Chapter 2
“I should never have let you spend so much time with my grandfather’s valet!” John Conlyn, Earl of Ridgemont, scowled at the giant of a man who had once been his batman, with no more duties than to keep his uniform brushed and his gear packed for sudden moves. They had spent the previous year at John’s grandfather’s seat, Wynnwood Hall. Graves had become a fashion tyrant under the tutelage of the knowledgeable valet.
Graves frowned back. “Hold still. Ye need a decently tied cravat for dinner with those peers.” He finished his efforts, stood back, and viewed his handiwork, nodding as he did. “Y’ll do for a dinner. The ladies will approve.”
The ladies . Graves never let an opportunity to remind him why they were here pass him by. Grandfather’s marching orders: find a decent girl of good family and marry her. His emphasis was on decent, not bloodlines, thank the benevolent Providence. John smiled to himself.
The death of his cousin Frederick had pitched his grandfather into a year of mourning, and the old man dragged John with him. His grandfather had used every day of it to poke and prod John into what he said “will make you into a finer heir than Frederick ever was.” Given the pox-ridden degenerate that was Frederick, John knew himself to be better the day the heirdom passed to him, but grandfather wasn’t taking chances. He’d pulled John from the fleshpots of London to the family pile for a full twelve months of badgering—affectionate, but badgering all the same.
“Lift y’er chin, Jonny,” Graves growled. “The old boy and that man of his pulled y’out of the muck you’d sunk into in Lunnan, and my job’s to keep you up to snuff now we’re on our own again.”
Graves must be irritated if I’m Jonny again . John lifted his chin and Graves topped off his handiwork with a diamond pin, one of many gifts from his grandfather. “There. Now you look fine as can be, my lord.” Graves gave a jerky nod.
A man might envy all those gifts if he didn’t know every one of them came with strings tying John tighter and tighter to the Wynnwood estate. At least he had felt that way at first, while he mourned the loss of his military career, but, as the year went on, Grandfather’s pride and the obvious needs of the tenants seeped into his soul. It would be a worthwhile life. Eventually. If only he could get used to it. Grandfather deserved his gratitude.
He sought his way down to the drawing room designated for pre-dinner gathering. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs watching a group of young women—girls—tittering together as they entered the room, followed by two stately matrons, obviously the proud mothers of at least two of them.
Babies the lot of them. John couldn’t imagine taking one to wife. Courage, Conlyn! He stood straighter, but stayed fixed in place.
As he paused, a footman rushed out the dining room door, leaving it open. He watched the staff preparing for the guests and groaned.
The previous night’s dinner had been so atrocious he regretted coming. Surely it won’t be as bad tonight. At least he prayed so. He’d had his share of awful food in the Peninsula; he couldn’t take a week of bad dinners.
He was about to move on when the woman directing the work caught his attention and his breath held. He couldn’t say why. She was no diamond, and yet she was too well dressed to be cook or housekeeper. Too well even to be a governess or other upper servant. Still, she wasn’t garbed as fashionably as the other guests either.
Oddly, he couldn’t shake the feeling he knew her, although he couldn’t place her. Taller than average, her lush curves, outlined in a simple gown, stirred him. The hair arranged high on her head was a rich chestnut, but what held his attention was the graceful slope of her neck. Most intriguing of all was her air of confidence and command. It made her far more interesting than the silly misses he’d seen so far. He shook his head. Ogling servants, even obviously superior ones, was not why he came.
John fixed on a haughty expression he’d learned from his grandfather, one he found useful as a shield, approached the drawing room, and joined the waiting guests. Countess Hartwell swanned up to him, glowing with smug delight. “Welcome to our humble gathering, my lord. May I introduce you to our new arrivals?”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, but gripped his arm with iron determination. His heart sank at her destination, when she dragged him toward the group of young girls he’d seen earlier. Their faces and gowns ran together, none standing out from the other, as if England produced pattern card debutantes on demand.
