The countess shot her son a lethal glare of disapproval, and the miscreant sat back.
John poked at the overcooked mutton on his plate. Is a menace on the loose?Not in general; the attack had been precisely targeted. More to the point, the cook from two nights ago was obviously out of commission. The conclusion was clear. John knew exactly where he could corner Belinda Westcott.
“Quit fussing,Bel. I am quite well!” Susan had Sophie in a comfortable yet attractive day dress the following morning and had done her hair in a simple knot at the back. Sophie did indeed appear well.
Bel drew in a deep breath. “Very well. Just remember you are still weak. Try to sit and let others take care of you.”
Sophie refused an arm with an eyeroll. “I will do just fine. You get yourself to the kitchen and see if you can unravel the mystery. What made me ill?” She marched off, leading Bel to follow and Susan to clean up the sick room.
Ladies were gathering as they reached the breakfast room; they encountered Lady Bellachat at the door. The old woman raised her lorgnette and peered at Sophie owlishly. “None the worse for your ordeal,” she sniffed. “Bit pale. Perhaps you can explain what had Ridgemont parading through the house like a madman looking for your quarters. Not the done thing. Seeking a woman’s room.”
“I became ill on the ice. Too much skating in circles I suspect. The earl was a perfect gentleman. He saw me to my room, made certain my cousin was with us, and withdrew,” Sophie said, chin high.
Lady Bellachat sniffed again, adding a harumph before toddling over to her favorite chair.Disappointed, Belinda thought.
“See. It is as I said. There is no call for gossip about Lord Ridgemont. None at all,” Dinah Beckwith announced to the room.
Unlike the old biddies who enjoy any scandal broth, Dinah, at least, prefers that Conlyn—Ridgemont—not be caught in amarriage trap. Unless, of course, it was hers.Relief for Sophie’s sake calmed Bel when it appeared that oil had been poured on troubled waters.
She slipped from the room. As always, no one took notice.
The kitchen was at sixes and sevens. Mrs. Wesley had taken to her bed—or, Bel suspected, taken a bottle of Uncle Hartwell’s claret to her bed—unable to cope with Aunt Violet’s threats, the day’s menu, or her excitable staff.
Bel rolled up her sleeves, sat the kitchen helpers down, and reviewed the day’s plans. It is hard but not impossible to ruin breakfast, but Annie had managed a creditable job on her own.Thank goodness. Bel laid out tasks needed for the rest of the day, a timeline, and assignments. Organization always brought calm. Annie, for her part, nodded and asked intelligent questions. Bel had hopes for that one.
Soon carrots were being chopped for the evening’s Soup a la Crécy while Annie kneaded two days’ supply of bread. Meanwhile, the pot boy assisted in toasting three-day old bread for the mid-day meal. A bit of cheese and ham and it would do for now.
Freed from the need to direct staff, Bel surveyed supplies in the cold closet, mulling what she might do with a leg of lamb and some minced pork. Fish appeared in short supply.
“The glazed lamb three nights ago was superb. You might consider making it again.”
The deep voice rumbled through Bel’s middle, causing warmth to spread in every direction. Her face burned, and her nether regions tingled strangely. She froze with her back to the man, breathing deeply to settle herself. She couldn’t, not as long as she felt his warmth along her back and breathed in his scent, a musky mix of pine and male.How close is he?
Bel took a step deeper into the cold closet and turned. Ridgemont stared down at her, and neither spoke for a moment.
“We need to talk. Privately. Shall we walk in the kitchen garden?”
Bel’s eyes darted around his side to the kitchen maids.So much to do…vied withHow can I escape.
As if reading her mind he said, “You have plenty of time to prepare dinner.”
“No! I?—”
He tipped his chin and raised a haughty eyebrow, daring her to lie about her cooking. She didn’t. Neither did she move. He was in the way and—she really didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
He took her elbow in a grip that felt gentle, until she tried to shake it off and couldn’t, and pulled her from the cold closet.
Annie peered at his grip on Bel’s elbow with alarm. “Miss Westcott?”
“It will be fine, Annie. Take charge,” Bel choked, tripping along with him.
“Miss Westcott and I are going to take a stroll in the garden,” Ridgemont said over his shoulder. “She’ll return to you soon enough—unharmed. I don’t want to interfere with tonight’s certain-to-be-delicious dinner.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
He grabbed a cloak from a peg, dragged her out, and slammed the door.
Chapter 8
John adjustedhis long stride when Miss Westcott—Belinda— stumbled just outside the door, but he didn’t let go her arm until they were through the herb garden and well out of earshot of the kitchen. He stopped by the chicken house where there was little chance anyone would see them.
