It was three days before Santiago saw the siren again.
Three boring, frustrating days, when the women of the house—and there seemed only to be women—fussed over his wounds and fed him broth and muttered in corners. He still wasn’t sure whether to trust them, because something had sent that monstrous water creature to destroy his ships and try to drown him, but on the other hand…
On the other hand, he had felt like he’d been thrown about and half-drowned by some sort of giant squid made out of mud, and now he felt … fine. No more than a bruise or two. A little tired sometimes.
He kept watching for signs of witchcraft from the ladies of the house, but all he could really lay at their door was that they made marvellous poultices and delicious curries. The most senior lady of the house had introduced herself as Mistress Blackmantle, the sort of title even Santiago thought somewhat old-fashioned. She spoke to him in Spanish, Miss Madhu exercised his patchy Tamil and even patchier Kannada, and Nora translated some of Billy’s more confusing cant terms.
Gwen played card games with him, and usually won, mostly because she already seemed to know what the outcome of the game would be. Madhu served him food that seemed to soothe whatever ache or discomfort he was currently feeling. Nora, when she thought he wasn’t watching, managed to lift the clothes press all by herself in order to sweep beneath it.
These women were not natural. Did that mean they were evil? And did that mean the bewitching Lady Tiffany was, too?
Clothes were procured for him, and he was permitted to sit in the parlour and play dice with Billy, who won an outrageous amount of money from him, mostly by cheating. The boy seemed to have decided he belonged to Santiago now, which was fine, he supposed. Billy did at least know London, or at least the rougher parts of it, and he’d managed to obtain a packet of cigars for Santiago, which had the effect of endearing him more than it should have.
‘And that’s when I ses, if you’re gonna hang around Seven Dials in a dress that’s what’s gonna happen,’ said Billy, and when Santiago laughed he casually flipped one of the dice over.
‘Billy, Billy. You’ll have to get better at cheating than that,’ said Santiago. ‘Look. Let me show you…’
‘’Ow’s a fine gent like you know about cheating?’ said Billy, with not a trace of embarrassment at being caught.
It was a skill my father taught me.
‘Yes, that is a good question,’ said a voice that made Santiago’s pulse race. He looked up, and there was the siren, neat as a pin in a dreadful shade of peach with an equally appalling bonnet.
‘No, please don’t stand up,’ she added drily, when neither of them made a move to.
Billy shot Santiago a questioning look.
‘My lady,’ said Santiago, endeavouring to nod to her in a manner that might be acceptable.
‘Mr Santiago. Billy. How pleasant to see you again. I trust your health has been improving?’
‘Yes.’ Santiago gestured to himself, as fully dressed as he could be bothered when doing little more than playing dice by the fire. He wore a waistcoat, mostly unbuttoned, and a loose neckcloth, and had allowed Mistress Blackmantle to drape a blanket across his lap despite the mildness of the day.
Not that Lady Tiffany would have noticed, as her gaze did not seem capable of dipping below his chin. ‘Your aunt has been most kind,’ he said. ‘I will shortly be returning home.’
‘Oh? Does Aunt Esme know that?’ asked Tiffany, taking an elegantly uncomfortable-looking seat on an elegantly uncomfortable-looking sofa.
Santiago lounged in his wingback chair. ‘I will not trespass on her hospitality any longer,’ he said, a phrase which seemed to impress Billy.
‘Cor, you don’t half talk all fancy,’ he said. ‘Is that what nobs sound like?’
A faint smile touched Lady Tiffany’s lips, and Santiago smiled too, as he was transported to that evening outside the ball when she had made the chalk come to life…
‘I can assure you that they don’t,’ she said, ‘and also beg you to never use that word again.’
‘What? Nobs? But you are. Well nobby,’ said Billy.
Her smile began to look a little fixed. ‘My father is an earl,’ she said. ‘I am an aristocrat. Mr Santiago, on the other hand, is of the merchant class. Two quite different things.’
He felt his eyebrows go up. ‘I am a merchant? How do you know this?’
‘I—’ Her cheeks coloured.
‘You talk in your sleep, guv,’ said Billy, and her blush grew deeper. Santiago grinned. It suited her to have some colour in her face.
He reached for his cigars, cut one and lit it, which did not seem to meet with her approval.