That’s unkind, John!
It was. He ignored the eager ones and focused on the shyest among them, smiling to set them at their ease.
“And this is my niece, Lady Sophie Gilray, daughter of the Marquess of Gilford,” the countess crooned.
Ah. When he accepted, he had thought he might have an easier time at this house party as the guest of a house with no marriageable daughter. He should have expected a niece. He bowed over her hand and was struck by the twinkle of humor in Lady Sophie’s open expression. He saw intelligence as well. This one might be worth his attentions. They chatted briefly when the countess fluttered off, having met her objective, to gossip with cronies.
Most of the simpering misses were as insipid in their conversation as he expected.
Lady Sophie grinned at him. “She’s positively preening. Don’t let her irritate you.”
He followed her line of sight to where the countess stood nose high, making a spirited pronouncement to the other matrons. He hoped it wasn’t an announcement of his engagement to her niece. Already.
Another lady joined his circle, managing to gracefully cut out most of the others. This one appeared just a bit older in years but far more worldly than the sweet things.
She pinned Lady Sophie with a brittle smile. “Dear Lady Sophie, could you introduce me to your new friend? Surely at an informal party protocol and all that fuss is unnecessary,” she cooed.
Lady Sophie’s expressive face wished the interloper to perdition so obviously that the other young woman must see it. She’d been left with little choice. “Miss Dinah Beckwith, may I introduce you to the Earl of Ridgemont. My lord, Miss Beckwith.” Sophie’s rigid jaw clipped her words.
“Earl? Oh my, I’m honored. I wonder if you know my grandfather, the Marquess of Delacourt? Perhaps you’ve met him during all that business in Lords that so occupies you gentlemen.”
He murmured that he had not.
The bold chit took his arm. “Do come and meet Maman. She would so like to meet you,” she said giving his arm a tug.
Belinda surveyed the artfully arranged dishes on their porcelain platters and judged them adequate. She would remind Carlton to clean the silver tomorrow after she sent off her order for supplies. She’d managed to cobble together a decent sauce with what was in the larder. Spices were there aplenty from Belinda’s last visit. Mrs. Wesley, the cook, never touched them. The estate supplied plenty of beef, mutton, and fish, and its succession houses could be counted on for greens and fruit.
Taking a quick glance in the bottom of a shiny pot, she tidied her hair, and judged herself adequate as well. Aunt Violet expected her at dinner, but Belinda couldn’t be certain whether she would be missed or not. She shook out her skirts and headed toward the drawing room.
The room’s main doors were closed. The stationed footman would open for her, but Belinda preferred not to make an ostentatious entry. She knew a smaller door opened on a servant’s pantry. No one paid attention to it. She slipped through the pantry and into the drawing room without notice. The company buzzed with first night anticipation. Gentlemen young and old huddled near Uncle Hartwell’s decanters; matrons in full feather gossiped in ones and threes; and the eager young women clustered together as if there was safety in numbers. Belinda stood quietly behind a chair in which Viscountess Bellachat held court. Nearing eighty, the woman held herself past the age where manners mattered. She amused Belinda—most of the time.
“Look at them. Throwing themselves at him as if he were a prize stallion and they the farmer’s least favored mares,” the old lady grumbled.
“He’s the biggest prize this year, Mabel,” another matron replied. “Duke’s heir. This bunch hopes to get the jump on the fillies coming up next Season.”
She means the much-vaunted earl, of course. She wondered how the earl would feel being compared to a breeding horse. It would serve him right. Being ogled as if she were a brood mare on auction had soured Belinda on the whole Marriage Mart business. Then again, it might puff up his male ego.
She glanced at the men at the end of the room, recognizing only a few of the older gentlemen. Which might be the earl? One rotund man going thin on top looked a likely candidate. So did the chinless fellow next to him. No eager misses clustered around either of them, however. There was no sight of Cecil either.
