“You are cheerful,” Sophie murmured when Bel reached the youngest ladies.
“Of course,” Bel said. “I live to serve.”
“Bel, honestly!” Sophie remonstrated. “Don’t speak so of yourself. Come and sit by me, and I’ll introduce my friends.”
It soon became clear that the two or three young ladies nearest to Sophie were indeed friends, or on their way to becoming so. Bel was glad for her. They chatted about the house party, their plans for winter, and their families, encouraging and complementing one another. They traded reading suggestions. If a few of the young people sitting a bit farther away appeared bored, Bel found that predictable. Across the way Dinah, chin raised, glanced over disdainfully.
Sophie would meet many less kind people, some outright hostile, among the Ton. Friends had been Bel’s only defense among them. She had formed the Nemesis Collective with Merrilyn Parkham-Smythe and Ariadne Hollingsworth as a defense against the sharp claws of other ladies and the predatory advances of the men. Now both Ariadne and Merrilyn were married—and both deliriously happy. Bel dreaded going on alone. Sophie’s little group warmed her heart for her cousin’s sake.
A hint of movement and indrawn breath was Bel’s only warning before the door opened and the men trooped in. The earl and an older gentleman led the way. Two of Cecil’s dandyish friends followed, and two very young gentlemen. Bel ignored all of them. Against her will, her gaze riveted on one man—the Earl of Ridgemont, John Conlyn—and an involuntary shiver of attraction shot through her at the sight of his broad shoulders,great height and hair so thick she wanted to run her fingers through it.
He needs a trim, she thought absently, before snapping her jaw shut and sitting straighter.Don’t be a ninny, Bel.She dragged her eyes back to her cousin, but not before she saw Dinah Beckwith rise and skillfully block Ridgemont’s progress into the room before he could choose a seat.
He didn’t look unhappy, Bel thought irritably.They are well matched. Nasty pair.
She concentrated on her cousin’s friends, shutting out Aunt Violet. Shutting out the biddies watching her. Shutting out Conlyn.
“They are staring,” whispered Lady Ella Manning, who sat next to Sophie. Bel followed the direction of her gaze, as did their entire little circle, to the young men slouched near Uncle Hartwell’s decanters. Jaded and cynical to a man, Cecil’s crowd, most of them. They probably made sport in mocking the girls.
“Have you met the Honorable Peter Hartley?” she asked, diverting the girls’ attention to a young man sipping tea with Lady Bellachat and clearly amusing the old woman. “He is, I believe, the son of the Earl of Westhampton.”
One of the ladies sitting on the outer edge of their circle leaned toward Bel. “Isn’t he a cousin of the Marquis of Aldridge?” she said, quivering with excitement.
“I believe so,” Bel said, “But he is nothing like him.” Aldridge was well known as a rake, as dissolute as they came. Still, Bel had never known him to be cruel. Perhaps Peter Hartley resembled him in that much at least. She sighed. Young women could be dangerously foolish.
Bel rose and leaned forward to agree with a surprisingly clever comment about the writings of Walter Scott. She intended to move on to greet other ladies, but she felt warmth at her backjust before a deep male voice vibrated through her.John Conlyn. Ridgemont. “Well said, Lady Joanna, and charmingly put.”
A bright pink blush gave Lady Joanna Mitchell an appealing glow. Sensing his closeness, Bel feared the heat on her own cheeks would be a mottled red. She did not turn. Perhaps he would ignore her.
“I’m afraid I haven’t met your companion as yet, Lady Sophie.” His voice sounded like the low rumble of thunder in the distance. She had noticed it two seasons ago when he asked her to waltz, a dance interrupted by a laughing Cecil. That was when she had first realized he was not the gentleman he appeared, but one of the low-lives who flocked with her cousin.
“Of course, my lord,” Sophie chirped. “Bel, may I present the Earl of Ridgemont?” Bel turned slowly to face the wretch. “My lord, may I present my cousin, Miss Belinda Westcott?”
Bel froze. She gazed up into deceptively innocent appearing hazel eyes, and held her breath when they narrowed. He blinked, and she saw the flicker of recognition.
“I’m honored,” he said with a polite inclination of his head, all the while studying her face with care. Dinah Beckwith, she noted, still clung to his arm. Was it Bel’s imagination or did the girl’s fingers tighten at his words?
Would it matter if I ran from the room? Of course, it would.
Bel swallowed. Hard. “The honor is mine,” she said curtseying properly before turning to peer at Miss Beckwith in an attempt to avoid his penetrating inspection, only to face a viper’s hateful glare.
“How are you enjoying my aunt’s hospitality, Miss Beckwith?” Bel crooned with faux concern. “You appeared weary sitting there moments ago.”
“Well enough,” the girl responded. “At least dinner was decent tonight.”
“I respectfully disagree. It was beyond ‘decent.’ I would rate tonight’s dinner excellent and look forward to seeing what other treasures the cook creates this week,” Ridgemont said. “I asked Lady Hartwell to pass on my regard to the cook. The glazed lamb was particularly fine.”
Sophie’s friends murmured their agreement, mentioning favorite dishes. Flattering though the praise was, Bel began to make her excuses and move on. Unfortunately, the Beckwith creature spoke first.
“Did you find the dinner satisfying as well, Miss Westcott?” She gave “Westcott” an almost imperceptible twist, but Bel caught the hint at her hated nickname, and the reference to her great humiliation.
Bel forced a cold smile to her lips. “Certainly, Miss Beckwith. Our cook is a genius in the kitchen.”And I should know since I am she.“Now, if you will excuse me, I promised Lady Arncastle a tour of the gallery, and we’ve yet to arrange it.” It was a lie, but also the first excuse that came to mind.
Westcott.The Westcott Menace.The way Miss Beckwith said the word brought it back. John groaned inside. He had been such an ass that year. He watched Belinda Westcott walk away, head high, and knew she’d caught the jab as well.
John hadn’t been at the Haverford Venetian breakfast in which everyone who had sampled savories from a particular platter—the one rumored to have been the offering of Belinda Westcott—had fallen ill.
He heard the story of the Haverford disaster—in painful detail—from a chortling Cecil Hartwell late that same nightwhen they were deep in their cups. His involvement with Hartwell shamed him.
