He picked up a small pastry from his plate and bit into it. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste. The layers of buttery leaf-thin filo settled nicely on his tongue, and the chocolate melted. This was his best batch yet. Mateo opened his eyes and was deciding which one to choose for his next sampling when he was startled half out of his wits by his mother’s voice and fumbled the plate, dropping it to the grass at his feet. It landed upside down. He stared at the disaster, then lifted his gaze to his mother, who had come into his little patch of private paradise quite unannounced.
She looked at the plate, then at him. “You’re not doing that again.”
“Is there something you need?” he asked.
“I need you, darling. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Even Señor Pacheco had no idea where you’d gone!” She sounded agitated with his manservant, but Pacheco was a wise man and often claimed ignorance where the duchess was concerned.
“I was seeking a moment of peace and quiet, Mami,” Mateo said, and bent over to return the pastries to the plate. “It’s sometimes difficult to think with all the laughing and singing from your drawing room.” He set the plate aside on the bench and turned to his mother, towering over her. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine, Teo, but we haven’t much time.”
“For?”
“You know that Señora Martinez and I are leaving for Paris soon.”
“Sí.” Not only did he know it, he was counting the days.
“And here you are still muddling through this estate business!”
Muddling through. It was an odd complaint for something as tedious as his work was. Mateo spoke Spanish, French, and English fluently. But his competency in reading and writing the three languages was not equal, with English being the weakest. He found the written word terribly confusing, what with there and their and where and wear, and so forth. That, coupled with his grandfather’s handwriting, which was so tiny as to require the use of a magnifying glass, had slowed his progress considerably. What was it he’d been reading this morning? To consider some additions to be made to the magnam bibliothecam, and of matters relating thereto; that the gentleman be pleased to lay prints of his case on his lordship’s table... He’d puzzled over the tiny writing for an hour before deciphering that. And it meant nothing to him.
“I am not muddling. Perhaps you have forgotten, but the Abbott estate is quite large and involved.”
“Yes, yes...but if you don’t finish your review and make some decisions, they will have robbed us blind, if they haven’t already.”
“Qué?” What was she talking about? “Who? Mr. Callum?” he asked, referring to the estate agent.
“I almost forgot why I came for you,” she said, gliding over that baseless and nebulous accusation. “I’m hosting a dinner party.”
This was not news—she seemed to host one every other day. On rare occasions, she could force him to attend, but he generally preferred to take his meals in his rooms without having to play the part of society’s latest find. “What has that to do with—”
“And I have someone for you to meet.”
Mateo groaned. He stared at his mother with her dark hair and stark blue eyes and trim figure with all due suspicion. She had a habit of doing this to him, of throwing a lot of things at him at once. Disconnected things. Things that would give him pause, all so that she could slip in something particularly disagreeable.
“You’ve got that sour look, Teo. It’s only Lady Lila Aleksander from Denmark.”
“Perdóname,” rumbled a male voice.
Mateo and his mother both turned toward the arch, where the family butler, Borerro, had appeared. He bowed. “Your guests have arrived, señora.”
“What, now?” Mateo glowered at his mother.
“Oh, Mateo,” she said with a sigh full of disappointment. He was nearly twenty-nine years old, head of the duchy, and it amazed him that his mother could still find reasons to be disappointed in him. “You must be more confident.”
What in the hell was she talking about? His problem was not a lack of confidence, it was—
“Elizabeth? Where have you gotten off to?” A middle-aged woman and a gentleman ambled through the arch, squeezing into the small walled area beside Borerro.
“Thank you, Borerro,” his mother said, and to her guests, “Come in, come in! Our gardens are small but pleasant.”
“It’s beautiful,” the woman said. She looked to be in her fifth or sixth decade. She had a full figure, and her dark hair was lightly streaked with gray. Her smile was full of warmth, as if she was seeing a long-lost cousin. The gentleman was also middle-aged, with a thick mustache, as was the current fashion. Mateo remembered him—he’d been at a reception that the English prime minister, Mr. Gladstone, had hosted in Mateo’s honor.
What had these two to do with him? He guessed his mother probably wanted him to grant a patronage.
“Your grace!” the woman trilled, turning her attention to him. “What an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. Or should I call you Don Santiava? I don’t know which is proper.”
“Teo,” his mother said, and placed a hand on his arm. “May I introduce Lady Lila Aleksander of Denmark.”
Mateo’s body stiffened. This was beginning to feel like an ambush.
“And the Earl of Iddesleigh,” his mother continued.
“Beck,” the gentleman said, and strode forward, hand extended. “Everyone calls me Beck. I suppose Iddesleigh does not trip off the tongue. Please do call me Beck.” He smiled. “A pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
Mateo reluctantly stepped forward to shake the man’s hand.
“I think, my lord, if I may offer an opinion,” Beck continued as he shook his hand, “that as you are in England to assume the title of viscount, perhaps you ought to be styled my lord. What do you think?”
What he thought was that he didn’t care how they addressed him, and in that moment, he was naive to think he would never see them again after this brief interlude. “Pardon, but will you excuse us a moment?” He took his mother by the elbow and pulled her away from the two visitors to a distance where their guests could not hear.
“Mami—”
“Lady Aleksander has come to help us,” his mother whispered before Mateo could speak.
“I don’t care if she’s come to shine my shoes—”
“Teo, mi amor,” his mother said, and pressed her palm against his cheek. “You’re the sovereign duke of Santiava, and now you are a viscount.”