She moved as quietly as she could to the left side and slipped back into the servant’s pantry, almost jostling a tray of glasses in the arms of a footman. “Sorry, George,” she whispered. The irritated footman continued out into the hallway and toward the kitchen. Assuming no guests would be in the hall, Belinda popped out behind him.
Too late, she realized the hall wasn’t empty.
“Oh dear, Harry, it’s my cousin the Wescott Menace,” Cecil sneered as he approached with one of his toadies. Both looked deep into their cups, and they hadn’t even been to dinner yet. “I wondered when she would get here!”
“Isn’t she the one so bad she made everyone at Haverford’s lawn party retch up their luncheon? We best be on guard.” The toadie giggled.
“True enough. Can’t even serve a proper tea. How is the Nuisance Collective, Cuz? Still disgusting every man in the ton with their bold behavior and crackpot ideas?” Cecil sneered.
Belinda’s face burned at the hated nicknames. Cecil toddled on and she didn’t dare challenge his words.
In the end, she couldn’t resist tossing words at his back. “You best move quickly, Cec. You wouldn’t want to risk your dear mummy’s wrath by being late for dinner!”
It was a lame attempt. Cecil ignored her jab. He kept repeating “Nuisance Collective” and laughing at his own wit. “Thank goodness the mater didn’t invite them all,” he proclaimed as the two worms slithered into the drawing room and off to dinner at the end of the guests just in time.
He referred, of course to the Nemesis Collective, a pact Belinda and friends made to stick together for mutual defense after enduring their first three terrible seasons. Belinda dearly wished they were here, except both Ariadne and Merrilyn had married during that awful season in which so many people at the Duchess’s Venetian breakfast became violently ill after eating food Belinda made. The fashionable world blamed her for their distress, shunning her much of the waning weeks of the Season. Sophie’s mother, Aunt Flora, hadn’t allowed her near the London kitchen since then.
It had not been her fault. One sight of Cecil and his friends laughing told her all she needed to know about who slipped emetics into her batter. They had pranced through Aunt Flora’s kitchen, teasing and harassing her. She knew they must have done it while they distracted her.
She’d been dubbed the Westcott Menace ever since. She always believed the haughtiest churl in their group came upwith that witticism, the only one who had sufficient brains. John Conlyn.
Chapter 3
Before John could respondto the woman who’d clamped on to his arm, they were called to dinner, and couples formed in the correct order. The Earl of Hartwell led the ranking female guest in, and John found himself called upon to escort the countess who paraded head high into the dining room.
He gazed about, but the interesting woman he’d noticed before had disappeared to his disappointment. He helped countess to her seat and resigned himself to his fate. He could only hope dinner was an improvement over the night before.
At least he wasn’t seated near Dinah Beckwith. He had seen her from afar surrounded by suitors at the few events he attended two years before. Younger, in her first Season, she dominated the scene even then. He would have to watch himself around that one.
The countess seated him to her right with her niece on his other side. He began to turn his head toward Lady Sophie when another person, straggling in at the end of the group, caught his attention. Lord Cecil Hartwell. John had been informed the wretch would be hunting in the north and not in attendance, or he wouldn’t have come. He’d been informed wrongly.Damn.
Lady Sophie leaned over conspiratorially. “I don’t like him much either. And he’s my cousin,” she said under her breath.
He barely suppressed a bark of laughter at that. Lady Sophie had backbone. And good taste. John had become involved with the miscreant when he was at his lowest. He regretted every wasted moment.
The butler waved a hand and the soup course began. John still saw no sign of the woman who had so fascinated him, neither as a servant nor as a guest.Odd that.
He dipped his spoon in the soup, still studying the guests across from him. What he tasted sent his eyebrows upward. It was an excellent white soup, well-seasoned with a hint of leek and a correct sprinkle of ground almonds. He took another spoonful.
Very good indeed.“My complements on the soup, Lady Hartwell,” he said.
The countess straightened with a smug smile. “My cook is excellent.”
She must have been missing last night if that is so,he thought.
The dinner progressed easily—each successive course delicious, the conversation requiring little effort.
Lady Sophie proved able to converse on topics other than the weather and the latest fashions. She had at least a basic knowledge of politics and had read more than novels. Lady Hartwell seemed quite content to let him focus his attention on her niece, sparing him her fawning.
Between a decent course of fricasseed rabbit and a platter of rather fine glazed lamb cutlets with haricot beans, Lady Sophie leaned toward Lady Hartwell. “Where is Bel, Aunt?” she asked.
“Bel?” he echoed.
“Belinda Westcott, my other niece.MissBelinda Westcott,” Lady Hartwell said through tight lips. “She was meant to joinus, but she must have become indisposed.” She glared at Lady Sophie, the expression passing so quickly he almost missed it. “Perhaps you’ll meet her later,” she said.
Belinda Westcott.The name tickled his memory. Perhaps she was the woman he had noticed earlier. But no—that woman was hardly indisposed.
The moment passed. He enjoyed the lamb and the variety of pickles served after. He turned his attention to the countess. “My complements to the cook, Lady Hartwell. What wonder can we expect for the fruit course?”
