“Another guest?” I murmured.
Cleo shook her head, eyes widening. “Nothing scheduled.”
I stepped out towards the main entrance just as the sleek black car glided up the gravel drive, tyres crunching over the stones. The chauffeur climbed out first, and recognition tugged at me immediately.
Margaret’s driver.
The very same man Lucas had apparently “borrowed” the day before for what he’d described as an urgent coffee-related emergency.
Before I could properly process that, the rear door opened with slow, almost theatrical precision.
And then she stepped out.
Lady Victoria Beaumont moved like someone entirely unaccustomed to waiting for rooms to notice her. Elegantly wrapped in cream silk with a sprinkle of diamonds, she somehow even made the sprawling Beaumont estate look underdressed. Even the air seemed to shift around her, staff straightening instinctively as she crossed the pavement.
It wasn’t just wealth.
It was presence. The kind that arrived before a person spoke and lingered long after they left.
Lady Victoria Beaumont had officially arrived.
“Good heavens,” Margaret gasped, appearing suddenly beside me with a teacup still clutched in one hand. “Mother! You weren’t due until Saturday.”
“I reclaimed my driver,” Lady Beaumont said crisply, smoothing one immaculate glove. “Honestly, Margaret, lending him out for coffee errands. What next?”
The chauffeur gave the faintest nod of solidarity before returning to the car.
Margaret seemed momentarily stricken. Not just guilty, but deeply, emotionally inconvenienced. The sort of expression only mothers could still inspire in fully grown women with country estates and catering staff.
Richard appeared from the veranda, his tie loosened from breakfast but his posture correcting itself almost instantly.
“Lady Beaumont,” he said abruptly. “This is a surprise.”
“I gathered,” she replied coolly, her gaze drifting towards the house. “Still, I’ve never been particularly fond of waiting for the ‘right moment’ to do something properly.”
Margaret tried for composure, though her voice wavered. “You might have called ahead. We could have arranged a proper welcome.”
“Spontaneity, my dear, is the best test of organisation,” Victoria said. “If a household can’t survive an early arrival, what hope does it have surviving a wedding?”
Richard snorted under his breath. “She’s got you there, love.”
Margaret shot him a warning look, then turned back to her mother. “Well, the drawing room is set up for tea. You’ll want to freshen up first?”
“Tea first,” Lady Beaumont said, unbuttoning her gloves with slow precision. “And we can talk about this wedding.”
Richard stepped aside, gesturing towards the house. “After you, Lady Beaumont.”
“Of course after me,” she said lightly, with just enough humour to make everyone laugh, and just enough authority to remind them she wasn’t joking.
As they walked, Lady Beaumont’s eyes swept across the estate, calmly assessing every detail like she was mentally preparing a performance review for the entire property.
“The hydrangeas clash with the terrace stone,” she said lightly. “They’d work far better in white.”
Margaret nodded instantly. “Yes, of course. Holly can arrange that immediately.”
I smiled politely, as though replacing an established garden two days before a society wedding was the sort of thing I did between coffee orders.
Lady Beaumont stopped and turned her attention to me. “You must be Miss Sinclair, the planner. A capable face, at least. I do hope you’re efficient?”
