One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,1

If he had been carrying it, as was his duty, doubtless a passerby would have been unable to knock it from his hands as easily as it had been knocked from hers. But Amanda had refused when she first left the shop with it, and she made no reply to this silent repetition of his offer. He bowed. “As you wish, milady.”

Away from Bond Street, the crowd thinned, and though the streets of Mayfair were not empty, they were quiet enough that one could pick out the notes of the birds perched high in the lush treetops. Now and again the air was split by the cheerful shrieks of children, barely contained within the nurseries whose windows had been flung open to the fresh morning air.

With a rueful roll of her aching shoulder, Amanda slowed her steps but did not stop again. She had lost a little of her taste for soaking up the sunshine. Perhaps later, in the seclusion of the garden at Bartlett House, while the boys made observations for their project about bees.

But first she intended to meet with the housekeeper about the week’s menus, if Mama had not already done it. Then she had some invitations to which she wished to respond, if Mama had not already written on her behalf. And of course, George, Lord Dulsworthy, had promised to call on her today, and Mama was predictably delighted at the prospect.…

A swallowed sigh pushed Amanda’s shoulders a notch lower. How had things ended up thus?

When they reached Bartlett House, she paused to collect herself as Lewis preceded her up the stairs. While he held open the door, she ascended, watching the toes of her brown leather half-boots peep from beneath her skirts as they landed squarely on each step.

Inside, all was quiet—unsettlingly so, given that two young boys lived within.

Matthews the butler came forward with a reproving glance for Lewis and a hand outstretched for the package she carried. But before he reached her, the hand fell to his side and the movement folded into a bow. Lewis must have communicated, whether through mouthed words or gestures, that the assistance would be unwelcome.

“Mrs. West rang for her morning cocoa not a quarter of an hour ago, my lady,” Matthews reported.

Mama was having a lie-in? Good. “And the boys?”

“In the drawing room with the fencing master, my lady.”

“Oh? Is it…Tuesday?”

The butler very nearly smiled. “No, my lady. When Mr. Jacobs arrived, he indicated that Lord Dulsworthy had requested the change.”

Ah. Not, of course, that she begrudged George having a say in her sons’ upbringing. Her husband’s will had named both of them guardians, after all. And in the first months of her widowhood, she had been grateful to have a friend in Lord Dulsworthy, to whom she could turn when the inevitable questions arose. Grateful too to her mother, who had swooped into Bartlett House and taken command so that Amanda could focus all of her attention on her grieving boys.

But months had turned to years. Nearly three of them. And though the Countess of Kingston was perfectly capable of handling matters herself, over time, people seemed to have forgotten it.

Including, occasionally, Amanda herself.

“Did Mr. Jacobs happen to say wh—?” She bit off the question, saving it for later. For Mr. Jacobs himself, perhaps, or for George when he called. “Thank you, Matthews. Please send Mrs. Hepplewythe to me in my sitting room.”

If Mama had risen late, then the matter of the menus was yet to be decided, and Amanda could finally enjoy a week without—

“Certainly, my lady. I’ll tell her as soon as she returns from Mrs. West’s chambers.”

Though tempted, Amanda did not suck in a sharp breath of disappointment or grimace or even shake her head. As her mother often reminded her, the servants saw everything and knew even more; therefore, she must mind her step around them most of all.

Occasionally she wondered if she might not be better off if she let a bit of her frustration show.

With a nod to Matthews, she climbed the stairs to her own suite of rooms at the back of the house, passing through the bedchamber, with its cheerful yellow curtains and floral paper; shedding her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves in the dressing room; and coming at last to her small sitting room, more than half filled by a velvet-covered divan, an overstuffed chair flanked by a marble-topped table, and her escritoire. At that elegant writing desk, positioned between two tall windows overlooking the garden, she sat