Page 11

Five

Highbury House’s immaculate lawns

A FEW EMBARRASSING SECONDS LATER

His timing impeccable, Uncle Cedric had arrived.

Beatrice and Mr. Westbrook glanced toward the earl, storming across the lawns.

Clydes, the butler, and Millborn, Beatrice’s companion and ladies’ maid, trotted in his wake, their faces a mixture of astonishment, apprehension, and concern.

Mr. Westbrook offered Beatrice a genial smile and a wink. “Fear not.”

How could he have known her apprehension?

Her heart turned over, and she couldn’t prevent her answering smile and slight nod before her common sense returned. She shoved her gown down, noting with carefully hidden satisfaction the torn fabric and grass stains.

In a moment, Uncle Cedric towered above them, infuriated and fairly frothing in frustration.

Uncle did not attempt to help her up.

In a lithe movement, Mr. Westbrook rose to his feet and extended his hand to assist Beatrice.

She slipped her fingers into his wide palm, noting a hint of blue paint beneath one neatly trimmed nail.

“There’s been a slight mishap, my lord.” Mr. Westbrook didn’t appear the least intimidated by Uncle Cedric. He brushed blades of grass from his elbows.

Dark green stained his trousers and jacket, and she hid a wince.

Artists were notoriously poor, and no doubt this was the only decent suit he owned.

Naturally, she’d pay to have his garments cleaned, or if that wasn’t possible, replaced.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

How much would that cost?

Her monthly allowance wasn’t generous by any means.

“You m-must permit me to pay t-to have your clothing c-cleaned or replaced.” Beatrice refused to look in her uncle’s direction.

She would find the funds somehow.

“Nothing of the sort.” A smile hovering around the edges of his nicely molded mouth, Mr. Westbrook shook his dark head. “A good brushing and all should be well.”

He was a rotten liar.

No brushing would remove those embedded smudges.

Scrutinizing her gown, his expression turned rueful. “I fear you are much worse for wear than I, Miss Fairfax.”

“Oh, your lovely gown, Miss.” Millborn frowned and tisked as she took in the ripped, grass-stained fabric. “’Tis beyond repair, I fear.”

Hands planted on his hips and eyes narrowed in suspicion, Uncle Cedric’s face grew tauter still. “What bloody well happened?”

Beatrice bit her lip.

If she confessed the truth, she worried about what her uncle would do to Nala. He barely tolerated her dogs’ presence as it was.