‘I came across your trade card,’ she said stiffly, withdrawing it from her reticule. Ah yes, the little cards Penderghast had told him would aid business. He’d been along to an engravers tucked behind Oxford Street and asked for something suitable. The resulting tall ship and flowery lettering had been a little over the top for his tastes, but he’d been assured by all that it was the very thing.
‘There could be more than one Santiago,’ he said.
‘There could. But Spanish names are not that common in London and when one takes into account that you are clearly a seafaring man, it would make the coincidence somewhat … unrealistic?’
Santiago cocked his head. ‘How do you know I am a seafaring man?’
Her gaze darted, for the first time, below his collar, and Santiago felt himself smile even wider. She had seen his tattoos. Which ones? The dragon, the swallow, the ship? Maybe even … his shellback turtle?
‘What are you smiling at?’ snapped Lady Tiffany, her cheeks very red now.
‘Nothing at all, my lady.’ But he let his gaze slide over her, because turnabout was fair play. She was fully clothed, from the toes of her neat boots to the tips of her gloves; she hadn’t even taken her bonnet off. For her to have seen his tattoos, he must have been naked, or near enough.
He drew hard on his cigar. The tip glowed orange.
Her clothing was doing its best to disguise her figure, but he’d seen it the night she’d worn the silver tissue dress. Curves. Lots of curves. Curves that were going up and down right now under her high-necked pelisse.
Lady Tiffany cleared her throat. ‘Aunt Esme,’ she called, a slight break in her voice.
‘Yes, dear?’
Aunt Esme must have been right outside the door.
‘Can I come and help you with some tea?’ Tiffany’s voice was a little desperate.
‘No need, dear. I’ll bring it. Very remiss of me not to.’
‘I don’t—’ Tiffany began, her voice rising, but Esme’s neat footsteps were already clipping away down the hall.
She swallowed. Clutched at her reticule. Looked around, her gaze avoiding the paintings on the walls. Billy, unconcerned with what was going on between them, was playing a game of dice all by himself.
‘No butler,’ Lady Tiffany commented, in the direction of the curtains. ‘No footman.’
‘No men at all,’ Santiago said. ‘This must please you, my lady.’
Her eyebrows went up questioningly. But it happened a fraction too late.
‘My head may be a little disordered,’ he said, ‘but I do recall our conversation at the ball.’
Her cheeks pinkened. ‘I beg you to forget it—’
‘But how could I? You were so very clear. You wish to never marry. Not even,’ he prodded, ‘if he is a duke.’
‘I…’ she began, and licked her lips nervously. ‘It is unlikely to happen in any case,’ she said.
‘But even if a duke—a young, handsome, wealthy duke—proposed marriage to you, you would turn him down?’ he said, entertained.
‘Even the Prince Regent himself,’ she said with a tight little smile that turned to acid in her eyes. ‘As you see, my aunt and her ladies have little use for husbands.’
He relented. ‘Is this usual in English households?’
‘No,’ admitted Lady Tiffany. ‘Not really. No.’ She sighed. ‘Not in this sort of household.’
‘This sort?’
‘The… The genteel sort.’
‘Ah,’ said Santiago, nodding. ‘The nobby sort.’
‘Please don’t—’ Realising he was teasing her, she cut herself off and glared. ‘What were you doing at the Russell ball, Mr Santiago?’
He shrugged. ‘I was invited.’
She did not look as if she believed this. ‘By whom?’
‘Lady Russell.’
‘I did not know you were among her acquaintance.’
He puffed on his cigar. ‘Why else would she invite me?’
It wasn’t a lie. He had never actually met Lady Russell before the night of the ball, and in fact didn’t expect to ever again. He had turned up at the appointed time, which seemed to appall her as absolutely nobody else had bothered, and after a stunned introduction excused himself for a walk around the grounds until more guests arrived. In this manner he had avoided being announced, which was a relief. Given how many things he’d got wrong, it was probably just as well virtually nobody knew who he was.
As for the invitation … well, that itself wasn’t a direct lie. Not exactly.
Nothing here is as it seems. Hadn’t he thought that at the time? He’d had simply no idea how much stranger it could get.
‘And yet you do not seem to know how to go about in Society,’ said Lady Tiffany.
Santiago blew out some smoke and watched through it as Mistress Blackmantle brought in a tea tray and set it down.
‘It occurs to me I should probably be supervising you,’ she said. ‘Billy doesn’t appear to be much of a chaperone.’
