Theodore made a guess that she was a widow of perhaps half a year or a year, no more. He’d ask Adelia for confirmation later.
“Mr Nettles!” she said warmly, and the man was forced to greet her. He rose and took her hand politely.
“Ah, dear Mrs Dymchurch.” He turned to Theodore who also rose, and made the introduction between them in a careful manner.
“Pleased to meet you,” they both murmured. They all remained standing somewhat awkwardly. Now Theodore had to talk to her for at least a few minutes before he could sidle off somewhere else.
She said, “Lord Calaway, forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t your daughter the delightful Lady Lassiter?”
“Indeed she is. One of seven daughters that I have been blessed with.”
“And a son, I understand,” she said.
Theodore inclined his head, intending to show agreement but mostly to hide any expression of pain that might inadvertently flicker over his face. “Yes,” he said. “Bamfylde is my eldest child.” Child! The man was full-grown and well into his thirties.
Not that Theodore had seen him for many years, and it did seem curious that this unknown lady should have mentioned him at all.
She didn’t reply to that. She was looking at Mr Nettles, inviting him into the conversation by saying, “And how are you enjoying the evening, sir?”
“It is tolerable.”
“Merely tolerable! Are too many of the great and the good here for your taste, perhaps?” She smiled sweetly, as if it were a shared joke.
“Everyone knows my feelings on that matter,” he replied.
“Indeed, we do.”
“Indeed.”
The silence lengthened painfully. Theodore knocked back the dregs of his brandy and spotted Adelia. She wasn’t even looking his way but he seized his chance anyway, declared that he simply had to attend to his wife, and he plunged into the crowds and away from Mr Nettles and Mrs Dymchurch as fast as he could.
THEY DID NOT GET TO bed until the small hours of the next morning. Adelia was glad they were staying at Charlotte’s house rather than in a hotel, because she felt comfortable enough to linger late in bed the following morning. She also felt guilty, as if she ought to be up and doing something.
Theodore rolled out of bed with a groan and wandered off in his housecoat, returning a little later with very cold feet in spite of his slippers, and a tray of food for their indulgent breakfast in bed.
“It’s time we started to spend the winters on the continent,” he grumbled, slipping back under the covers with his back against the pillows. She yelped as his icy toes got too close to her and she kicked back, nearly upsetting the tray of toast and eggs, rice and mackerel and fruit. The teapot had been put on a chair close to the head of the bed.
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But wasn’t last night fun? Don’t deny it simply to make a point. I remember seeing you laugh on more than one occasion.”
“You seemed to relax. I was glad to see it.”
“I probably relaxed too much.”
“Absolute poppycock. You can allow yourself to unbend. I saw the old Adelia re-emerge last night.”
They chattered on, comparing notes about the people they had met and the old friends they had caught up with. Theodore told her about Mr Nettles, with whom she had not spoken at the dinner party.
“But I have seen him before,” she said, buttering a piece of thick toast. “In fact, that reminds me that I want to ask Charlotte about him. Do you remember when I came to London a few months ago?”
“Who could forget?” he said with an exaggerated sigh. It had been a dramatic time leading to a broken leg for one of their daughters and a night-time mercy dash across the country. A lot had happened, which certainly explained Adelia’s current confused state of feeling to some extent.
“It was at that opening night – I forget which gallery it was – but I met Charlotte there, and Edith was with me, of course. We saw Mr Nettles there and Charlotte fled; she simply ran away. It was the sight of him that caused her to leave the gallery completely. She wrote to apologise to me, afterwards, but I have not since got to the bottom of it. Not yet, at any rate.”
“How curious. He was the same, in a way, when Mrs Dymchurch came towards us; he would have fled from her if he could have managed it.”
“Mrs Dymchurch? Octavia Dymchurch?”
“Yes. Older lady, looked both happy and sad at the same time. She’s a widow, isn’t she?” he added.
“Ah, the detective never rests. Of course she’s a widow. You saw how she was dressed. This was her first entry back into society, as it happens, though I have heard she’s been at lunches and private soirees for a few months. And she’s not an older lady at all. She’s half my age.”
“Yes, but you’re –”
“Theodore! Thank you,” she said, snatching away a piece of toast that he had just spread with marmalade. “Poor Mrs Dymchurch,” she went on. “You are right, of course. She is both happy and sad at the same time, but she has lost a husband so that makes perfect sense.”
“I suppose she is hunting for a new one. Is Mr Nettles available?”
“He is also a widower. But it doesn’t bode well for
