And then the couple walked away without another glance in Bran’s direction. Christopher used the crook as his walking stick while Kate leaned against his other arm.
“Perhaps the punch had been made too strong,” he was telling her. “I will most certainly speak to the village council about the matter. I fear there were a number of gentlemen who thought it wise to add their own choices to the punch.” He sounded stodgy.
Kate said something in answer, but Bran had to turn away, his blood beginning to boil.
He’d been dismissed. By hisward.A cub of a man.He wanted to finish the conversation he’d started with Kate. He wanted to know about the damn note.
He wanted—
God, he wanted his sanity back.
Bran took off walking, although not toward the barn. He wasn’t going to follow his nephew and Kate. Instead, he’d go around. He also knew his earlier words of advice to Winderton had fallen on deaf ears. His nephew was easy prey for a woman like Kate. She had more world experience. She also had a motive—vengeance. She hated Bran.
He also wondered if he had been that gullible at Christopher’s age? Had she controlled him? As he remembered, they’d both been very young together.
Inside the barn, amazingly the dance appeared to be taking up where it had left off. Yes, as his nephew had said, a few people had left but the majority were still there. The musicians were once again playing. Couples danced. There was a scrape here and a black eye there but nothing that deterred the enjoyment of the rest of the evening. Indeed, those with wounds sported them proudly. And, of course, the punch table was busy once more.
The Reverend Summerall came up to Bran and spoke in his abrupt manner. He was of middle age with gray showing in his brown hair and a strong, hawkish nose. “This is better, eh? Informed them all they were not going to ruin this year’s Cotillion.”
“I am impressed they listened to you.”
“Didn’t want to. I had to convince them. I told them we English knew proper manners—although I put in a blow or two myself. It is all a bit of sport.” He chuckled his satisfaction.
Matters were different amongst the matrons, who wouldn’t have agreed with the minister. The ruin of an evening they had planned and organized for months was far from sport to them.
Mrs. Warbler and Mrs. Trent-Longford were surrounded by commiserating friends. Their feet were propped up on chairs. Mrs. Trent-Longford appeared to be weeping silently into a friend’s shoulder while Mrs. Warbler, her wig back in place, held a hand to her forehead. She lay back in the chair as if she would expire at any moment, Mrs. Nelson holding her hand. Lucy sat between the two women and fanned them.
At the sight of Bran, Lucy excused herself and rushed to him. This was not going to be good.
“Where is my son?”
“Escorting Miss Addison home.”
Her eyes filled with alarm. “Andyoulet him go?”
“Lucy, how could I stop him?”
Her face crumpled and Bran feared more noisy tears. “He will be fine.” He kept his voice low.
“Did you not see what happened this evening? The dance has been ruined.”
“There was some excitement, although I honestly don’t believe Miss Addison instigated it. And everyone seems at ease now.”
“Only because they think of themselves. Dear Mrs. Warbler has been thrown into a fit of vapors that I have no hope of her recovering from.”
“Was she injured?” he asked, concerned.
“That horrid actress tore her wig off her head in front of everyone. She is humiliated.”
“Perhaps we should send for Mr. Thurlowe.”
“Brandon, you mock me.”
“I don’t mock you,” he said with something less than infinite patience. “I’m trying to help you keep the matter in perspective.”
“A trollop has wedged herself into my son’s life and you tell me to have perspective? I’ll never accept her.Ever.And I warn you something terrible will happen if you don’t stop it.”
“I’m doing what I can.” Which wasn’t much. “He is a man, Lucy, not some child that I can order about.”