Billy glanced up from his game. ‘Whassat?’
‘Quite.’ She poured the tea into delicate cups and made a production of asking if either of them would like milk, lemon, or sugar.
‘I don’t suppose there is any brandy?’ asked Santiago, just to annoy Lady Tiffany.
Her nostrils flared.
‘I am afraid not. But the tincture is alcoholic, if that helps,’ Mistress Blackmantle added, manifesting a tiny bottle from nowhere and adding a couple of drops to his tea.
‘What tincture?’ asked Santiago, suspicious.
‘It is for your health.’
‘What is in it?’
‘Oh, herbs,’ said Mistress Blackmantle, with a wave of her hand.
‘Hemlock is a herb,’ Santiago said.
‘Why on earth would I give you hemlock? I wish to strengthen our acquaintance, not end it.’
‘You do?’ asked Santiago and Tiffany at the same time.
Mistress Blackmantle shrugged. ‘We may have some business together, Mr Santiago. Trade. I understand you ship nutmeg?’
‘I ship many things,’ said Santiago, trying to recall if he had any in the warehouse or if it had all been sold on.
‘Then perhaps we shall do business. Do try not to be so shocked, Tiffany.’
‘But,’ said Lady Tiffany, daughter of an earl, self-proclaimed aristocrat, ‘you … you are a lady, Aunt Esme.’
‘I am many things. As is Mr Santiago, I am sure.’
She said it so mildly, while handing around a delicate little plate of cakes, that Santiago wondered if he’d imagined the inference in her voice.
‘But—trade, Aunt Esme!’
‘Trade in goods, Tiffany. Why—there are those at the top of Society who have got there by trading people. What is a little brandy and silk compared to human life?’ She fixed Santiago with a sudden look that had him pinned to his seat.
Literally pinned. He found he could not move. Beside him, Billy knelt on the floor, entirely unconcerned, playing with the cat and stuffing cake into his mouth.
‘You do not traffic in human life, Mr Santiago?’ Mistress Blackmantle said, still neatly arranging cakes on a plate.
‘I do not,’ he said. ‘And I have never.’
He could suddenly move again.
‘Glad to hear,’ said Mistress Blackmantle. ‘But you do wish to move at the top of Society?’
‘Well,’ began Santiago, wondering if he had imagined his momentary paralysis.
‘You said you were leaving Town,’ Tiffany said.
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I shall stay a while longer.’ His grandfather’s lawyers seemed to have decided to approve of him, and Santiago was becoming aware that simply leaving the country again at this point would be somewhat irresponsible. Not to mention, there was a rather fine pair of arctic blue eyes flashing at him now, and he thought he might miss those.
‘But—’
‘Do you know anyone in Town?’ asked Mistress Blackmantle.
‘He appears to be acquainted with Lady Russell,’ said Tiffany, frowning.
‘A most redoubtable lady,’ said Mistress Blackmantle tonelessly.
‘But he came to her ball wearing a green coat.’
‘Goodness. That must have been the most exciting thing to happen at one of Lady Russell’s balls since the Prince Regent went face-first into the punch,’ said Mistress Blackmantle. She took a delicate bite of cake. ‘These are very good.’
‘Well, perhaps the second most exciting thing,’ said Santiago, raising an eyebrow at Tiffany.
Her gaze skittered away to the cat. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The chalk on the floor came to life all by itself, did it?’
That was a test. Mistress Blackmantle did not turn a hair, which was interesting. But Lady Tiffany looked away, her cheeks going pinker.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You are a witch,’ he said.
‘You are no gentleman,’ she replied.
He spread his hands. ‘Evidently.’ He cocked his head at her, an idea occurring. ‘Much less evidently than you,’ he mused.
Tiffany looked wary. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well … does anybody outside this house know you are a witch? I have not been much in Society but I feel I would have heard about it.’
‘No,’ said Tiffany, cheeks colouring again. ‘And I would thank you to—’ She glanced at her aunt, and amended, ‘That is, nobody would believe you if you told them.’
‘No? You think so?’
Lady Tiffany’s eyes narrowed. In this light they were the grey-green of a storm-tossed sea. They had been blue a moment ago. Perhaps witches could change their eyes as other ladies changed their dresses. ‘Are you attempting to blackmail me, Mr Santiago?’
‘No, not at all!’ He puffed on his cigar and held her gaze. ‘Not at all.’
