Chapter 4
“Bel! Where have you been?”
Bel cringed when Sophie’s voice caught her half way up the stairs. She had lingered too long in the kitchen and now she couldn’t make her escape. She turned, hoping Sophie thought she was on her way down not up, forced an apologetic smile onto her face, and stepped down the rest of the way while ladies flowed into the drawing room behind her cousin.
“I took a nap after speaking with Cook and overslept,” she lied as smoothly as she could. Perhaps not smoothly enough if Sophie’s quizzical expression was any gauge. “I thought to join you for tea. Was Aunt Violet cross?”
Sophie’s cheeks went pink. “I’m not sure she cared.”
Of course, she didn’t!
Sophie hooked her arm on Bel’s elbow. “You’re here now. Come to tea with the ladies.” She leaned in and whispered, “Wait until you meet the earl! Such a delightful gentleman.”
Bel’s stomach did a flip. John Conlyn is no gentleman
The bevy of ladies fluttered about the drawing room, settling themselves as Bel and her cousin came in behind them. Aunt Violet, busy directing some of the younger ladies, didn’t notice.
Tea service arrived, brought by George and one of the younger footmen. “Will Miss Bel serve, my lady?” George asked glancing at Bel.
Aunt Violet peered around the room, spied Belinda retreating behind Viscountess Bellachat, and tittered, “If you would, my dear. The group is so large, your young bones are better able to manage the thing.”
Bel rose and murmured, “If you wish, aunt.”
“Ladies, this is my elder niece, Miss Belinda Westcott.” A puzzled look came over Aunt Violet’s normally placid face. “She was, er, indisposed earlier.”
A few quiet acknowledgements followed. One or two of the matrons frowned, no doubt recalling The Westcott Menace. Bel felt as though every eye in the room drilled into her back but she approached the tea cart and began to direct the footmen with a flourish. The young men placed plates of sweets on strategically located tables.
Soon, Bel followed the tea cart around the room, ascertaining each lady’s preference for lemon, sugar, milk, or none of them, and gracefully gesturing to the sweets. She began with the most senior ladies clustered around Aunt Violet.
“Still unwed, I see, Miss Westcott,” Viscountess Bellachat pronounced reaching for a lemon cake.
“Perceptive as always,” Bel replied with a smile, moving on.
The viscountess’s bosom bow, Lady Arncastle, frowned at Bel and glanced at the tea she was handed; she sipped cautiously. None of them would dare make a scene or refuse to take tea from Bel in front of the formidable Countess of Hartwell, Aunt Violet, but they all remembered the Haverford incident.
Bel thought about the dinner they had just eaten, most of it prepared by her own hands, and continued with an amused smile, indulging every one of them, even Dinah Beckwith, who posed, artfully arranged, on a settee that had been placed strategically across from the door through which the men would enter in due time. She took a cup but ignored Bel as if she were a servant.
“You are cheerful,” Sophie murmured when Bel reached the youngest ladies.
“Of course,” Bel said. “I live to serve.”
“Bel, honestly!” Sophie remonstrated. “Don’t speak so of yourself. Come and sit by me, and I’ll introduce my friends.”
It soon became clear that the two or three young ladies nearest to Sophie were indeed friends, or on their way to becoming so. Bel was glad for her. They chatted about the house party, their plans for winter, and their families, encouraging and complementing one another. They traded reading suggestions. If a few of the young people sitting a bit farther away appeared bored, Bel found that predictable. Across the way Dinah, chin raised, glanced over disdainfully.
Sophie would meet many less kind people, some outright hostile, among the Ton. Friends had been Bel’s only defense among them. She had formed the Nemesis Collective with Merrilyn Parkham-Smythe and Ariadne Hollingsworth as a defense against the sharp claws of other ladies and the predatory advances of the men. Now both Ariadne and Merrilyn were married—and both deliriously happy. Bel dreaded going on alone. Sophie’s little group warmed her heart for her cousin’s sake.
A hint of movement and indrawn breath was Bel’s only warning before the door opened and the men trooped in. The earl and an older gentleman led the way. Two of Cecil’s dandyish friends followed, and two very young gentlemen. Bel ignored all of them. Against her will, her gaze riveted on one man—the Earl of Ridgemont, John Conlyn—and an involuntary shiver of attraction shot through her at the sight of his broad shoulders, great height and hair so thick she wanted to run her fingers through it.
He needs a trim , she thought absently, before snapping her jaw shut and sitting straighter. Don’t be a ninny, Bel. She dragged her eyes back to her cousin, but not before she saw Dinah Beckwith rise and skillfully block Ridgemont’s progress into the room before he could choose a seat.
He didn’t look unhappy , Bel thought irritably. They are well matched. Nasty pair.
