Jordan, Tamsin, Drew, and Aurora all stared pointedly at the cucumber, then at Hart who stood silent, gaze fixed forward.
A bit of watercress dropped. Percival ground it into the plush thickness of the rug with the heel of his boot, watching Jordan the entire time. A smirk crossed his bulbous lips before he deliberately chewed the remainder of his sandwich.
“My lord,” Hart the soon-to-be-sacked butler intoned. “Lombard has advised me that due to your unexpected arrival, dinner will be sparse tonight and begs your apology. He had no time to create a proper menu. A stew of some sort. Fresh bread, of course.”
“Lombard?”
“The chef, my lord.” The butler refrained from looking Jordan in the eye and kept his gaze away from the mess Percival had created.
The size of the tea tray arranged for Percival could have fed a small army.
“Odd that the larder wasn’t lacking in refreshments for Lord Longwood. Since we are so unexpected,” Jordan’s sarcasm filled the room, “I don’t wish to trouble Lombard further. Drew, would you send a note to Patchahoo for reinforcements? After, if you wouldn’t mind ridding my kitchens—”
Hart stiffened. “My lord—”
“I don’t care for French cooking, Hart. Drew, you might also inform Lombard and his minions below that no references will be forthcoming. At least from me. Lady Longwood might be induced to provide one since he was in her employ.”
Bentley’s aunt set down her cup of tea, rattling the saucer.
Drew gave a small bow “As you wish, my lord.”
The drawing room remained silent for some moments while Jordan and Lady Longwood glared at each other. What sounded like vile curses, all uttered in French, broke the quiet.
At least Jordan assumed them to be vile. He didn’t speak a word of French.
Lady Longwood’s thin lips twisted into a sneer. The chef was but the first volley fired in her little war against the Sinclairs. Lombard was merely cannon fodder for her next assault. Jordan was sure had Lombard been permitted to remain, dinner would have been a greasy stew and moldy bread.
“I expected your arrival sooner, my lord. But possibly you stopped to dance upon my poor Bentley’s grave before coming here.” Lady Longwood’s clipped, icy tone filled Jordan’s ears. “Couldn’t even see him properly buried, could you? Disgraceful.” She drew out the word. “No, your only concern was to invade Bentley’s home as soon as possible with the rest of your herd.”
Lady Longwood. So superior. Strident. More bitter than any unripened fruit. How Jordan despised her.
“Bentley’s home? Emerson House belongs tomenow. Not even you can take that away, my lady. And as for dancing on Bentley’s grave, I don’t dance. At least not well.” He cast a glance at Percival, who looked very much like one of Jordan’s pigs at the moment. “Do you dance, Percival? Or merely roll around?”
“At least I don’t muck about with farm animals,” Percival sneered.
“You tampered with Bentley’s barouche, didn’t you?” A manic look entered Lady Longwood’s eyes. “Or did you enlist one of your brothers?”
So that was her purpose in being here. In addition to all the other slurs leveled against Jordan, Lady Longwood wished to add the accusation of murder.
“I was in Northumberland, as you well know. A place my family and I were banished to immediately after the death of my father, by dear Bentley. You remember the day well, don’t you? The feeling of triumph as you insulted my mother?”
Her fingers curled over the arms of the chair, thin, brittle fingers tapping on the wood.
“I haven’t been to London in at least a decade until today,” Jordan reminded her. So your accusation, as amusing as it is, has no merit, my lady.”
“You paid someone to harm Bentley. I’m sure of it.” Lady Longwood leaned forward with a small sob. “You’vealwayscoveted his title.”
“You meanmyfather’s title? You behave as if the queen created it especially for Bentley and it belonged to no one else. His only claim was that he was born first, my lady. And paying someone to harm Bentley? When our very existence was dependent on his dubious charity? You must be joking. We barely had the funds for coal let alone paying an assassin. Pig farming doesn’t pay as well as one might think.” A laugh came from him.
Lady Longwood reddened. “You will never be the earl that he was. Never be able to fill his shoes.”
“Good God, I should hope not.” Jordan strolled over to the sideboard, pleased to see that there was a nice selection of expensive spirits and cut crystal with which to drink it from. “I’ve no desire to bankrupt a previously wealthy estate and gamble away my fortune on horses and hazard while keeping two mistresses. Bentley will always be far better at those things than I.”
Lady Longwood inhaled sharply. Percival finally stopped stuffing himself.
Apparently, this conversation wasn’t going how they imagined. Jordan was supposed to be brow beaten after his years away. Pathetic and defeated. Terrified of the great Lady Longwood and her influence.
“And I wouldnever, no matter my own feelings, banish my siblings to a far-flung estate and force them into poverty while I continue to pursue my extravagant lifestyle. I owe Bentley no shred of kindness for doing so. Or respect. Dancing on his grave is the least of what he deserves.”