She raised her chin and glared at him.
‘But you may have something that is of use to me. I could pay you,’ he said, knowing full well she would refuse.
‘Mr Santiago! No gentleman ever offers to pay a lady for anything!’
‘And that is the problem,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘I do not know how to be a gentleman. Nobody in this town will take me seriously. I wear the wrong clothes and say the wrong things and know nobody but a street urchin,’ he nodded at Billy, who was too busy eating cake to notice. ‘But you know. You know all the secret rules.’
‘They’re not a secret,’ she said, and faltered, honesty getting the better of her. ‘I just suppose we don’t ever share them.’
‘Share them with me,’ he urged, leaning forward. ‘Teach me to be a gentleman. You are bored, Lady Tiffany. Or you would not be making chalk drawings come to life. Teach me.’
When she wasn’t trying to be the bland doll Society evidently expected her to be, Tiffany had a very expressive face. Her pale brow creased in the centre as she looked from him to her aunt and back.
‘The illusion of gentility?’ said Mistress Blackmantle, with an emphasis he didn’t quite understand the significance of.
‘You wish me to … make you appear to be a gentleman?’ asked Lady Tiffany, doubtfully. She frowned at her aunt.
‘Appear, yes … in dress, in manner.’ He glanced off to the side and admitted, ‘I do not wish to make a fool of myself again.’
‘Well, I can’t promise miracles, Mr Santiago!’
He laughed. ‘You make chalk come to life! You healed me of my wounds in a fraction of the time it should have taken.’
‘Actually, that was my aunt, and Madhu and Gwen—’
‘Lady Tiffany was of great assistance,’ said Mistress Blackmantle smoothly. ‘She is a very accomplished young lady.’
Tiffany’s cheeks coloured. ‘And you will tell nobody about the … um,’ she waved her hand vaguely, then added sharply, ‘No, Pippin! We do not bite people, do we?’
To his astonishment, the cat retracted its claws from where it had been about to capture Billy’s fingers, and sat back to wash its paws.
‘I will tell nobody about this,’ Santiago promised faintly. After all, nobody would believe him.
‘Then we have a deal.’ She held out one gloved hand, and he reached forward to take it.
‘Wait—’ began Mistress Blackmantle, but their hands were already touching.
Her kid leather glove was buttery soft against his bare fingers. Her fingers were long and elegant. And her gaze held his for a moment as her fingers briefly squeezed his.
Something like a spark leapt between them.
Santiago was suddenly very grateful for the blanket across his lap.
‘Ah,’ said Mistress Blackmantle. She put down her plate. ‘Did I not warn you about making bargains, Tiffany?’
Tiffany’s eyes grew wide with horror.
‘What do you mean?’
Mistress Blackmantle smiled, and Santiago couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she had intended this outcome all along.
‘That you’re stuck with each other until the bargain is fulfilled.’
* * *
‘I declare,’ said Elinor at breakfast, ‘it quite captured the voluptuous splendours of the East. It was little less than magical.’ She observed her raspberry jam on toast with satisfaction. ‘Lady Greensword kept muttering on and on about political parallels, but I say she simply cannot appreciate a good melodrama the way I do. She has not the sensibilities.’
Tiffany, who was sure her sister-in-law was quoting her review of last night’s theatrical performance directly from the Morning Chronicle, said, ‘I preferred the farce.’
‘The farce? Really, Theophania. No man will marry you if you laugh too much. The melodrama was the thing, was it not, Cornforth?’
If I laugh too much? Tiffany could only blink in disbelief at such a statement.
‘Cornforth! The melodrama! Last night!’
‘Hmm?’ He twitched his paper. ‘Oh. Yes. A fine commentary on the French tyrant. We must all do as the hero said, and set our faces against it.’
Elinor’s face took on the pinched expression it did when she wanted to frown but daren’t because she feared wrinkles.
‘Must you read that paper all through breakfast?’ she said instead. ‘There are papers at your club, I am sure.’
Tiffany kept her eyes on her plate, so as to avoid meeting her brother’s gaze. She was fairly sure by now that he read the papers at breakfast purely to avoid his wife.
This is the life Elinor wants for me. Marriage to a man who avoided her as much as possible. A life where she was a mere accessory to a man, whose only power was over the petty and mundane. The correct shade of eveningwear. The most fashionable kind of jam. Exercising control over her sister-in-law. She didn’t seem to even be aware of the restrictions her life imposed upon her. She relished them. She seemed to sincerely believe that Tiffany, and indeed everyone else in the world, envied her.
