Page 10 of The Language of Love

Colin waved his gravy-smeared knife in the air. “Damn name’s just on the tip of my tongue.”

Actually, it was roast beef that was on the tip of his tongue, along with a sizeable chunk of Yorkshire pudding.

“You must know who I mean, my lo—er, Parker. It’s that old French crone who makes all those wax people—some bloody gory ones, I’ve heard.” He paused to shove the better part of another pudding into his mouth.

“That would be Madam Tussaud, my lord. She is currently touring the country and not in London. And referring to her—or any woman—as a crone will not be well-received.”

Parker guffawed, an action that sent a soggy chunk of pudding hurtling into his half-full wineglass.

Henry sighed and gestured for the waiter. “A fresh glass for his lordship,” he told the gaping man, and then turned his attention to his untouched plate before he lost his temper.

He was bloody hungry. Since arriving in London they’d stayed at Rotherhithe House, but the cook Henry had hired via letter had scarpered upon seeing the state of the kitchen, so they’d been eating in various restaurants. He sawed off a chunk of rare roast beef and popped it into his mouth, smiling as he chewed; this was the first food he’d had in England that didn’t taste like a packing crate.

Henry decided they would eat most of their meals at the hotel from now on. Hell, he’d live in the bloody hotel and leave Rotherhithe house to rot if such an action wouldn’t appear so—

Colin snapped his fingers. “I remember now! The factory my father and his partner owned made cloth of some sort.” He smiled at Henry, triumphant but wary.

Henry finished chewing and then swallowed his food before speaking, hoping to lead by example. “Interesting. So, my lord, why did you sell your interests?”

“Er ….”

“Is it because the textile industry in India has quite fallen off in recent years?”

Colin gulped several times, sweat beading on his pale brow. “Er, yes, quite so. But then—” He stopped, a terrorized expression distorting his handsome features. “Wait—wait—I’ve got it.” Yet again Colin snapped his fingers, forgetting he was holding his fork and sending the implement sailing over a nearby table, narrowly missing the ear of the elderly gentleman whose back was to them. The fork kept going and landed with a clatter on an unoccupied table.

“Oh, damn and blast,” Colin muttered. His eyes darted back and forth between the empty table and several full ones, where diners had paused their eating to turn and stare.

His worried blue gaze finally slid to Henry. “Do you think they know it was me?”

Their waiter scurried over with a clean fork and laid it on the table beside Colin without a word.

Henry sighed and gestured to the nearly empty bottle on their table. “We’re going to need another one of those.”

Once the waiter departed, Henry turned to Colin. “We can resume this conversation later, my lord. After you’ve finished your dessert.”

Colin had ordered a floating island and Henry trembled to think of the damage he could do with a spoon and custard.

Colin heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, jolly good! My brain’s gone a bit mushy. I say, can we look in on Whites today? A mate of mine—”

“We shan’t have time.” Not to mention Henry had no intention of putting his name up for membership at such a bastion of Toryism.

“Why not?” Colin demanded.

“Recall that you scheduled an appointment with Lady Winifred Sedgwick this afternoon.”

“I did?” Colin’s brow knitted. “Erm, who is she, again?”

“The Countess of Sedgwick is the woman you’ve hired to help you navigate the treacherous waters of the ton.”

“Ah, yes, the marriage bawd.”

Henry dropped his head into his hands. Good. God.

Colin’s laughter made Henry look up.

The other man was grinning. “I was just having you on a bit, Parker. I know they are really called matchmakers, what?”

Henry sighed. “I’m sure she’ll caution against plunging into things too quickly,” he assured Colin—or was that more for himself? “We can wait a week before we enter the fray.”