosling, executing a gallant bow toward Lady Bridget. “All the best actors have played swans. I hope to give the premier portrayal.” Lady Alexandra and the girl beside her burst into laughter.
Bridget’s mouth thinned. “I shall write something even better for you, Alexa.”
The other girl rolled her eyes at Justin, who laughed indulgently. Wes could see very well what was happening there: Lady Alexandra was lovely, and competition always sparked a man’s spirit. He tried to send Justin a look of warning, but his nephew deliberately avoided his gaze.
“Are we all to get special parts, Lady Bridget? I could fancy being a prince,” Justin said. Casually he propped one foot on the base of the globe beside Lady Alexandra’s settee, and rested his elbow on his knee. Wes scowled at the rakish pose.
“It depends.” Her gaze moved to Wes. “Lord Winterton, what sort of character would you like to play?”
“I?” he asked, startled.
“Yes, I’m considering adding an elderly king, in the vein of King Lear. I expect he’ll have to die so his son the prince can become king. Would that suit you? How would you like to die?”
Justin snorted with laughter. Lady Alexandra smiled, and the other young lady giggled.
“Bridget,” gasped Mrs. Cavendish. “My lord, perhaps you’d like to see the house?”
He ought to stay to keep an eye on his nephew. He burned to search the shelves for the Desnos atlas. He did not want to walk away from all the slights on his age and health without protest or at least a show of vigor. Instead he looked into Mrs. Cavendish’s desperate green eyes and said, “Thank you, I very much would.”
“I hope you feel better, Uncle,” said Justin, as Wes followed her toward the door.
“Have some tea,” added Lady Alexandra. “Cook makes splendid tea cakes.”
“And stay indoors!” Lady Bridget said just as Mrs. Cavendish pulled the door shut behind them with a bit of a bang.
Viola heaved a heartfelt sigh and rested her forehead against the door for a moment. It was silent and cool in the corridor, although perhaps it only seemed that way to her. What had got into Alexandra and Bridget?
Never mind—she knew very well. Lord Gosling was nothing short of beautiful, and had
