His friend hails the notion as excellent, then suggests a slight modification. “Ask Miss Burgess to include the shawl in her response. That way we will not have to intrude on her evening at all.”
“A capital idea!” Mr. Holcroft cries approvingly before sending John the footman to fetch his writing implements. Within minutes, the missive is written, signed, sealed, and dispatched. His mood much improved by the action, he compliments his wife on the quality of the dessert, secures a second custard from the kitchen, and requests a deck of cards to pass the time while they wait for the reply.
Mr. Nutting, convinced now that he has averted disaster, consents to trying the custard and happily falls in with a hand of piquet.
Their confidence is adorable.
How readily they believe the fictions in their own heads!
No doubt the ability to festively delude oneself is a behavior they would ascribe exclusively to the female sex, and when the footman enters the drawing room an hour later, bearing a report from Miss Burgess, who, perceiving the urgency, provided an immediate verbal reply, I am the only one in the room who is unsurprised to hear the negative claim.
“Miss Burgess says she has no garment that matches the description given in the missive and offers to lend Mr. Holcroft a puce shawl in its place if that would be helpful,” the footman says.
After dismissing the servant, Mr. Holcroft casts an amused glance at his neighbor and murmurs, “Miss Burgess is holding on to Madame Valenaire’s confection with both hands, is she? She definitely recognized the quality, Alan. You are right to be worried that her expectations have been raised.”
“I think it is demned strange,” Papa says softly.
Mr. Nutting drops his glass onto the table with an emphatic thud and growls, “I tell you what it is. It is a damned lie!”
While his mother flinches at the abuse of the mahogany surface, Chester holds himself in agreement with my father. “Itisdemned strange, though. Why would Miss Burgess lie? She has nothing to gain from the falsehood,” he says mildly before drawing in his breath sharply. Then he bounds out of his chair and says with wonder, “My God, heisthe killer! Miss Hyde-Clare was right! Nutting killed Keast!”
Furiously, Mr. Nutting swivels on his heels to confront Chester, whom he calls a numbskull before breaking off mid-insult. “It is a bald-faced lie, and I will find out what she stands to gain from it right now,” he seethes, marching to the door.
I follow.
Well,wefollow.
The entire company get their bonnets, hats, cloaks, and assorted and race after Mr. Nutting before he disappears into the night.
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Burgess is the consummate hostess.
A dozen people descend on her doorstep at ten twenty-eight in the evening without a by-your-leave, and she placidly welcomes them to her home.
Placidly!
A most serene smile wreathes her face as she leads us to the compact front parlor and instructs the footman to squeeze in five chairs from the dining room. She beseeches the Holcroft women to sit on the settee, as though the narrow sofa comfortably accommodated four, and offers refreshments: tea, cordial, lemonade. Then she apologizes for not having enough shortbread on hand to share with everyone. “I have just the one tin, and not anticipating the arrival of guests, enjoyed them unsparingly. My housekeeper has gone home for the day, but there are some apples in the larder that I can serve. I believe there are a dozen,” she murmurs thoughtfully, her brows drawn as she tries to recall the precise number.
Mortified by the offer, Mrs. Holcroft begs her not to trouble herself.
Every aspect about the visit mortifies Sebastian’s mother, who had taken a principled stand against joining the maraudingparty (do note: That was her description, not mine), then fell in with it when she realized she stood alone.
Although Miss Burgess swears that baking apples falls well short of a bother, she bows to Mrs. Holcroft’s wishes. Then she hovers near the entrance to the room and directs the placement of the chairs, which is no small feat, given the size of the room.
It is a marvel.
Sheis a marvel.
Lady Jersey or Mrs. Fawcett could not have done better.
The Countess of Abercrombie might have surpassed her reception, but in presentation only. The quintet of chairs carried in would effortlessly match the settee or curtains, and she would provide a comprehensive assortment of refreshments, from barley water to Champagne. (And she would call me “the little cousin.” Her ladyship relishes in dealing derisive dismissals to any Hyde-Clare who is not Beatrice.)
While Miss Burgess arranges the parlor to suit the company, Mr. Nutting remains planted along the far wall, his arms folded across his chest in a standoffish pose. A fierce scowl mars his handsome face as he bides his time. He had intended to grill his mistress on her lie the moment she opened the door, but something made him change his mind.
Now he is waiting for the commotion to die down to command everyone’s attention.
At least I think he is.