She concentrated on her cousin’s friends, shutting out Aunt Violet. Shutting out the biddies watching her. Shutting out Conlyn.
“They are staring,” whispered Lady Ella Manning, who sat next to Sophie. Bel followed the direction of her gaze, as did their entire little circle, to the young men slouched near Uncle Hartwell’s decanters. Jaded and cynical to a man, Cecil’s crowd, most of them. They probably made sport in mocking the girls.
“Have you met the Honorable Peter Hartley?” she asked, diverting the girls’ attention to a young man sipping tea with Lady Bellachat and clearly amusing the old woman. “He is, I believe, the son of the Earl of Westhampton.”
One of the ladies sitting on the outer edge of their circle leaned toward Bel. “Isn’t he a cousin of the Marquis of Aldridge?” she said, quivering with excitement.
“I believe so,” Bel said, “But he is nothing like him.” Aldridge was well known as a rake, as dissolute as they came. Still, Bel had never known him to be cruel. Perhaps Peter Hartley resembled him in that much at least. She sighed. Young women could be dangerously foolish.
Bel rose and leaned forward to agree with a surprisingly clever comment about the writings of Walter Scott. She intended to move on to greet other ladies, but she felt warmth at her back just before a deep male voice vibrated through her. John Conlyn. Ridgemont . “Well said, Lady Joanna, and charmingly put.”
A bright pink blush gave Lady Joanna Mitchell an appealing glow. Sensing his closeness, Bel feared the heat on her own cheeks would be a mottled red. She did not turn. Perhaps he would ignore her.
“I’m afraid I haven’t met your companion as yet, Lady Sophie.” His voice sounded like the low rumble of thunder in the distance. She had noticed it two seasons ago when he asked her to waltz, a dance interrupted by a laughing Cecil. That was when she had first realized he was not the gentleman he appeared, but one of the low-lives who flocked with her cousin.
“Of course, my lord,” Sophie chirped. “Bel, may I present the Earl of Ridgemont?” Bel turned slowly to face the wretch. “My lord, may I present my cousin, Miss Belinda Westcott?”
Bel froze. She gazed up into deceptively innocent appearing hazel eyes, and held her breath when they narrowed. He blinked, and she saw the flicker of recognition.
“I’m honored,” he said with a polite inclination of his head, all the while studying her face with care. Dinah Beckwith, she noted, still clung to his arm. Was it Bel’s imagination or did the girl’s fingers tighten at his words?
Would it matter if I ran from the room? Of course, it would.
Bel swallowed. Hard. “The honor is mine,” she said curtseying properly before turning to peer at Miss Beckwith in an attempt to avoid his penetrating inspection, only to face a viper’s hateful glare.
“How are you enjoying my aunt’s hospitality, Miss Beckwith?” Bel crooned with faux concern. “You appeared weary sitting there moments ago.”
“Well enough,” the girl responded. “At least dinner was decent tonight.”
“I respectfully disagree. It was beyond ‘decent.’ I would rate tonight’s dinner excellent and look forward to seeing what other treasures the cook creates this week,” Ridgemont said. “I asked Lady Hartwell to pass on my regard to the cook. The glazed lamb was particularly fine.”
Sophie’s friends murmured their agreement, mentioning favorite dishes. Flattering though the praise was, Bel began to make her excuses and move on. Unfortunately, the Beckwith creature spoke first.
“Did you find the dinner satisfying as well, Miss Westcott?” She gave “Westcott” an almost imperceptible twist, but Bel caught the hint at her hated nickname, and the reference to her great humiliation.
Bel forced a cold smile to her lips. “Certainly, Miss Beckwith. Our cook is a genius in the kitchen.” And I should know since I am she. “Now, if you will excuse me, I promised Lady Arncastle a tour of the gallery, and we’ve yet to arrange it.” It was a lie, but also the first excuse that came to mind.
Westcott. The Westcott Menace. The way Miss Beckwith said the word brought it back. John groaned inside. He had been such an ass that year. He watched Belinda Westcott walk away, head high, and knew she’d caught the jab as well.
John hadn’t been at the Haverford Venetian breakfast in which everyone who had sampled savories from a particular platter—the one rumored to have been the offering of Belinda Westcott—had fallen ill.
He heard the story of the Haverford disaster—in painful detail—from a chortling Cecil Hartwell late that same night when they were deep in their cups. His involvement with Hartwell shamed him.
John had been invalided home from Spain to recover from a persistent fever, and couldn’t shake humiliation at being laid low. It had been years since he spent time in London, and he’d been a veritable greenhorn when he’d fallen in with a group of disreputable scum—Lord Cecil Hartwell and his cronies— while he waited for orders and transport back.
