Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I eye her suspiciously. ‘And where are we going?’
‘The theatre and to the lovely new tea shop on Regent Street. Lady Tills… it’s apparently very lovely.’
And she’s still hoping to win approval of at least one of the patronesses of Almack’s. ‘Where’s Frank?’ I ask, the absence of my brother getting louder. I am yet to enquire into his feelings over the latest news concerning the old Viscount Millingdale and the young Miss Fallow.
‘Your brother’s whereabouts are a mystery each day,’ Father says, looking worryingly thoughtful. ‘And sales are dropping with each day that passes.’
‘Oh, my dear, I have a story!’ Mother sings, and I groan under my breath. Here we go. ‘That terrible Duke causing havoc in the milliner’s today while Eliza and I were there collecting my hat.’
‘Havoc, you say?’
‘Terrible havoc,’ she affirms, nodding.
Johnny might be right. I expect he’ll have a gun by the time this story goes to press. For the love of God. It is hardly even a story. ‘I could write it,’ I say, looking at Papa tentatively.
‘Absolutely not,’ he affirms, riling me. ‘Frank must write it.’
‘I’ll write it,’ Clara chimes in, talking around her potatoes.
I ignore her. She doesn’t want to write anything. ‘That’s all well and good, Papa, but nobody knows of Frank’s whereabouts,’ I say, my eyes passing quickly between my father and my mother, seeing them both fidgeting and both looking rather worried. What have I missed during my spell laid up? ‘Will someone please tell me where Frank is and what on earth is going on?’
‘He’s taken to the bottle,’ Mama says, waving a hand that is far too flippant for my liking. ‘And his backside has become stuck to a chair in the gentleman’s club up in Mayfair.’
Father slumps heavily back in his chair, rubbing at his forehead and exhaling loudly. ‘Whatever did I do to deserve such challenging children?’
There is an answer to that question, a valid answer, and yet I am reluctant to apply any more weight to my father’s shoulders, for he looks fit to collapse under the strain of it all. So Frank has gone astray? Oh dear. It is worse than I expected. He must have really liked Lizzy Fallow. I pop a carrot in my mouth and chew thoughtfully. The poor man. I expect Lizzy Fallow is about as thrilled by the prospect of being wedded to the old, decrepit Viscount as I am about being married to Frederick Lymington. I must say, though, and with much relief, at least my unsuitable suitor can walk without the aid of a stick and can see without the assistance of a quizzing glass.
My attention turns to Clara, who looks no less forlorn. She is distracted, poking at her supper. It would appear I am not the only Melrose offspring in turmoil.
The moment Mama and Papa leave for this evening’s party at Mr Fallow’s and Clara retires to the drawing room to do some embroidery, I make my escape. My face concealed by my cloak, I hurry through the darkness to Mayfair. Granted, the Duke demanded I visit him, and I am somewhat – incredibly - disappointed that I cannot, but there are more pressing matters to deal with.
I am sure to keep to the shadows, my shoulders hunched protectively, as I scurry through the streets. Once I arrive on Regent Street, I breathe easy for the first time since I stepped out of our house. I look at the gold plaque on the wall beside the door of the most renowned gentleman’s clubs in Mayfair. Possibly even London. Gentleman being the operative word in this frightfully unfortunate situation. I am cloaked, certainly, disguised even, but I am not foolish enough to believe I can step into this establishment and fool all who set eyes on me that I belong here. So, once I’ve pondered my options, which doesn’t take all too long, I resign myself to being as bold as the situation calls for. I drop the hood of my cloak, square my shoulders, and reach to ring the bell, thinking, really, this is no different to all the times I have ventured to the pub and coaxed my drunken brother out before he was unfortunate enough for Mother to find him, as she would, quite unceremoniously, drag him out by his ear.
I yelp when I am grabbed and hauled from the steps. I am carried away from Gladstone’s and set gently on my feet where I am met with fierce green eyes and a twisted face. ‘There had better be a damn good reason for you wandering the streets at night, Eliza,’ he snaps, waving a pointed finger at me. ‘Actually, no. No reason would ever be satisfactory. What the hell are you thinking?’ he hisses, starting to pace up and down before me, the impact of his boots on the ground making it shake. Furious. He is plain furious. I can’t say I blame him. I realise the extent of my senselessness. But… ‘It’s my brother,’ I begin to explain, hoping to settle his temper before he explodes, which, the longer I stand here, seems unlikely. He is positively livid.