Chapter 3
Before John could respond to the woman who’d clamped on to his arm, they were called to dinner, and couples formed in the correct order. The Earl of Hartwell led the ranking female guest in, and John found himself called upon to escort the countess who paraded head high into the dining room.
He gazed about, but the interesting woman he’d noticed before had disappeared to his disappointment. He helped countess to her seat and resigned himself to his fate. He could only hope dinner was an improvement over the night before.
At least he wasn’t seated near Dinah Beckwith. He had seen her from afar surrounded by suitors at the few events he attended two years before. Younger, in her first Season, she dominated the scene even then. He would have to watch himself around that one.
The countess seated him to her right with her niece on his other side. He began to turn his head toward Lady Sophie when another person, straggling in at the end of the group, caught his attention. Lord Cecil Hartwell. John had been informed the wretch would be hunting in the north and not in attendance, or he wouldn’t have come. He’d been informed wrongly. Damn .
Lady Sophie leaned over conspiratorially. “I don’t like him much either. And he’s my cousin,” she said under her breath.
He barely suppressed a bark of laughter at that. Lady Sophie had backbone. And good taste. John had become involved with the miscreant when he was at his lowest. He regretted every wasted moment.
The butler waved a hand and the soup course began. John still saw no sign of the woman who had so fascinated him, neither as a servant nor as a guest. Odd that.
He dipped his spoon in the soup, still studying the guests across from him. What he tasted sent his eyebrows upward. It was an excellent white soup, well-seasoned with a hint of leek and a correct sprinkle of ground almonds. He took another spoonful.
Very good indeed. “My complements on the soup, Lady Hartwell,” he said.
The countess straightened with a smug smile. “My cook is excellent.”
She must have been missing last night if that is so, he thought.
The dinner progressed easily—each successive course delicious, the conversation requiring little effort.
Lady Sophie proved able to converse on topics other than the weather and the latest fashions. She had at least a basic knowledge of politics and had read more than novels. Lady Hartwell seemed quite content to let him focus his attention on her niece, sparing him her fawning.
Between a decent course of fricasseed rabbit and a platter of rather fine glazed lamb cutlets with haricot beans, Lady Sophie leaned toward Lady Hartwell. “Where is Bel, Aunt?” she asked.
“Bel?” he echoed.
“Belinda Westcott, my other niece. Miss Belinda Westcott,” Lady Hartwell said through tight lips. “She was meant to join us, but she must have become indisposed.” She glared at Lady Sophie, the expression passing so quickly he almost missed it. “Perhaps you’ll meet her later,” she said.
Belinda Westcott. The name tickled his memory. Perhaps she was the woman he had noticed earlier. But no—that woman was hardly indisposed.
The moment passed. He enjoyed the lamb and the variety of pickles served after. He turned his attention to the countess. “My complements to the cook, Lady Hartwell. What wonder can we expect for the fruit course?”
The countess appeared briefly disconcerted. “I—” She wiped her mouth. “That is, I can’t recall. There is so much to plan for an event like this, you know.”
“You have obviously gone to great lengths for your guests, Ma’am. I thank you.”
The countess’s cheeks grew pink, her pleasure obvious. After a sweet dish of spiced pears and clotted cream, she rose to her feet to lead the ladies out. She smiled to her husband at the far end of the table, and with steel in her voice not quite masked by a girlish laugh she said, “Don’t linger overlong, my lord.”
Lady Sophie and the others followed her out, leaving John dreading he might be forced to converse with Cecil and Lord Harry Smithers, his groveling follower. He had no interest whatsoever in renewing those particular acquaintances.
Unfortunately, when the gentlemen moved toward the end of the table, John’s position put him squarely in front of Cecil
John leaned toward the head of the table as Lord Hartwell led the conversation toward the price of corn and the old king’s health. He still had much to learn, and was willing to listen, although he already knew he’d hear little to assist in the problem of unemployed soldiers or the impact of prices on tenants. His grandfather had been much more open on those topics.
Meanwhile, Cecil gulped down his port and held his glass for another, nudging Harry who leaned back, bored. The two miscreants brought back bad memories of his own behavior.
John needn’t have worried. Having decided he’d stayed long enough, Cecil lurched to his feet saluting his father with his second glass before downing it. “Off to the billiard room!” He ignored the Earl of Hartwell’s frown and pulled Harry up by his arm.
“Coming with us, Ridgemont?” Cecil slurred.
“No, thank you. I will stay and enjoy the conversation.”
Cecil shrugged and toddled off, but, as he passed, John heard him sneer, “You didn’t used to be such a dull stick, Ridgemont.”