“Thank you, Viola.” The duchess’s voice was hoarse from coughing.
“Some visitors arrived today.” Viola tidied the tray and uncovered the dishes. “The Earl of Winterton and his nephew, Viscount Newton. Lord Winterton had an appointment with the duke.”
“Oh dear.” The dowager coughed, and Viola handed her a cup of steaming tea. “Wessex will not be pleased to have missed him.”
Nor was Viola especially pleased to have two more guests to entertain. “I thought Mr. Martin would have written to cancel their visit, but they must have set out before his letter reached them.”
The duchess made a sound of dismay. “How regrettable.”
Viola brought the tray over to the bed. The dowager was propped up on a number of pillows, looking older than usual. Her face was pale except for the flush of fever in her cheeks, and her eyes looked sunken and glassy. She’d fallen ill several days earlier and seemed to be in the worst of it. “Ma’am, perhaps we should send for the doctor—”
The duchess gave her a wan smile. “So says Ellen,” she murmured, referring to her maid. “I’ve seen what doctors do, you know. I prefer to take my chances with the fever.”
Viola frowned in worry. “Yes, ma’am, but . . .”
The duchess pushed herself a little more upright and pulled the tray toward her. “I have no plans to succumb to it, mind you. If I go into a decline and hope begins to wane, you and Ellen may send for the doctor, but as long as I have my appetite and can sleep, I intend to brave it out.” She inspected the tray and sighed. “More blancmange. Tell Cook I would like something with flavor next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Viola hesitated. “What ought I to do with Lords Winterton and Newton?”
The duchess blinked. “Oh yes. I suppose they must stay the night.”
She wet her lips. “It’s snowing, Your Grace, and it shows no signs of stopping. The roads may not be fit for travel tomorrow.”
“Then they must stay until the roads are fit.” The duchess gave her a reproving glance. “You didn’t think otherwise, surely?”
Viola blushed. She’d already told the gentlemen they were welcome to stay. “No, no. I only worried about the inconvenience to Lady Serena and her friends.”
Something of the older woman’s usual perception returned. “Are these gentlemen by any chance handsome, rakish fellows?”
“Rakish! Oh my, I’ve no idea,” Viola babbled. “But . . . Lord Newton is rather young—near Lady Alexandra’s age, I would suppose—and he is a handsome gentleman.”
“Oh dear.” Another fit of coughing seized the duchess, and Viola hurried to fetch a clean handkerchief. “And Winterton?” rasped the duchess a moment later, reaching for her tea. “Tell me he’s a somber older gentleman capable of keeping his nephew in check.”
“Er.” Viola shifted her weight, picturing the man in question. “I wouldn’t call him much older . . .”
The duchess closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillows. “Is there a Lady Winterton? Send Ellen to fetch Debrett’s, Viola.”
Viola rang for the maid, who returned a short time later with the tome listing all the aristocracy of Britain. She paged through it to the Earl of Winterton’s entry and read it aloud to the duchess. “Wesley Edward Fitzallen Morane, Earl of Winterton, Viscount Desmond, Baron Lyle; born August 31, 1784; succeeded his father, Allen, the late earl, on March 12, 1810.”
“No countess,” said the duchess on a sigh. “And he’s handsome.” Viola opened her mouth to protest that she’d never said that, realized it was true, and said nothing. The earl was a man who drew the eye—at least her eye—with coal-black hair and vivid blue eyes in a lean, tanned face. He looked like a man of bold action and passionate interests.
“I shall have to recover.” The dowager ruined this determined statement with another bout of coughing, and Viola refilled her teacup without waiting for permission. “There is no way Serena can maintain order. Even if these two gentlemen arrived as the very souls of dignity and propriety, Sophronia would corrupt them into the biggest scoundrels in England within a week. I shall be out of this bed by morning if I must be carried on a litter to do it.”
Viola took one look at the dowager duchess, pale and weak and still feverish, and knew there was no way she would be recovered by the morning. “You mustn’t risk your health, ma’am.” She took a deep breath and girded herself. “I shall do everything I can to assist Lady Serena, and I’m sure we can manage between the two of us.”
“Are you?” The dowager held up one hand to forestall a protest Viola wasn’t making. “I know my daughters. Bridget, in particular, can be . . . willful.”
Viola knew that all too well. This play of Bridget’s was beginning to worry her; despite asking twice, she had yet to see a single page of it, and Bridget’s odd requests were growing alarming. A ghost? Feathers? She said a silent prayer that she wasn’t about to make a promise she couldn’t keep, which might well lead to the duchess dismissing her from her post, and gave a decisive nod. “Of course. I’m very fond of Lady Bridget, and I’m confident I can guide her.”
“Well,” said the dowager, her voice heavy with doubt, “perhaps . . .”
“There’s little choice, I fear,” Viola added. “The roads will soon be impassable.” She’d checked on the snowfall right before bringing the dowager’s tray. The snow was four inches deep and still falling heavily. John the footman reported that Hugh, the head gardener, was predicting a great deal of snow, based on his observations of the squirrels at Kingstag Castle. Hugh claimed he could predict the weather by the animals’ behavior. Viola wasn’t convinced of that, but given the way her luck had run the last few years, this storm would be an epic blizzard that brought all of Dorset to a standstill.
The house was full of young ladies and gentlemen, with more expected, who would grow bored and restive if trapped inside for days on end.
Not one but two
