Chapter 9
The stink of cigar and spilled spirits wafted under the door to the billiard room accompanied by raucous laughter and the punchline to a particularly vulgar story. John’s nose wrinkled, recoiling, but he pushed the door open with grim determination
Harry Smithers struck the table with his cue, ripping the covering and sending his ball bouncing across the room. The other players doubled over in inane hilarity, as if Harry’s clumsiness was amusing rather than destructive. Another aging adolescent snored where he lay on his side in the corner while a fourth puked into a potted fern. Bottles lay strewn across the floor.
How can the earl and countess tolerate this boorish behavior? John slammed the door behind him. “Where is Lord Cecil,” he demanded.
“Oy, Ridgemont. Finally come to play?” Smithers grinned. “Best find a drink.” He gestured, swayed, and almost lost his footing. “We’re way ahead of you.”
“I asked a question. Where is Cecil?”
“D’you know, Edwards?” Smithers asked the man by the fern, still green around the gills.
“Wen’ out. Hadda piss.” The man swayed and dropped to his seat on the floor.
The French doors were slightly ajar. John made his way cautiously across the floor and out. The billiard room was located in the farthest reaches of the house facing the back, probably so the countess could avoid knowing what went on. It opened out on to a flagstone terrace with a few mismatched chairs with rattan seats.
Cecil stood at the end relieving himself into a rose bush.
“You’re so uncouth I am surprised you spare your mother’s carpet,” John growled. He stood in the pool of light from the billiard room.
Cecil staggered toward him.
“All high and mighty now you’re heir. Did you poison your cousin to get it?” Cecil sneered, leaning on the wall for support.
“You have a fixation with sickening people one way or another, Hartwell.” John glanced at the degenerates in the billiard room. “I heard your parents sent you to some patch of land in Scotland to rusticate. Looks like they let you back too soon.”
“’S my home, Ridgemont. Leave if you don’t like it.”
I wouldn’t have come if I knew you were here.
“You threatened Miss Westcott.” It was a flat statement.
“What if I did? She deserves it. ’S ’er fault I’ve been dying of boredom for a year or more. Been a snitch since she earned me a birching from our grandfather. Grew up an unfeminine bluestocking bitch.”
John had Cecil’s cravat in a punishing grip before he could blink. The reprobate gagged and flailed his hands about in an attempt to loosen the suffocating hold. John threw him against the wall, and Cecil bent double gasping for air, his attacker looming over him.
“You threatened an innocent?—”
“Bel ain’t no innocent miss. She gives as good as she gets,” Cecil, bent over, rasped between breaths.
“And you attached my name to your vile insults.”
“You mean the Menace business? You came up with it. Damn good name,” Cecil muttered, coming upright. “Thought she oughta know,” he sneered.
John loomed closer. “Miss Westcott received my apologies graciously enough. I regret every moment I spent with you and your band of foulmouthed sycophants that year.”
“Now you’re heir you’re better than us? Watch you don’t blot your copybook with the patronesses and dragons. A word or two and?—
Cecil’s feet left the floor when John dragged him up by his filthy cravat. “Show your face in London during the Season, and whatever Aldridge threatened will be nothing compared to what I will do to you.”
Cecil fell to the floor gulping for air.
“Perhaps I will have a quiet word with your father and tell him so.”
Bel swept the curtains in her room aside as dawn broke, spreading golden light across the snow. Looking forward to the day and the promised walk, she was anxious to get breakfast on its way. She picked up one of the plain grey gowns she preferred for the kitchen and dropped it. Not today.
Not long after, she entered the kitchen in a printed muslin day dress, light brown covered in tiny rosettes. She had tucked an unbleached lace fichu at her neck on impulse at the last moment.
“You look extra fine this morning, Miss,” Annie exclaimed. “Have you done something new with your hair?”
“Not really. I was just tired of the bun in back.” Without Susan she couldn’t create a fashionable do, but she had brushed her brown curls into an upsweep held up with a band around her head. “Let’s try Chelsea buns this morning, shall we?” She asked, blushing and covering her dress with an apron.
Soon, dough lay rising, currents plumped in brandy, and the tweeny entered with the morning’s eggs while Bel cooked kippers and Annie prepared filling for the buns.
“I knew you would be up early!” At the sound of John’s voice Bel’s entire body came alert. “Let’s have that walk now before the eyes and ears awaken,” he continued.
John snatched a pinch of currents from the bowl, laughing when Bel smacked his hand.
“My grandmother’s cook always did the same,” he said. “Shall we go? It looks like you have things well underway.”
“You go, Miss. I can handle breakfast, truly,” Annie said, smiling back and forth between Bel and John.
Bel hesitated.
“Do you want a maid to follow us?” he asked.
Thoughtful and kind. She brushed his suggestion aside. She was beyond needing a chaperone. Besides, as he said, they were up before snooping eyes and ears. “Nonsense. I’m not some dewy-eyed young miss. Annie, please take over while I take a brief walk with Lord Ridgemont.”
She’d worn sturdy boots that morning, and brought her own warm cloak and bonnet downstairs. Soon enough they were on their way, and he led her toward the woodlot.
He said nothing until they were well past the kitchen gardens. “I need to ask questions you may not want to answer in front of other people.”
What on earth could he want? Panic filled her. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Tell me, Miss Westcott, have you always been your aunts’ cook?”
She laughed in relief. “Only Aunt Violet’s. She pretends I’m only supervising. Aunt Flora—Marchioness of Gilford—won’t let me near the kitchen. She’s determined that I must be a proper debutante, even after six Seasons.”
“Why do you do it?” He wrinkled his brow.
“It makes me happy,” she answered simply, unwilling to expand on that.
