Sophie glanced around and nodded at Bel. “Will I see you at dinner?”
“Yes. Perhaps. If I can get control of what I need to say,” Bel murmured.
“I’ll cover for you with Aunt Violet, but you have to face him eventually.”
John trudgedinto his rooms and marched toward the dressing room trailing water.
Graves frowned in disapproval. “What have ye done to yerself? Y’look like y’ve rolled in the snow.”
John shot him a scathing look.
“You did! Y’walked out with a fine lady and come home wet from the snow. Yer grandfather will have your head if y’don’t?—”
“I know my duty, Graves. Just help me change clothes.”
The valet did so in sullen silence.
When John requested an evening coat, Grave’s eyebrow rose. The valet took an inordinate amount of time with the cravat. “Get on with it, man!” John spat.
“If yer speaking with the earl you best look the part of a fine gentleman,” Graves muttered.
“I’m not…” Well, in fact he did plan to speak with the Earl of Hartwell but not for the reason Graves assumed. At least not yet.
John went down to the breakfast room, searching for Bel as soon as he entered, only to be disappointed. They needed to sort through what was happening between them. He needed to know how she felt, but she wasn’t there. Neither were Cecil and his group, thank goodness, but it was much too early for them to arise. Neither was Lord Hartwell, unfortunately.
John would have to wait, something he loathed doing. He retired to the library while the ladies fluttered to the drawing room and some of the younger men set off on a morning ride. He spent two hours alternately sifting through newspapers and pacing the library. All he could think about was his behavior with Bel. He’d crossed the line a gentleman should not cross. The trouble was he wanted to do it again—and more. He couldn’t get the feel of her out of his head.
Finally, certain he would go mad waiting, he prowled the first floor searching for Hartwell. Searching for Bel. To no avail. When she failed to turn up for nuncheon, he knew she was hiding from him. The meal had such a fine touch he knew where to find her, but he restrained himself from storming the kitchen. If Bel needed time, he would give it to her.
At least, the earl had risen and joined his guests at last. John waited impatiently for the meal to finish. As it wound down, Peter Hartley suggested to some others that they seek the billiard room.
“I wouldn’t. I saw it last night, and the surface of the table has been damaged,” John told him quietly. The earl heard the exchange and frowned. When he approached, John didn’t give him a chance to question his comment about billiards. Before the earl could speak, John asked for a private word. Unfortunately, Lady Bellachat overheard and sent him a smug look. Peter Hartley saw it and grinned at him.
Dear God, gossip already. I really do need to speak with Bel.
The earl’s study smelled of smoke and beeswax, far better than the aromas his son’s friends left in their wake. They sat in leather chairs with a small table between them. Hartwell didn’t offer him a drink. He could have used one.
“What do you have to say to me? Something happy, I hope.” Hartwell began.
Can he think I mean to offer for his niece already?
“No.” At John’s curt response the earl’s eyes flew wide. “I need to discuss your son.”
“My son? See here, Ridgemont! My family is none of your business.”
“Ordinarily, that is true. However ill-behaved Cecil is, he is your problem, not mine. When he insults me and threatens to shame my good name, it becomes my problem. Do you even know what he has been up to?”
“I have a feeling you plan to tell me,” the older man said, sinking back.
“I understand you had words with the Marquis of Aldridge the season before last.”
“Aldridge? That was…” the earl sputtered
John held up a staying hand. “He accused Cecil of causing the disaster at The Duchess of Haverford’s venetian breakfast and blaming it on Miss Westcott. He was correct. I know because Cecil bragged about it. In detail. He was proud of what he did to those people and particularly proud of making a fool of B— Miss Westcott.”
“He never did like her,” Hartwell muttered. “But how is it an insult to you?”
“I am ashamed to tell you that I was drunk that night. When they began a round of making up foolish names for the lady—The Westcott Witch, Bel the Bilious, The Westcott Assassin, The Westcott Fiend—laughing every time. I muttered “The Westcott Menace,” they howled, and it stuck. I never intended to harm the lady; I never said the foul name again. Cecil did. He spread it far and wide.”
