Miss Westcott leapt to her feet and turned to face him; eyes wide. “I— I don’t…” she choked out.
“We’ll worry about George when we have that conversation that I promised you. I came to tell you no one else got sick. You didn’t hurt anyone else.”
The relief in her expression was palpable. Pride quickly brushed it aside; she raised her chin. “What do you mean? Are you assuming theWestcott Menaceis at work here?”
He cringed when she threw the horrid nickname in his face. She had backbone; he’d give her that.
“There is no assumption. I’m sure of several things. We’ll speak about them when Lady Sophie is well.” He turned on his heels and gave her no opportunity to answer.
Chapter 7
Lady Sophieand her elusive cousin remained above stairs the following day and night. John burned to intrude, though to see which of them, he couldn’t say. By afternoon, a choice between whist with the elderly or a snowy hike through the home wood faced him. Once again, he found himself in the middle between the aged and the energetic crowd a few years younger than he in age yet many more years younger in life experience. He chose the walk.
Peter Hartley met him at the door, warmly garbed and wrapped in scarves. “Do you have any news about Lady Sophie?” His interest seemed more than casual. In the unlikely event that John decided to pursue the girl, he would have competition
“She was well by late afternoon yesterday. I haven’t heard anything new. She was weak, however, and in need of rest.”
Others joined them in a cloud of chatter and energy. As they turned to leave one more joined the party.
“I’m just in time.” A miraculously healed Miss Dinah Beckwith clamped on to his arm possessively. For the next three quarters of an hour, she managed to keep the others, particularly the young ladies, at a distance by use of cutting comments andthe frowns he saw reflected in the others’ eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. She babbled on about “poor fragile Lady Sophie Gilray.”
As they made the turn to go back, he’d had quite enough of his persistent pest and extracted his arm, drawing a petulant pout.
“Pity not to put all this snow to use,” he declared, drawing all eyes, some confused, some wary. He struck Peter with a well-aimed snowball, and the melee was on.
The group arrived back at the manor wet, rumpled, and laughing. Miss Beckwith, who had gone rigid with indignation the only time a snowball came her way, had stalked off much ahead of the group. He watched her safely to the manor from a distance while the snowballing moved in that direction. Lady Ella Manning and Walter Davis, Peter’s deceptively shy friend, had been declared winners.
John bowed over Lady Ella’s hand. “I applaud your prowess with a snowball. I will see you at dinner.” The young lady’s cheeks, already ruddy from the cold turned a darker shade of red. He snapped an ostentatious military salute to Davis and took the stairs two at a time.
His suite, which he strongly suspected was the finest guest suite, lay on the second floor. As he reached the first, the urge to pound on Lady Sophie’s door seized him, but the state of his coat and boots stopped him.
The firmtskwith which Graves greeted him affirmed he was wise to postpone seeing the ladies.
“Has there been any news about Lady Sophie?” John asked, handing over his greatcoat and sitting so that the clucking valet could remove his boots.
“These’ll be ruined you keep this up,” Graves muttered.
“Lady Sophie?” John prodded.
“Word in the servants’ hall is she’s taking tea and toast. They reckon she’ll be right as rain by tomorrow.”
“That’s a relief. What about Miss Westcott?” John asked.
“Stayed with her cousin all night. Maids think she’s a saint. Caused a fuss in the kitchen, though.”
“How’s that?”
Graves wandered into the wardrobe, returning with a heavy banyan and towels. “Get you dry and warm,” he said.
“About the kitchen, Graves!”
“The countess swanned in and accused the cook of poisoning the niece. Said she’d let her off without a reference. The Westcott woman got wind of it and swooped down to announce it wouldn’t happen. Said the countess would forget it in a week and told Mrs. Wesley—she’s the cook—to just lay low. Cheeky that. It ain’t her household.”
“I suspect she knows her aunt.”I suspect she feels guilty.
Dinner that night was dismal, almost as bad as the first night. John puzzled over the wide swing in quality while neglecting both Lady Hartwell on his left and Lady Emma Manning on his right. Every time he looked up, Dinah Beckwith’s scowl curdled his stomach. Perhaps that or Cecil Hartwell’s presence assaulted his taste buds, not the actual quality of the cooking.
Cecil cast a sly glance toward his mother and leaned across the table to whisper with a hiss, “Afraid of the food, Ridgemont? Is a menace on the loose?”
