London
August 1820
"Good evening, my lord. Your uncle has called. He's awaiting you in the library."
Gyles Frederick Rawlings, fifth Earl of Chillingworth, paused in the act of divesting himself of his greatcoat, then shrugged and let the heavy coat fall into his butler's waiting hands. "Indeed?"
"I understand Lord Walpole will shortly return to Lambourn Castle. He wondered if you had any messages for the Dowager Countess."
"In other words," Gyles murmured, resettling his cuffs, "he wants the latest gossip and knows better than to return to Mama and my aunt without it."
"As you say, my lord. In addition, Mr. Waring called earlier. On ascertaining that you were returning this evening, he left word that he would hold himself ready to wait on your lordship at your earliest convenience."
"Thank you, Irving." Gyles strolled into his front hall. Behind him, the front door quietly shut, propelled by a silent footman. Pausing in the middle of the green-and-white tiles, Gyles glanced back at Irving, waiting, a picture of patience in his butler's black. "Summon Waring." GyIes turned down the hall. "Send a footman with the carriage, given it's so late."
"Immediately, my lord."
Another well-trained footman opened the library door; Gyles walked in; the door closed behind him.
His uncle, Horace Walpole, was sitting on the chaise, legs stretched out, a half-empty brandy balloon in one hand. He cracked open one eye, then opened both and sat up. "There you are, m'boy. I was wondering if I'd have to go back newsless, and considering what would be safe to concoct."
Gyles crossed to the tantalus. "I believe I can spare your imagination. I'm expecting Waring shortly."
"That new man-of-business of yours?"
Gyles nodded. Glass in hand, he crossed to his favorite armchair and sank into its leather-cushioned comfort. "He's been looking into a small matter for me."
"Oh? Which matter?"
"Who I should marry."
Horace stared, then straightened. "Hell's bells! You're serious."
"Marriage is not a subject on which I would jest."
"Glad to hear it." Horace took a large sip of his brandy.
"Henni said you'd be making a move in that direction, but Ireally didn't think you would -- well, not yet."
Gyles hid a wry smile. Horace had been his guardian since his father's death; he'd been seven at the time of his sire's demise, so it was Horace who'd guided him through adolesence and youth. Despite that, he could still surprise Horace. His aunt Henrietta, Henni to all, was another matter -- she seemed to know instinctively what he was thinking on all major issues, even though he was here in London while she resided at his principal estate in Berkshire. As for his mother, also at Lambourn Castle, he'd long been grateful that she kept her perceptions to herself. "It's not as if marriage is something I can avoid."
"There is that." Horace conceded. "Osbert as the next earl is not something any of us could stomach. Least of all Osbert."
"So Great-aunt Millicent regularly informs me." Gyles nodded at the large desk farther down the room. "That letter there -- the thick one? That'll be another missive demanding I do my duty by the family, pick a suitable chit, and marry with all speed. One arrives every week without fail."
Horace pulled a face.
"And, of course, every time I cross Osbert's path, he looks at me as if I'm his only possible salvation."
"Well, you are. If you don't marry and beget an heir, he'll be for it. And Osbert in charge of the earldom is entirely too depressing a thought to contemplate." Horace drained his glass. "Still, I wouldn't have thought you'd let old Millicent and Osbert jockey you into marrying to please them."