Two ladies moved, and she caught sight of Sophie smiling up at a tall gentleman while her friends stood, wide-eyed, nearby. If that was the earl, he was far from the faded roué Belinda expected. When he tipped his head to listen to Sophie, candlelight reflected off the thick honey-gold waves of his hair. Sophie obviously found him enthralling, and, peering at his broad shoulders and strong back, Belinda could see why a na?ve young thing might be infatuated. She tamped down her own unbidden and unwanted jolt of attraction, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat.
Dinah Beckwith sailed over to Sophie’s circle. The Season’s diamond two years ago, she had turned down two younger sons, a viscount, and baronet. Belinda thought her a harpy who would settle for no less than a duke or a marquess—or the heir to one. Poor Sophie.
Doors to the dining room opened on the far right. “Dinner is served.” Carlton’s announcement woke Belinda from her absorption in Sophie’s companion just as he turned and she saw his face.
That is no earl! Belinda’s stomach curdled. John Conlyn, author of Belinda’s greatest humiliation, the fiasco at the Duchess of Haverford’s charity Venetian outing, stood across the room, as gloriously handsome and untrustworthy as ever. He had been absent the previous season, along with Cecil’s circle of reprobates; she’d hoped he was gone for good.
That man can’t be the earl. Can he?
While Belinda watched, Aunt Violet took Conlyn’s arm, “As highest-ranking guest…” she trilled, gazing up and him and parading toward the dining room. Belinda’s lunch threatened to make a reappearance.
The higher-ranking guests formed partners and moved toward the dining salon in proper rank, and the rest prepared to follow, but Belinda couldn’t bear the thought of food. Even worse, she couldn’t bear being at the same table as the wretch whose prank had all but ruined her.
She moved as quietly as she could to the left side and slipped back into the servant’s pantry, almost jostling a tray of glasses in the arms of a footman. “Sorry, George,” she whispered. The irritated footman continued out into the hallway and toward the kitchen. Assuming no guests would be in the hall, Belinda popped out behind him.
Too late, she realized the hall wasn’t empty.
“Oh dear, Harry, it’s my cousin the Wescott Menace,” Cecil sneered as he approached with one of his toadies. Both looked deep into their cups, and they hadn’t even been to dinner yet. “I wondered when she would get here!”
“Isn’t she the one so bad she made everyone at Haverford’s lawn party retch up their luncheon? We best be on guard.” The toadie giggled.
“True enough. Can’t even serve a proper tea. How is the Nuisance Collective, Cuz? Still disgusting every man in the ton with their bold behavior and crackpot ideas?” Cecil sneered.
Belinda’s face burned at the hated nicknames. Cecil toddled on and she didn’t dare challenge his words.
In the end, she couldn’t resist tossing words at his back. “You best move quickly, Cec. You wouldn’t want to risk your dear mummy’s wrath by being late for dinner!”
It was a lame attempt. Cecil ignored her jab. He kept repeating “Nuisance Collective” and laughing at his own wit. “Thank goodness the mater didn’t invite them all,” he proclaimed as the two worms slithered into the drawing room and off to dinner at the end of the guests just in time.
He referred, of course to the Nemesis Collective, a pact Belinda and friends made to stick together for mutual defense after enduring their first three terrible seasons. Belinda dearly wished they were here, except both Ariadne and Merrilyn had married during that awful season in which so many people at the Duchess’s Venetian breakfast became violently ill after eating food Belinda made. The fashionable world blamed her for their distress, shunning her much of the waning weeks of the Season. Sophie’s mother, Aunt Flora, hadn’t allowed her near the London kitchen since then.
It had not been her fault. One sight of Cecil and his friends laughing told her all she needed to know about who slipped emetics into her batter. They had pranced through Aunt Flora’s kitchen, teasing and harassing her. She knew they must have done it while they distracted her.
She’d been dubbed the Westcott Menace ever since. She always believed the haughtiest churl in their group came up with that witticism, the only one who had sufficient brains. John Conlyn.