“Are you acquainted with Robert Tallywhite?” Lord Arbuthnot inquired.

“A bit.” Tallywhite was a couple of years ahead of him at Eton. Quiet fellow, George recalled. Sandy hair and a high forehead. Bookish.

“He is Lady Wintour’s nephew and will most certainly be in attendance. You would be doing a great service to this office if you would pass along a message.”

George raised his eyebrows in question.

“Is that a yes?” Lord Arbuthnot said in a dry voice.

George tipped his head in affirmation.

“Tell him… pease porridge pudding.”

“Pease porridge pudding,” George repeated dubiously.

Arbuthnot broke off a piece of his toast and dipped it into his egg yolk. “He’ll understand.”

“What does it mean?”

“Do you need to know?” Arbuthnot countered.

George sat back, regarding Arbuthnot with a level stare. “I do, rather.”

Lord Arbuthnot let out a bark of laughter. “And that, my dear boy, is why you would make a terrible soldier. You’ve got to follow orders without question.”

“Not if one is in command.”

“Too true,” Arbuthnot said with a smile. But he still did not explain the message. Instead he regarded George with a level stare and asked, “Can we rely on you?”

It was the War Office, George thought. If he was passing along messages, at least he’d know he was doing it for the right people.

At least he’d know he was doing something.

He looked Arbuthnot in the eye and said, “You may.”

Chapter 19

M
anston House was quiet when George returned later that evening. The hall was lit with two candelabras, but the rest of the rooms seemed to have been shut down for the night. He frowned. It wasn’t that late; surely someone ought to be about.

“Ah, Temperley,” George said when the butler stepped forward to take his hat and coat, “has my mother gone out for the evening?”

“Lady Manston had her dinner sent up to her room on a tray, my lord,” Temperley said.

“And Miss Bridgerton?”

“I believe she did the same.”

“Oh.” George shouldn’t have been disappointed. After all, he’d spent the better part of the past few days avoiding both of the aforementioned ladies. Now they seem to have done his work for him.

“Shall I have your dinner sent up as well, my lord?”

George thought for a moment, then said, “Why not?” It seemed he wasn’t to have company that night regardless, and he hadn’t eaten much of Lord Arbuthnot’s repast.

It had to have been the kippers. Honestly, the smell had put him off the entire meal.

“Will you have a brandy in the drawing room first?” Temperley inquired.

“No, I’ll go straight up, I think. It’s been a long day.”

Temperley nodded in that butlerish way of his. “For us all, my lord.”

George regarded him with a wry expression. “Has my mother been working you to the bone, Temperley?”

“Not at all,” the butler replied, the barest hint of a smile cracking through his somber mien. “I speak of the ladies. If I may be so bold as to offer my observation, they seemed rather tired when they returned this afternoon. Miss Bridgerton especially.”

“I’m afraid my mother has been working her to the bone,” George said with a half-smile.

“Just so, my lord. Lady Manston is never as happy as when she has a young lady to marry off.”

George froze, then covered his lapse by devoting an inordinate amount of attention to the removal of his gloves. “That would seem somewhat ambitious, given that Miss Bridgerton does not plan to remain in town for the Season.”

Temperley cleared his throat. “A great many parcels have arrived.”

Which was his way of saying that every item required for a young lady to successfully navigate the London marriage mart had been purchased and delivered.

“I’m sure Miss Bridgerton will meet with every success,” George said evenly.

“She is a very lively young lady,” Temperley agreed.

George smiled tightly as he took his leave. It was difficult to imagine how Temperley had come to the conclusion that Billie was lively. The few times George had crossed her path at Manston House she had been uncharacteristically subdued.

He supposed he should have made more of an effort, taken her out for an ice or some such, but he’d been too busy hunting down information at the War Office. It felt so bloody good to do something for a change, even if the results were disappointing.

He took a step toward the stairs, then paused and turned back. Temperley had not moved.

“I always thought my mother hoped for a match between Miss Bridgerton and Edward,” George said casually.

“She has not seen fit to confide in me,” Temperley said.

“No, of course not,” George said. He gave his head a little shake. How the mighty had fallen. He’d been reduced to dangling for gossip from the butler. “Good night, Temperley.”

He made it to the stairs, his foot perched on the first step, when the butler called out, “They do speak of him.”

George turned around.

Temperley cleared his throat. “I do not think it a breach of confidence to tell you that they speak of him at breakfast.”