“Graves, do you remember me speaking of Miss Belinda Westcott?” he asked.
“Not as I recall, my lord.” Graves began unbuttoning his waistcoat while John’s mind roamed back through the evening, passing quickly over the giggling girls and viperish Dinah Beckwith to settle on the woman who so fascinated him when he saw her directing servants in the dining room. Belinda Westcott.
“Wee bit distracted tonight, are ye? I asked if you’re wanting yer banyan,” Graves prodded.
John nodded, still puzzling over Miss Westcott. What was it about the woman? The confidence he first noticed. The warmth of her voice, chatting and laughing with her cousin. Her perfect dignity. The gentle way she dealt with the quarrelsome old woman. The sway of her hips, the line of her back, and her determined stride when she walked away.
He sat in the wing-backed chair by the hearth and thanked Graves for the glass of brandy he offered. A smile lifted John’s face and warmed his heart. At least one woman had attracted his attention tonight. He determined to get to know her better, but the pride in her bearing when she gave him short shrift before saying good night suggested it would not be easy.
“Very well, Miss Westcott,” he murmured into his drink. “I do enjoy a challenge.
Chapter 5
Bel returned to the kitchen,after brushing past Conlyn—Ridgemont-—but didn’t get far in her preparations for the following day’s meals and Aunt Violet’s mandated snacks before she was invaded.
Cecil and two of his friends wandered in loudly demanding to see what there was to eat. Cook wrung her hands and the two little kitchen maids hovered in the corner, wide-eyed.
“Cecil! You needn’t disrupt the kitchen. Ring for a foot man if you require service,” Bel declared wiping flour from her hands.
Cecil pranced around the table. “When the Westcott Menace has her hands in, we have to inspect our vittles carefully,” he scoffed setting off a round of laughter. “Came down to inspect.” He grabbed the jar containing yesterday’s biscuits, reached in, and began tossing them to his friends. “Wesley, did you or the Menace make these?” he demanded.
Mrs. Wesley glanced frantically between Bel and her employer’s son. “I done ’em, my lord,” she whispered.
“Stop terrorizing the kitchen, Cec. Take the biscuits and go,” Bel demanded.
He tossed a few more, ignoring the ones that hit the stone floor and shattered, stuffed several in his pockets, and sneered at Bel. “Menace!” He shouted, striding toward the door where he spun around to face her again. “The Westcott Menace—Ridgemont came up with that one. Did you know that, Bel? Next Season’s big fish calls you a menace. Wait until we dropthatin the ear of the gossips,” he laughed. He pelted his friends with another biscuit and left, leaving silence in his wake.
Bel wanted to follow and throttle him. Instead, she had to rally her staff. A half-hour later, breakfast had been prepped, dinner planned, and she was well on her way to a third batch of cakes and biscuits.
“Thank you all, but get you off to bed. Breakfast will come early,” Bel told them. She lifted the chin of the most capable of the kitchen maids. “Remember, Annie. I trust you to support Mrs. Wesley. And also—do be careful in salting the eggs. I plan to sleep late after I finish up the baking tonight.”
Much later—Bel suspected midnight had passed—she sat, alone and weary, at the worn and marred wooden table to enjoy an herbal tisane before finding her own bed. She leaned her elbow on the table, her head on her hand, no longer able to keep thoughts of Cecil’s horrid behavior at bay.
Cecil had made her life a misery since he cut off one of her braids when she was six. Their grandfather, informed by the gardener, had called Cecil on the carpet and given him a birching. Cecil blamed Bel. When Grandpapa died a few years later, Cecil blamed Bel that he was excluded from the will as well. His behavior toward her worsened.
Aunt Violet’s blindness to it all was a familiar ache. There would be no point in complaining about him. His threat to ruin yet another Season, however, left her desolate. If only she could convince Aunt Flora to give up trying to present her and allowher to withdraw to the country. If only they would release her dowry into her own keeping.
She took a sip of her tisane and shook with a sigh. Cecil had confirmed one thing. John Conlyn—his preening lordship of Ridgemont—had created her hated nickname and would be at the center of more humiliation in the Spring.
She sat up straight in her chair when an idea came to her.There is no use trying to live it down; I could just as well use it.
If Ridgemont and Cecil wanted to paint her as a menace, she should treat them to a dose of her talent for chemistry. She could humiliate them before they did it to her, and get her revenge at the same time. Her reputation would be the same in the end.
Bel pushed herself up with both hands. She lit a candle, unlocked the room she had converted to her laboratory, and searched bottles until she found it, a vial ofCephaelis ipecacuanhathatshe had distilled into a syrup.The perfect emetic.
She stared at the bottle while finishing her tisane. She could make sure it went up to Cecil and his friends with their breakfast tea or coffee, but they would be so ill from drink they might not even realize it. No, she needed something public. If she wanted to make someone vomit, she needed it to be outside to avoid damage to Aunt Violet’s parlors.
The skating party would be perfect.
She considered methods to get something laced withipecacuanhato Ridgemont alone, and avoid other guests. If Bel planned carefully, she could slip him tainted hot chocolate. She could count on George to help. Dinah Beckwith planned to force Ridgemont to partner her. Beckwith might get some also, but Bel wouldn’t weep over that.
Let the skaters beware!Bel blew out the sconces and carried her candle up to bed.
The next morning,John waited at the front door bundled in a warm coat and scarf, hat in hand. He hoped to catch sight of Belinda Westcott, though she insisted she would not skate. If he were lucky, he might escort Lady Sophie Gilray to the lake.
A sound on the stairs caught his attention, and he saw Lady Sophie on the first-floor landing. He started to smile, but Dinah Beckwith shouldered past her and danced down the stairs to ambush him.
“Are the coaches ready?” she asked, clamping on to his arm, and forcing John, who had planned to walk, to follow her.
