She nodded with an expression that bordered on trust. As he led her to the parlor, his soul shriveled as the weight of duplicity bowed his shoulders.
Chapter Thirteen
Once in the parlor, Lucy heeded Henry’s advice by viewing the visitors as no different from the criminals she’d known so well, while remaining mostly silent. Before long, Isabella probed Henry.
“What an odd invitation list, Henry. Lord Warwick seems a bit out of place in this gathering.” Then she batted long eyelashes at Warwick. “Although, my gratitude for his attendance is substantial.”
“You are looking well, Lady Isabella,” Warwick replied warmly. “I must admit, I am as befuddled as you are. My father ordered me here tonight with no explanation. That said, your presence eases my irritation.”
“Why, sir. What a gentleman you are.” She swiveled her regard to Henry. “Nearly equal to Mr. Beaumont, I would say.”
Lucy watched with alarm as Warwick and Henry locked eyes, exchanging unspoken words that seemed more a prelude to a fistfight than anything else. She recognized Isabella’s subtle maneuver, having seen Steadman do the same many times. When discussing the price of an item or the share of a windfall, he would pit interested parties against one another to drive up the bidding and enhance his interests. Isabella wore the smile of a child who had set a spinning top in motion and simply waited to see which way it would fall.
“Perhaps Mr. Beaumont has no alternative to playing the gentleman,” Warwick said, “because his breeding outstrips his income.”
Henry glared at Warwick. “I prefer that condition to the opposite.”
Isabella waded into the brewing conflict. “Gentlemen! There is no need for tension on my account. I hold you both in the highest regard.”
Lady Barrington sniffed and turned to the duchess. “Flirting has changed since our day. Today’s young do so with all the aplomb of oxen on a muddy track.”
As the older women nodded agreement, Isabella confided loudly to her cohorts. “Lady Barrington makes an excellent point. A long time has passed since her youth.”
Before allowing a counterpoint, Miss Braye leaned toward Warwick and clapped her hands. “My lord, I hear such wondrous stories of your father’s estate. Can you confirm them?”
Warwick smiled. “Why, of course, Miss Braye. What do you wish to know?”
“Everything!”
With no additional prompting, he launched into a long-winded description of his family’s expansive country estate and extensive holdings. After several minutes, Isabella interrupted him.
“Lord Warwick, I fear we are behaving rudely to our hostess. The fineries you describe are likely foreign to her. You speak of classicism and rococo without explanation. Perhaps you should define such terms for her benefit.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Lucy sensed an opportune moment to execute her first maneuver. She clasped her hands together and gazed earnestly at Warwick. “Please accept my deepest gratitude, sir, for so kindly considering my ignorance. Your benevolence is equaled only by your humility.”
Warwick and Isabella forced uncertain smiles of acknowledgment before he pressed ahead. His monologue soon veered toward his family’s renowned stable of Thoroughbred horses.
“My personal mount is descended of the Godolphin Barb himself.” He looked to Lucy. “I should explain that the Godolphin Barb was one of three original Arabians brought to England a century ago.”
She smiled adoringly at him. “Once again, sir, I thank you for illuminating the dark corners of my benightedness. Your generous sharing of equine lineage is most appreciated.”
He nodded with seeming suspicion. “You’re welcome.”
Isabella sighed. “One must know details of fine horseflesh if one is to walk among gentry, Lady Margaret. Dispelling your ignorance on this and other subjects is of utmost importance.”
Lucy nearly flinched at the earnestly mocking tone. Her well-maintained façade wavered. “I know of horseflesh in a manner you never will.”
Isabella cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Henry leaned forward to catch Lucy’s attention, likely hoping to stop further explanation. She ignored him. “One can never truly know a horse until one has reached into a mare’s birth canal to extract a struggling colt, and then nursed both mare and colt to health. As I have done.”
Expressions of ghastly horror instructed Lucy that she had overstepped her bounds. A brief glance at the stricken face of the duchess told her just how far. Miss Wharton broke the silence.
“Well, I have never heard of such indelicacy!” She raised a hand to her forehead and feigned a swoon. Miss Braye fanned herself with shocked indignation. Isabella, however, smiled like a cat before the kill. Lucy looked to Henry for support, but his forehead remained in one hand. Lady Garvey, however, rode gallantly to her rescue, with saber swinging.
“I will have you know, ladies, that I am third cousin to His Majesty, and I helped my noble father birth a colt when I was a girl. I see no wrong in charity toward such fine creatures.”
