He opened his mouth to ask the difference, then decided against it. “Blue-lavender,” he said firmly, not having a clue as to what he was talking about.
“Do you think so?” his mother responded, frowning. “I really think lavender-blue would be better.”
The obvious question would have been why she’d asked his opinion in the first place, but once again, he decided that the wise man did not make such queries. Instead he gave the ladies a polite bow and informed them that he was going to go off and catalogue the recent additions to the library.
“The library?” Honoria asked. “Really?”
“I like to read,” he said.
“So do I, but what has that to do with cataloguing?”
He leaned down and murmured in her ear, “Is this where I am supposed to say aloud that I am trying to escape a gaggle of women?”
She smiled, waited until he straightened, and replied, “I believe this is where you say that it has been far too long since you have read a book in English.”
“Indeed.” And off he went.
But after five minutes in the library, he could not bear it any longer. He was not a man who liked to mope, and so finally, after he realized that he had been resting his forehead on the table for at least a minute, he sat up, considered all the reasons why he might need to head down to the village （this took about half a second）， and decided to head on out.
He was the Earl of Winstead. This was his home, and he’d been gone for three years. He had a moral duty to visit the village. These were his people.
He reminded himself never to utter those words aloud, lest Honoria and Sarah expire from laughter, and he donned his coat and walked out to the stables. The weather was not quite so fine as the day before, with more clouds above than sky. Daniel did not think it would rain, at least not in the immediate future, so he had his curricle readied for the two-mile journey. A coach was far too ostentatious for a trip to the village, and there seemed no reason not to drive himself. Besides, he rather liked the touch of the wind on his face.
And he’d missed driving his curricle. It was a fast little carriage, not as dashing as a phaeton, but also not as unstable. And he’d had it for only two months when he’d been forced to leave the country. Needless to say, smart little curricles had not been thick on the ground for exiled young Englishmen on the run.
When he reached the village, he handed off his reins to a boy at the posting inn and set off to make his calls. He would need to visit every establishment, lest someone feel slighted, so he started at the bottom of the high street at the chandler and worked his way up. News of his appearance in town spread quickly, and by the time Daniel entered Percy’s Fine Hats and Bonnets （only his third call of the day）， Mr. and Mrs. Percy were waiting at the front of their store with identically wide smiles on their faces.
“My lord,” Mrs. Percy said, dropping into as deep a curtsy as her largish frame would allow. “May I be one of the first to welcome you home? We are both so honored to see you again.”
She cleared her throat, and her husband said, “Indeed.”
Daniel gave both of them a gracious nod, surreptitiously glancing about the establishment for other customers. Or rather, one other customer. Specifically. “Thank you, Mrs. Percy, Mr. Percy,” he said. “I am delighted to be home.”
Mrs. Percy nodded enthusiastically. “We never believed any of the things they said about you. Not a thing.”
Which led Daniel to wonder what sorts of things had been said. As far as he knew, every tale that had been spread about him had been true. He had dueled with Hugh Prentice, and he had shot him in the leg. As for his fleeing the country, Daniel didn’t know what sort of embellishment that story might have acquired; he rather thought that Lord Ramsgate’s ranting vows of revenge would have been titillating enough.
But if Daniel hadn’t wanted to debate the merits of blue-lavender and lavender-blue with his mother, he definitely did not wish to discuss himself with Mrs. Percy.
The Sad, Strange Tale of Lord Winstead. That’s what it would be.
So he simply said, “Thank you,” and moved quickly to a display of hats, hoping that his interest in their merchandise might overshadow Mrs. Percy’s interest in his life.
Which it did. She immediately launched into a list of the qualities of their most recent top hat design, which, she assured him, could be made to fit his head precisely.
Mr. Percy said, “Indeed.”
“Would you care to try one on, my lord?” Mrs. Percy asked. “I think you’ll find that the curve of the brim is most flattering.”