Tiffany looked at the raspberry jam on her toast and considered that if she ever ended up like Elinor she would go stark raving mad. Well, more mad than a person who could talk to cats and make drawings come to life already was.
‘The Prussians,’ said Cornforth, eyes back on the paper, ‘have begun arresting those they suspect to be in sympathy with the Frenchman.’
‘Really?’ said Tiffany. That was a worrying development, surely? A word in the wrong place and one could end up in jail!
Elinor rolled her eyes. ‘Nobody wishes to hear about the activities of the Russians.’
‘Prussians,’ murmured Cornforth.
‘Exactly. Such a dull subject for discourse. Theophania, you must remember to talk about the melodrama last night.’
‘The voluptuous splendours?’ said Tiffany innocently.
‘Yes! I declare it little less than magical,’ said Elinor, adjusting the angle of her plate and therefore unable to see Tiffany mouthing the words along with her. She had definitely read them in the Morning Chronicle.
‘I will remember that,’ said Tiffany, ‘when I visit my aunt.’
‘Your aunt?’ said Elinor. ‘Again? No. We must go to the modiste, for I heard she has some marvellous new French silks and there is time to have a new gown made up before Mrs Garbet-Smithe’s rout.’
‘I don’t think I need a new gown,’ said Tiffany, and saw by the flare of Elinor’s nostrils that she hadn’t been thinking about Tiffany. ‘And your taste is so excellent, Elinor, I am sure you don’t need me there. But I did promise my aunt. And what is a lady’s honour, if she breaks a promise?’
That line made her smile all the way to Aunt Esme’s house. She and Morris had come to a new understanding whereby the maid could go off and do as she pleased, no questions asked, and then when she wished to return home Tiffany would send a note—delivered by Billy, usually, for the outrageous sum of a ha’penny—to the shop on New Bond Street, where, mysteriously, she could be found, usually surreptitiously straightening her hair.
Elinor was not happy with this arrangement, of course, as Morris had housemaid duties to attend to. Tiffany was absolutely sure the household finances could stretch to another ladies’ maid, or a promotion for Morris, but she was also absolutely sure this wasn’t the point Elinor was trying to make.
Your threats don’t frighten me, Mr Santiago. I have survived a lifetime of Elinor Cornforth.
Nora let her in. ‘Get Esme to show you how to open doors, will you?’ was her greeting.
‘It is very nice to see you too,’ said Tiffany, and Nora scowled at her. ‘Will she show me how to operate the green door?’
Nora looked slightly surprised. ‘The anywhere door?’ she said. ‘No. Esme’s the only one who can do it.’
‘But I drew the door that got us home—’ Tiffany said.
‘You fixed the door she’d already used. Different thing. It’s her magic. Believe me, love, we’ve all tried.’
Love. Tiffany had heard tradespeople call women this casually, but only women of their own class. She was a Miss to a stranger, and a My Lady to anyone who knew her. She’d never been a Love to anyone.
‘But how does the door work?’ she said. ‘How does any of it work? The—’ She lowered her voice. ‘The magic?’
‘You concentrate on what you want, and you make it happen. Like—I want that fire to be lit. So it lights. I dunno how else to describe it.’
‘But are there rules?’ Apart from not making bargains, she thought bitterly. ‘Limitations? Where does it come from?’
Nora rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t go poking at it,’ she said. ‘Think about it too much and it’s all a house of cards.’
She stomped off below stairs before Tiffany could ask what that even was.
She found Mr Santiago in the drawing room, slightly more appropriately dressed than usual in a blue wool coat and an appallingly tied neckcloth. Glimpses of that golden skin were visible around his collar, and it made her breath catch.
Somebody—Billy? Esme? Nora? Surely not himself—had shaved him, and the sight of his bare throat made Tiffany feel somewhat peculiar. Gentlemen didn’t go around baring their throats. And probably for good reason, if they made ladies feel this warm and fluttery.
He was studying a thick, thick book, frowning at it as if trying to read ancient Greek. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said.
A curl of dark hair fell over his forehead. It looked very, very soft. Tiffany found herself wondering if it would be soft to touch, if it would yield against her fingers when she pushed it back out of his eyes—
‘I am supposed to memorise all of this?’ He flipped the book closed with what she was fairly sure was a swear word in Spanish. ‘Impossible!’