The night of the Haverford fiasco, Cecil, the reprobate, took great delight in describing which of society’s darlings had lost their luncheon in the rose bushes or, worse, on the lawn. The horrid nickname emerged from that late night drinking binge. The Westcott Menace . He didn’t recall who came up with it, but he rather feared the bacon-brained wit had been himself, may the saints preserve him from an excess of drink ever again.
Only later had it slowly dawned on him that Cecil and company had likely contaminated his cousin’s dish with an emetic, thinking it a great joke. The prank had been too successful for the miscreant not to take credit. John removed himself from their company after that—or tried to. Then his grandfather had called him home, demanding he leave the army.
A tug on his arm brought him back to awareness. He had been staring at Miss Westcott. Dinah Beckwith clung to his arm like a barnacle. He could think of no delicate way to extract himself, reluctant to add poor manners of his own to her obvious unladylike behavior.
“I do so love house parties,” Miss Beckwith crooned. “Winter can be so lowering. I am certain Lady Hartwell will have plenty of things planned to keep us warm and… cozy. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes promised more coziness than a young lady ought.
Lady Sophie and her circle of friends peered up quizzically. “Lady Hartwell, my aunt, does enjoy planning these gatherings. Her parties are known for activities designed to keep all her guests mingling with one another,” Lady Sophie said. She gazed directly at John, amusement in the slight quirk to her lips.
John smiled back at Lady Sophie. “I’m glad to hear it. There are many people here I’d like to know better.” He extracted his arm from Miss Beckwith’s grasp with a firm movement. “In fact, I see some gentlemen I wish to greet, if you would excuse me ladies.”
Before he could move, Lady Hartwell called the room to attention. “I’m sure you must all be weary from travel,” she began. Belinda Westcott, he saw, helped Lady Bellachat to her feet.
“We are that, Violet,” Lady Bellachat declared tartly. Nervous laughter greeted her words.
“There will be entertainments most evenings, but for tonight, I think it best we make an early night of it,” the countess went on. She glanced around the room with mischief in her expression. “You’ll need energy for tomorrow. I’ve received confirmation that our pond is frozen solid and ready. We’ll begin tomorrow with a skating party! Hartwell Hall keeps a store of skates of all sizes ready for guests. There will be fires for warmth and warm drinks as well.”
“Some of us are too old for that nonsense, Violet!” Lady Bellachat objected loudly.
“Of course. Cards, books, and an array of snacks will be available for those who don’t wish to enjoy the opportunity,” Lady Hartwell said. John saw Miss Westcott frown, though why that bothered her he couldn’t say—unless she would be expected to arrange the activities for the elderly.
Lady Sophie had risen to her feet. “Do you skate, Lord Ridgemont?”
“It has been a long time, but yes. I’ll look forward to some vigorous activity,” he replied.
The Beckwith chit gripped his arm again. “It sounds ever so delightful, but I fear I don’t know how to skate on ice. Do say you will help me! I’ll need a strong arm,” she said fluttering her eyes.
John felt trapped. “I will certainly look forward to escorting young ladies on the ice.”
Something suspiciously like a choking sound came from Lady Sophie’s throat, quickly swallowed. “I thought you longed for—what was it? Warmth or cozy time by the fire?” she asked.
Miss Beckwith tossed the words away with an impatient hand. “There will be plenty of time for that. Later.” She said through tight lips.
“I wonder what else my aunt has planned,” Sophie mused with faux innocence. “If it snows, there could be sledding. Certainly, a brisk walk—the dales border the earl’s land. I hope you brought sturdy boots.”
John managed to avoid laughing out loud. “It sounds strenuous. I’d best get my rest,” he said, pulling his arm away.
“I will see you tomorrow,” Miss Beckwith said, her voice throaty with promise. “Perhaps you can help me put on my skates.”
There was no polite way to refuse. “Of course,” he said.
“Perhaps we can take a turn around the ice, Lady Sophie,” he said.
Lady Sophie beamed up at him. “If you can find time for me, that would be lovely,” she said, glancing mischievously at a glowering Dinah Beckwith.
“I’m sure I’ll manage.” John caught sight of Belinda Westcott moving toward the door and hastened his departure. “Ladies,” he said with a nod and hurried away.
He reached his quarry in the hallway. “Will you skate tomorrow, Miss Westcott?” She tipped her head and slowed.
“I fear not. I have some tasks that will require my attention,” she said.
Her aunt’s dogsbody—no doubt about it. “Pity,” he replied. “Perhaps we shall see each other in the evening.”
“Perhaps. Good night, my lord.” She left him standing there.
John reached the suite he’d been assigned with relief and began unwinding the everlastingly tight cravat. Graves, who had been waiting, brushed his hands away and assisted him.
“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.