The countess appeared briefly disconcerted. “I—” She wiped her mouth. “That is, I can’t recall. There is so much to plan for an event like this, you know.”
“You have obviously gone to great lengths for your guests, Ma’am. I thank you.”
The countess’s cheeks grew pink, her pleasure obvious. After a sweet dish of spiced pears and clotted cream, she rose to her feet to lead the ladies out. She smiled to her husband at the far end of the table, and with steel in her voice not quite masked by a girlish laugh she said, “Don’t linger overlong, my lord.”
Lady Sophie and the others followed her out, leaving John dreading he might be forced to converse with Cecil and Lord Harry Smithers, his groveling follower. He had no interest whatsoever in renewing those particular acquaintances.
Unfortunately, when the gentlemen moved toward the end of the table, John’s position put him squarely in front of Cecil
John leaned toward the head of the table as Lord Hartwell led the conversation toward the price of corn and the old king’s health. He still had much to learn, and was willing to listen, although he already knew he’d hear little to assist in the problem of unemployed soldiers or the impact of prices on tenants. His grandfather had been much more open on those topics.
Meanwhile, Cecil gulped down his port and held his glass for another, nudging Harry who leaned back, bored. The two miscreants brought back bad memories of his own behavior.
John needn’t have worried. Having decided he’d stayed long enough, Cecil lurched to his feet saluting his father with his second glass before downing it. “Off to the billiard room!” He ignored the Earl of Hartwell’s frown and pulled Harry up by his arm.
“Coming with us, Ridgemont?” Cecil slurred.
“No, thank you. I will stay and enjoy the conversation.”
Cecil shrugged and toddled off, but, as he passed, John heard him sneer, “You didn’t used to be such a dull stick, Ridgemont.”
Chapter 4
“Bel! Where have you been?”
Bel cringed when Sophie’s voice caught her half way up the stairs. She had lingered too long in the kitchen and now she couldn’t make her escape. She turned, hoping Sophie thought she was on her way down not up, forced an apologetic smile onto her face, and stepped down the rest of the way while ladies flowed into the drawing room behind her cousin.
“I took a nap after speaking with Cook and overslept,” she lied as smoothly as she could. Perhaps not smoothly enough if Sophie’s quizzical expression was any gauge. “I thought to join you for tea. Was Aunt Violet cross?”
Sophie’s cheeks went pink. “I’m not sure she cared.”
Of course, she didn’t!
Sophie hooked her arm on Bel’s elbow. “You’re here now. Come to tea with the ladies.” She leaned in and whispered, “Wait until you meet the earl! Such a delightful gentleman.”
Bel’s stomach did a flip.John Conlyn is no gentleman
The bevy of ladies fluttered about the drawing room, settling themselves as Bel and her cousin came in behind them. Aunt Violet, busy directing some of the younger ladies, didn’t notice.
Tea service arrived, brought by George and one of the younger footmen. “Will Miss Bel serve, my lady?” George asked glancing at Bel.
Aunt Violet peered around the room, spied Belinda retreating behind Viscountess Bellachat, and tittered, “If you would, my dear. The group is so large, your young bones are better able to manage the thing.”
Bel rose and murmured, “If you wish, aunt.”
“Ladies, this is my elder niece, Miss Belinda Westcott.” A puzzled look came over Aunt Violet’s normally placid face. “She was, er, indisposed earlier.”
A few quiet acknowledgements followed. One or two of the matrons frowned, no doubt recalling The Westcott Menace. Bel felt as though every eye in the room drilled into her back but she approached the tea cart and began to direct the footmen with a flourish. The young men placed plates of sweets on strategically located tables.
Soon, Bel followed the tea cart around the room, ascertaining each lady’s preference for lemon, sugar, milk, or none of them, and gracefully gesturing to the sweets. She began with the most senior ladies clustered around Aunt Violet.
“Still unwed, I see, Miss Westcott,” Viscountess Bellachat pronounced reaching for a lemon cake.
“Perceptive as always,” Bel replied with a smile, moving on.
The viscountess’s bosom bow, Lady Arncastle, frowned at Bel and glanced at the tea she was handed; she sipped cautiously. None of them would dare make a scene or refuse to take tea from Bel in front of the formidable Countess of Hartwell, Aunt Violet, but they all remembered the Haverford incident.
Bel thought about the dinner they had just eaten, most of it prepared by her own hands, and continued with an amused smile, indulging every one of them, even Dinah Beckwith, who posed, artfully arranged, on a settee that had been placedstrategically across from the door through which the men would enter in due time. She took a cup but ignored Bel as if she were a servant.
