The viscount shrugged. “That’s not important. But is it true they hired my old butler, Wagstaff?”
“Yes. Whom you let go without an adequate pension.”
Gaylord scowled. “I ordered him to leave the area. He is a menace. Indiscreet and prone to gossip, and he likes to make up stories.” He nodded his head. “Netterfield will come to regret it.”
“Your father must have been pleased with him.”
“He was too soft. As was my sister.”
Fury rushed fiery blood through Brendan’s veins. To disparage Brendan’s mother in that manner. He feared if he got his hands on Gaylord, he’d beat him within an inch of his life. “Get off my land, now, Gaylord,” he said through his teeth. “Or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“What? Will you shoot me?” Gaylord sneered. But he backed his horse away. “Runs in the family, does it not?”
As Brendan began to swing his leg over the saddle, ready to dismount, no longer caring what he did to the man, Gaylord took note and turned his horse. He galloped away.
Brendan watched him go. Fighting Gaylord wouldn’t give him satisfaction. He was much older and not as big as Brendan. But why had Gaylord expressed an interest in Wagstaff? The man had nothing to do with Brendan or Beechley Park. And what Netterfield did was none of his concern.
Gaylord’s unusual interest in the butler stayed with Brendan as he rode home.
By the time he sat in his library, he’d put Gaylord’s attitude down to the man’s pettishness. He didn’t like to be bested. And certainly not by a butler. It wasn’t the first time Gaylord seemed to have knowledge of what happened at Beechley Park. What interested Brendan was which member of his staff supplied Gaylord with information.
Chapter Fifteen
London, July
“Miss Gertrude Peytonand Miss Laura Peyton,” the Brookes’ butler announced.
Laura took several quick breaths to calm herself and smoothed the skirts of her pink-and-white gauze gown before she entered the ballroom. While Laura and her aunt made their way along the crowded periphery, several of her friends and acquaintances came to her to welcome her back, including Her Grace, the Duchess of Lindsey, whom Laura had met years ago during Ianthe’s first Season.
Laura curtsied low. “Your Grace.”
“It is nice to see you among us again, Miss Peyton,” the beautiful, fair-haired duchess said. Her Grace might have heard the gossip concerning Robert’s financial troubles, but surely nothing of Laura’s stay at Beechley Park. But for such an important personage to show her favor, it would stop gossip from spreading. “We must take tea together soon. I should like to hear all your news.”
Laura curtseyed. The duchess had always been kind. “I would love to. Thank you, Your Grace.”
In her lavender, silk gown and pearls, Aunt Gertrude settled herself on a sofa placed against the wall, where she arranged her fan, shawl, and reticule around her. Donning her spectacles, she turned her short-sighted attention on thetonand, after a moment, leaned over to Laura, who sat beside her. “Some of these women dress like trollops.” Her aunt did not try to lower her voice as she pointed her fan toward a woman on the dance floor. “Mrs. Dewsbury’s big bosom is about to fall out of her dress!”
Laura glanced around at those seated nearby, fearing her aunt’s words would be overheard. But a sudden commotion at the entrance of Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, whose duchess had given birth to a daughter, Victoria, drowned everything out. The noisy welcome continued for the tall, dark-haired, dashing Duke of Wellington, who walked in behind him.
“Ah, there’s Marion Hislop. I haven’t seen her for an age.” Aunt Gertrude waved her fan at her friend, who saw her and beckoned.
Her aunt stood and collected her things. “I hope you’re asked for the next dance, Laura. It doesn’t do to sit alone. You will resemble a wallflower.” With that deflating comment, she and her friend strolled away, chatting.
Aunt Gertrude was so alarmingly unpredictable. Laura tried to ease her tense shoulders as she viewed the new arrivals cramming into the ballroom and the adjacent salons. The Brookes had refurbished the ballroom since she had last been here. An elegant row of marbled columns lined the walls and arched windows opened onto a wide balcony overlooking the garden. The scent of a multitude of sweet-smelling flowers fought with the candle smoke and the less pleasant smells of sweat and perfume. Crystals from the twin chandeliers sprayed twinkling lights over the dance floor, where dancers performed the quadrille. The dance suddenly came to a halt and a collective gasp went up as a middle-aged gentleman stumbled and almost fell while attempting an overly enthusiastic execution of thejeté assemblé. Clearly a little embarrassed, he righted himself, fortunately, and the dance continued.
When the quadrille ended, Laura’s friend Emma Burton left the dance floor with the other couples. She spied Laura, and parting from her partner, hurried over to her.
“How wonderful to see you here, Laura.” Emma seated herself beside her. “I’ve looked for you everywhere. I doubted I’d see you again in London this Season.”
Her friend was too polite to ask the reason which had kept her away, but her green eyes were curious.
“My brother suffered a hunting accident. A wound to his shoulder,” Laura said, giving her a briefer version of the truth. “It kept us in the country.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “How dreadful.” She gazed around. “Is Lord Netterfield here in London?”
“No. Robert is still not well enough to return to the city. My Aunt Gertrude kindly chaperoned me.” She laughed. “Not that I need one at my age.” She remembered how young and lovely Debnam had made her feel. Desired.
Emma frowned. “You talk as if you are old, Laura. In that pink gown, you’re prettier than many debutantes here tonight. And so much more sensible.”
