Lord Frederick Staines had been Wrothan’s greatest coup and most devoted acolyte. His selling out of the army at the same time as Wrothan might have been coincidence — but Robert doubted it.
Under pretense of adjusting his collar, Robert scanned the group of men under the trees. Aside from his cousin and her friend, the group consisted almost entirely of men, shrouded in many-caped greatcoats, boots shining as though they had never touched anything so mundane as earth. Between high collars and low hat brims, it was next to impossible to make out individual features. To Robert’s prejudiced eyes, they all seemed cast from the same mold: overbred, overdressed, and distinctly overrated.
Robert strolled casually over to Charlotte. “I take it this is the rest of the house party?”
She had to tip her head back to look at him, bumping her nose on the side of her hood. “Only those who weren’t afraid to brave the cold. The faint of heart decided to stay in and toast by the fire.”
Despite himself, Robert’s frozen lips cracked into a smile. “After all these years, you still speak like a book.”
“That’s because she generally has her head buried in one,” put in her friend, with equal parts affection and scorn.
“I like books,” said Charlotte disingenuously. “They’re so much grander than real life.”
“Certainly grander than this lot,” snorted her friend, sounding more like the Dowager Duchess than the Duchess herself, but she ruined the effect by raising a hand and acknowledging the enthusiastic halloos of the gentlemen, several of whom seemed quite delighted to see her. Two men broke off from the group, starting forwards in their direction, one considerably ahead of the other.