Tiffany smiled. It was the Peerage, of course. She had suggested it might be an educational primer. ‘That is merely volume one,’ she said. ‘Of this year.’
He looked aghast. ‘How many are there?’
‘Only two,’ she said, setting down her reticule on the table. The door was open and she could hear Aunt Esme and Gwen in the parlour. ‘And little changes from year to year. That is—obviously much changes but you will hear about it from gossip.’
‘I will?’
‘Oh yes. There is little Society adores more than gossip,’ Tiffany told him, and failed to entirely keep the sourness from her voice.
‘You do not care for it?’
Cornforth and Elinor’s behaviour was, of course, absolutely above reproach, but those with long memories might wonder why Tiffany’s mother was not in London to launch her daughter into Society. She had seen the sideways glances, the whispers behind fans. Elinor was quite sharp at quelling the speculation, and of course, it became just another reason to act with absolutely perfect propriety at all times.
‘No. It is frequently mean-spirited,’ she began, and then attempted to sound careless, so he wouldn’t suspect anything. ‘But above all it commits the sin of being very boring. But you must never say so.’
‘You must not? I mean, I must not?’
‘No. To be bored is the height of rudeness,’ Tiffany sighed. ‘Even though almost everything on offer is unspeakably dull.’
‘Does no one say anything? If it is all so dull?’
‘Of course not. When pressed, I say a boring thing was “most invigorating.”’ She saw him mouth the words in consternation, clearly unsure whether to believe her or not. ‘Unfortunately, even the Peerage cannot be described thus. You would do well to read it all though.’
‘Have you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Tiffany tried not to sigh again and failed. ‘Every year.’
‘But there are’—he looked at the book in despair—‘hundreds of entries. Hundreds. Thousands. And all so detailed.’
‘That’s why it is such a thick volume.’
‘Are you in here?’
Tiffany sighed. ‘In a manner of speaking.’ When he appeared to require more detail, she reluctantly added, ‘Page 132.’
He flipped to it eagerly, and scanned the text. ‘Henry Worthington, Earl of Chalkdown—your father?’ At her nod, he continued to read. ‘Viscount Cornforth, Baron Warlington, a General in the army, and Colonel of the 75th regiment of foot; born— succeeded— married, first, 29 May 1773, Sarah Anne—your mother?’
‘No,’ said Tiffany shortly. ‘You’ll have to read on down if you’re looking for me. Quite a long way down.’
He looked surprised, but continued murmuring names as he read them. ‘Robert, Viscount Cornforth— Sir Anthony, Dr Phileas, Mr Cornelius— Your brothers are somewhat older than you?’
‘Yes.’ She managed to make the syllable as short as she could. Cornforth had been married by the time Tiffany was born.
‘Ah! And secondly— 30th June 1792, Miss Amelia Davenport, by whom a daughter.’ He looked up at her, then back at the page. His brow creased. ‘It then… It talks about the family history.’
‘Of this family there have been persons of great note and eminence for several ages,’ recited Tiffany from memory. She knew the whole entry. Could picture the layout on the page from the first edition that had thudded onto the nursery table in front of her when she was about five. ‘The first Earl was created in 1524. His name was Thomas. Fell out of favour, that name, for a surprisingly long time, following Cromwell. They were Henrys after that. Currying royal favour.’
‘The book doesn’t list your name,’ said Santiago, looking again as if he’d missed it.
‘No. Well. They’d run out of ink, wouldn’t they? Theophania Penelope Ameliana Worthington. What a mouthful.’ And if they’d listed her date of birth, it would have been painfully obvious that her parents had anticipated the marriage.
‘It lists your brothers’ accomplishments, but you—’
Tiffany drew herself up and looked squarely at him. ‘Are only distinguished by the father I was born to and the man I will marry and the sons I will have, so my name is less than relevant, isn’t it? I will soon relinquish it for my husband’s title. Now. Perhaps it is time to move on from that, and we will discuss correct forms of address.’
He looked up at her for a long moment, and Tiffany, who had made a career out of not being noticed by anyone, suddenly felt terribly, terribly seen.
‘I think you are very relevant,’ he said, ‘Lady Tiffany.’ But he closed the book, and stood, and allowed her to lecture him on the ways to address married granddaughters of dukes.