“You are certainly an excellent chef. I would rate some of your dishes as equal to fine meals I’ve had in Paris and Vienna.”
Her heart warmed at the flattery but sank at the next question.
“What about it makes you happy?”
“I like creating something admired by people, even if none of them know I’m the one doing it. The creative process intrigues me,” she replied.
“Intrigues you how?” he asked.
Bel’s nerves settled in the face of his genuine interest.
“Combining ingredients in various ways, with various spices and flavorings results in different—sometimes surprising—results. It is a kind of practical chemistry,” she said before she thought about her words.
“Chemistry?” he pounced on the word.
Bel breathed deeply and came to a decision. Honesty mattered. Better sooner than later. “I find chemistry fascinating.” She shot a glance at him. “When Mr. Davy speaks?—”
“Sir Humphry Davy? You’ve attended his lectures?” He couldn’t keep shock from his voice.
Bel stiffened her resolve. “Yes, and not, as the gossips say, because ladies are drawn to his looks. His lectures were the closest I could come to university lectures. I went whenever I could get away from my aunts. His accident with nitrogen trichloride was such a tragedy. I would never attempt such a thing.”
“You’ve attempted other experiments.” It wasn’t a question; he studied her closely.
“I keep a laboratory outside Aunt Violet’s kitchen. It’s one reason I like it here.”
“But how marvelous! My grandfather will love you.”
His grandfather? She stopped her steps and turned to peer into his face. His hazel eyes held hers spellbound. She looked away first and resumed walking, unable to manage the intensity any longer. “And what of you?” she asked. “I bared my soul. Can you do the same? What were you doing in London that spring, in Cecil’s circle of all things?
“I was invalided home from Spain where I had contracted camp fever. They didn’t expect me to live, and even when I came to, I could not shake it. They sent me home to recuperate. Effects lingered.”
“You were in the military? I must have known that, but somehow?—”
“I didn’t act much like a soldier. I hardly left the bottom of a brandy bottle that spring, so discouraged was I to be so weak. All I wanted was to rejoin my regiment. The army was my life.”
“But you never went back!” She swung around to look at him, and they paused in the shelter of the trees.
“No,” he said softly. “I was called to the family estate.”
She struggled to choose words carefully. “It is never good news when a family member dies, even if one benefits.”
“My cousin, alas, was not a good man and wasn’t seriously mourned. But benefits? It didn’t feel like it. The weight of the family, the estate, and the lives of many fell on me. I was some months adjusting. But there was Grandfather, encouraging me.
“Your father had preceded him?”
“My parents died when I was sixteen. I lived with my grandparents briefly before I convinced Grandfather to buy me colors. My father’s older brother and his son still lived. Grandfather let me go because I wasn’t close to the succession.”
“I’m so sorry for your losses,” she murmured studying his face.
“Don’t be. Reacquainting with the old gentleman has been a joy. I always knew I had their love and respect, but it was a distant thing. I didn’t know the extent to which I missed having family near.”
Her throat felt thick and moisture pooled in her eyes, to her consternation, yet she couldn’t look away.
“And now I know I must form one of my own. Grandfather instructed me to find a lady of character and ability. One with the strength to be my partner in what is coming when I inherit. Pedigree, he believes, matters little.” John laughed lightly. “He growled that those ‘fools in the Ton wouldn’t know quality if it bit them.’ He was never much for London society, though he encourages me to navigate it cautiously. He only goes down for parliamentary affairs.”
His intense gaze sent her emotions into a maelstrom. The moment stretched unbearably until Bel had to break away. She took two steps when an impulse struck. She leaned over, scooped up a handful of snow and hit him square in the chest with a snowball.
“I heard you were a deft hand with snow the other day,” she challenged holding her breath and immediately regretted it. She gasped at John’s predatory expression.
Bel, you damned fool. That was a reckless way to deflect an uncomfortable moment . She broke into a run, but wasn’t fast enough.
John didn’t hesitate. He prowled in her direction with two hands full of snow. Icy cold hit the back of her neck and dripped under her cloak. The other handful went down her chin. She scrambled to pick up another handful, but he reached her quickly with more.
The two of them wrestled with each other, laughing like fools, painting one another with snow, until Bel slipped on her cloak and fell over pulling John with her. They lay tangled, Bel on her back, John over her.
While they stared at each other, Bel surreptitiously scooped a handful of snow at her side.
No slow-top, he clamped his hand on her wrist forcing her to drop it. “Clever tactic, Miss Westcott. Wellington would admire it.” He kissed her lightly. “Unsuccessful though,” he murmured kissing her again.”
“Was it?” she asked, kissing him back. “That depends on my intention, don’t you think.”
He kissed her again, sliding his tongue along her mouth, seeking entrance. When she gave it, all coherent thought fled. He kissed his way along her chin to the spot below her ear, and Bel’s body felt as if it burst into flames. She ran her fingers through his thick hair, pulling him close until his mouth returned to hers and his clever hands began to explore her beneath the cloak.
When John started to move away, she groaned and tried to pull him back. “Why Miss Westcott, delightful as this is, I best stop while I still have some claim to the name gentleman.”
Startled back to reality, Bel started to protest, but good sense suggested better. She let him help her to her feet, not meeting his eyes. She patted and shook her cloak to remove the snow.
“You know, Miss Westcott, I do believe you have snowed me completely,” John laughed, knocking the melting stuff from his clothing. The movement of his hands along his trousers and his cheeky grin sent bolts of heat through her whole body, melted her frozen knees and robbed her of speech.
“Shall we go back while we have only your kitchen friends to face?” he asked.
Her hand trembled when she took his arm. He started to speak, but she shook her head. He ignored her. “I apologize if my behavior offended, but I rather think you enjoyed it. If you don’t wish to speak of it now, fine, but we will. We must.”