Kate chimed in with a litany of probable effects the freeze had on the harvest in Lincolnshire. I finally braved a glance from my plate. Juliet’s sympathetic wide-eyed gaze only served to make it worse. I was usually better able to defend myself from the barbs, and I did not wish for her pity. Another swig of wine sent me back into the fray.
It was just in time for Agatha to be… well, Agatha. “Why would anyone give a fig about what last year’s harvest produced in whatever backwoods town you hail from? They clearly failed to teach you to comport yourself properly. Do they not know what to do with a partridge in that county? Or do you refuse to serve it out of stubbornness?”
She turned on Kate in my distraction. I knew precisely why Kate didn’t serve it any longer. Everyone hated the way Agatha insisted on having it prepared.
I was about to sacrifice myself to save her when she surprised me by saying, “Hugh isn’t fond of partridge.”
I internally applauded her effort but recognized the fraught territory she had just entered.
“Of course Hugh loves partridge.”
“Then why does he merely pick at it when it’s served?”
As impressed as I was with Kate’s efforts, she would do better to ask when Hugh would step in. She should question when he intended to defend his wife from his mother’s vitriol.
“You must have prepared it incorrectly!”
I was quite certain raw and still flapping would be a better cooking method than the way Agatha preferred it. Mrs. Hudson’s partridge was exceptional for the kitchen staff, but Agatha expected it boiled without seasoning of any sort—some remnant from her youth. No support from Hugh appeared to be forthcoming, even with Kate’s pleading gaze.
Into the fray again.
“We serve partridge in my club. It’s my favorite.”
That was a lie, but now she would never ask Kate to make it again, merely to spite me.
Agatha choked on her squawk, and I had to bite back a laugh. Then I felt it. Salvation. A tiny slippered foot brushed against my own under the table. I met Juliet’s eyes with my own and pressed back against hers. Her answering flush was so pretty, even in the dim light of Agatha’s ugly chandelier.
“I do not believe it is partridge season, Mother.” Tom, once again took up the shield in my defense.
“Of course, it is.”
Juliet stepped in, buying Kate time to nurse her wounds. “No, ma’am, I believe it does not begin until the fall.”
“What would you know of it? Miss…”
“Lady Juliet, ma’am. We’ve met several times.” Hugh came by his inattention naturally. “My father is Richard Dalton, Earl of Westfield. He is quite fond of shooting and is always gone in the fall for the season.” A lie from her corner also; Dalton was never far from the gaming table.
Agatha perked up at the title. “Earl, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Daughter of an earl. Are you unwed?”
“Engaged, ma’am, to the Duke of Rosehill.”
And, so, my Juliet caught her interest. Agatha leaned forward, practically salivating. She loved titles almost as much as she loathed me. I suspected that was one of her disappointments with Kate. She came without a title.
Suddenly, Juliet found her footing. She noted Agatha’s interest and immediately shifted battle strategies. She was magnificent, resplendent, in this hideous dining room, surrounded by people who tolerated each other at best and loathed each other at worst.
She cast a spell. Through three more courses, she manipulated Agatha, luring her into traps so deft the woman did not even notice them.
“This custard is exemplary, Lady Grayson. Is it a favorite recipe of yours?” It was definitely Anna’s recipe.
“Kate was just telling me the other day that you are responsible for the magnificent rose gardens by the east wall. I’ve never seen their like.” Half-dead.
Juliet even managed to find the only item in the room that was not truly unfortunate to pay a compliment. “Kate, I must insist you keep that painting there if you make any changes to this room. It is perfectly situated.” Her foot remained pressed to mine the entire time.
My expression was undoubtedly one of slack-jawed awe. Tom was utterly befuddled, never having attended a family dinner where he was not solely responsible for the prevention of bloodshed. Kate merely looked proud—she knew all along.
