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Rose coughed. She and Cooper had established a series of signals to warn him that whatever his mother said next, he was certainly not going to be doing handsprings of joy once he heard it.
“I am aware of your miserly hold on the purse strings. But I have your reputation to uphold, even as you ignore the responsibilities incumbent on the proud matriarch of the new Townsend dynasty. You wouldn’t dare send me out into Society in rags, now would you? Rags, Cooper.”
Coop looked toward Rose, the maid-cum-companion, and a distant relation who had known him from his cradle. This time she rolled her eyes as she adjusted the bandbox straps on her forearms. Worse than a cough? My, this was turning into his lucky day, wasn’t it? “Forgive me my unnatural tendency to avoid bankruptcy. I’m convinced you will do me proud each time you set sail into Society.”
“My point entirely. Foresails flapping, flags waving, creating quite the wake as I pass by. It’s only fitting, and Lord knows I’m built for it. I’m horribly shy, by nature, but I see this as a time when I must bite back on my natural reticence and hold up my end, as it were.”
Rose’s choked cough was ignored by the lady, other than for her to raise one strong brow and dare Cooper to add any comment to what she’d just said.
“All I do, I do for you. One cannot put anything so crass as a price on a son’s love and a mother’s obligations, dear. Even in my short time here in London, I’ve heard so many good things about a particular seamstress. Why, even Vivien gives her some bit of custom. Don’t look confused, Cooper. Vivien Sinclair, Gabriel’s aunt, and the Duchess of Cranbrook. I hadn’t seen her in dogs’ years, as she and her Basil were always flitting all over the world, but we ran into each other in the park yesterday, and it was as if we’d never parted. Good friends are like that, you know. All I had to say to her was ‘Vauxhall Gardens,’ and the pair of us went off into giggles like schoolgirls. There was this importune young scoundrel, you understand, and a proposed stroll along the Dark Gallery...”
“How pleased I am you and Gabe’s aunt have rediscovered each other,” Cooper said, simply to stop his mother before she launched into a litany of assuredly embarrassing reminiscences. “And the seamstress?”
“Such a sad, sorry generation you boys are, sticklers for propriety. I know Vauxhall has fallen out of favor for the ton, but in my time it was glorious. You should be delighted your mother had herself some fun, kicking up her heels and such during her grasstime. Don’t growl, Cooper, it isn’t polite. The seamstress, yes. I’ve just come from there, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Yothers—lovely woman. She gifted me with one of the gowns, and an enchanting purple turban. Itches some, but it’ll do.”
“Why would she do that? Not give you an itchy turban—give you anything?”
“Ah, Cooper, you still don’t understand how the world revolves, do you, for all your fine education. The lady and I had a lovely coze—chatty woman, so I wouldn’t dare pass on any secrets to her or they’d be all over Mayfair before the cat could lick its ear, but I was sure to keep my ears open!”
“You and I must have a lovely coze of our own someday, Mrs. Townsend,” Darby interposed, his grin very much at his friend’s expense.
“I highly doubt that, scamp. You know enough about Society for any three people as it is, and I am of course sworn to secrecy in any event. Now, back to Mrs. Yothers, if you will cease interrupting. Terrible habit. In exchange for the gowns and such, I’ve only to mention to two or three ladies—casually, simply in passing, and you know I am the epitome of discretion—that Mrs. Yothers is the only seamstress worth her salt in this entire city.”
“A thousand pardons, Minerva,” Cooper felt impelled to ask. “Did you actually say ‘epitome of discretion’?”
“I can be, if I want. I simply don’t always want. Now, to continue. We have, as you might say, struck a bargain, much the same as the arrangements I have with Mrs. Bell the milliner, the shoemaker Mr. Wood—pricey, that man! There are others. Oh, and I’ve established an account for you with Mr. Weston, who vows that you’d be poorly served by Stolz, who hires only ham-fisted tailors. I wasn’t able to manage any sort of arrangement there, but he’s still the best, or so I’m told. You have a fitting at eleven tomorrow. Now thank me.”
Coop had long ago learned that, when it came to his mother, there existed no hole deep enough to throw himself into and pull the dirt back on top of him, so he simply said, “Thank you.”
“Good, and as I’ve finished saying what I had to say, poor Rose can stop coughing like a consumptive, yes? Now, what’s not your problem, darlings? From the tone of your voices as I entered, I believe you may be thinking something you’re not saying. Come on, spit it out, and you know I can see through a lie, Cooper. You’ve much too much conscience to carry it off, which is why, Darby, you won’t speak unless requested.”
Darby raised his hand, waggling his fingers. “May I please be excused?” he asked cheekily.
“You most certainly may not,” Mrs. Townsend told him sternly, and the viscount looked to Coop for help. Which he didn’t get, damn it, for if Darby couldn’t be considered reinforcements, at least Minerva Townsend might marginally mind her tongue while he was present. No, that wouldn’t happen, but as long as Coop was stuck here, he didn’t see any reason to allow his friend to escape unscathed.
“Really, Mrs. Townsend, it’s nothing to concern you,” Darby said, but there was little hope in his voice.
“It didn’t sound like nothing. Whatever the problem, I have no doubt you’re responsible for it. You, and those two other scamps, dragging my poor Cooper into your constant mischiefs. Now, I’m going to sit down—Rose, for pity’s sake, are you still standing there? Go on, shoo, and put your feet up. You look totally fagged. And with me twenty years your senior and still not in the least deflated.”
Make that thirty, and the number might be reasonably close. Oh, yes, Cooper McGinley Townsend knew an Original when he saw one. He’d grown up with one. Give Miss Foster another forty years of practice, and she’d be more than capable of taking up his mother’s banner, to become the Terror of Society.
“Minerva, we were just speaking in general terms. Weren’t we, Darby? Nothing to set your nose to twitching.”
Mrs. Townsend adjusted her spectacles on her splendid, hawk-like beak. She didn’t need them, or so she swore, and only employed them as a prop to give her gravitas. Coop had to admit that whenever she looked at him overtop the gold frames (not to mention the hawk-like proboscis), gravitas commenced to spew out all over the place as would hot lava on the unsuspecting villagers below in the valley.
She turned her stare on the viscount once more.
“I surrender,” Darby said after a few seconds, smiling apologetically at his friend. “In my defense, she had a one-eye advantage on me. Tell her, Coop, or I’ll be forced to squawk like one of Gabe’s blasted parrots.”
“Why not? Apparently I’m already standing in a hole of my own making that resembles nothing more than a grave.”
“Cooper! You’ve never been so dramatic. A hole as deep as a grave? Where do you hear such nonsense? Are you reading poems again? I have warned you against them, again and again. They’re all frippery and unrequited love and sad tales of woe no sane person would swallow whole. A thick volume on farming, that’s what you need. You’ve got an estate to run now, you know. Learn to grow a proper turnip, that’s what I say. Can’t go wrong with turnips.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Mrs. Townsend. Turnips, that’s the ticket. Commit that to memory, my friend.” Darby retreated to the drinks table, probably to pour a bracing glass of wine.
Coop was hard-pressed not to join him, but he’d ignore the glass and gulp straight from the decanter. His father had known how to handle Minerva. He’d learned to ignore her because, as impossible as it seemed, everyone